Grace Under Fire: Book Two In The Locker Nine Series

by Franklin Horton

  "This is going to hurt but I've got to get you on your feet. I can’t leave you on the floor. I need you to help me."

  Mrs. Brown nodded.

  Grace counted out loud. "One, two, three."

  She lifted gently but powerfully. Mrs. Brown stiffened and groaned in pain but Grace did not stop. When she had the woman most of the way up, Mrs. Brown got her legs beneath her and stood on her own. Once Grace was sure that Mrs. Brown wasn’t going to collapse, she turned her in the direction of the open door, looking for a place to let her sit down. She caught a movement from the corner of her eye and looked up to find Paul standing in the door, his revolver trained on them.

  Grace froze. Mrs. Brown emitted a whimper. Grace looked for her AR pistol but it was not within reach. He’d kill her before she could get it. If she were to go for a weapon at all, it would have to be the Glock 19 on her waist. While she considered how to pull it off, Paul fired a round through the metal siding of the barn not three feet from where Grace stood.

  "Don't even think about it," he said. "I want you to take your pistol between two fingers and toss it to me. If you try anything, I'll put a bullet through that old lady." Mrs. Brown stiffened in fear in Grace’s arms, making her wonder if Paul was responsible for her injuries.

  Grace did as she was told, tugging the Glock 19 free from its holster and tossing it in his direction.

  "Who are you?" she asked. “What are you doing at my family’s house?”

  "This is my house now. You two are trespassing. I suggest you get your asses out of here before I kill you."

  Grace looked at him defiantly. "This is my family's house and I want to know what you've done to them."

  A grin broke Paul's face. He gestured toward the house with his gun. "Those people up there are your family?"

  She glowered. “You better not have hurt them.”

  "I ain't done nothing with them yet because I can't get them out of there. They’re hunkered down in the basement like rats in a hole.”

  Grace grinned. “The Ready Room. You’ll never get in there.”

  “Maybe I don’t have to,” Paul said. “Maybe they’ll come out on their own…if they hear you screaming outside.”

  "I won't help you," she said.

  "Oh, I think you might, even if you don’t want to. You scream loud enough and they’ll open the door. Trust me, I can do things that will make you sing like a scalded dog."

  A chill ran down Grace's spine as she fully caught the implication of his words. He was correct. If her mother heard her being tortured, she would come out. It occurred to Grace that she had to do everything within her power to get away from this man. She could not let herself be used as a weapon against her family. She couldn’t live with that.

  Boom!

  The gunfire startled them all. Mrs. Brown jerked against Grace and started to fall down. Grace let her go, knowing she’d be safer on the ground. Paul flinched at the sound, then spun in the direction it came from. He must have spotted the shooter and thought another shot was coming because he lunged into the barn. He leaned back out and fired two rounds toward the woods. It all happened in a matter of seconds.

  Grace acted purely out of reflex, drawing her Glock and pointing it at Paul. He caught her movement and ducked just as another shot came through the door and splintered a post by his head. Grace moved, trying to line up a shot but it was too late. He was gone, having slipped out the door.

  She started to fire through the thin steel siding to where she thought he was, but she hesitated, uncertain where the other shooter was. She did not want to hit a friendly. Just then, Paul raced back in front of the door and Grace snapped off two rounds at him but only caught dirt. Outside, there were two more booms, shots fired by someone else in Paul's direction, although neither connected.

  Grace moved to the open barn door looking for another shot, but she couldn't see Paul. He had disappeared completely now. He had to be in the woods. She could catch him if she went after him. She wanted to pursue him, but was afraid to run out the door for fear of friendly fire. It would suck to be mowed down by her own family after coming this far.

  She called out the opening, "It's me! It's Grace. Who is that? Who’s shooting?"

  A voice replied. A voice Grace had longed to hear for nearly a week now. "It's me! It's your mother, baby."

  Then it hit Grace that her mother was possibly still in danger from Paul. Grace stuck her head out the door, looking around, trying to locate her mother. She spotted her coming from behind some brush. While Grace wanted to run and hug her, it was more important to remain focused on safety. Grace kept her mother covered until she reached the barn door. Her mother hugged her briefly then released her.

  "We have to get back to the house," Teresa said. The kids are locked in the Ready Room. We have to try to beat him there."

  "Kids?" Grace asked. “More than Blake?”

  "There's no time," Teresa said. "We have to go." She took off running.

  “Mom!” Grace called after her, "You help Mrs. Brown. I'm in better shape to fight than you are. You don’t need to be running."

  Grace took off, easily passing her mother. Grace didn't look back, didn't want to invite debate from her mother, who was clearly not ready to give up this fight.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The Hardwick Farm

  Paul crashed through the woods between the Hardwicks’ house and the barn. He was shaken but he was also angry. He'd pissed on himself when someone fired at him. He came close to getting his dumb ass killed this time. He hadn't expected that shot. He thought everyone was locked in that room in the basement but there must be more people here than he’d thought.

  Like that girl in the barn. The daughter. Where the hell had she come from?

  When he reached the yard below the house he clambered out of the weeds and ran for the far corner of the house, trying to put the house between him and anyone coming up from the barn. The way the house was cut into the hillside, it appeared to only be one story from the back but was very tall on the front. Paul cut along the foundation, planning to circle the house and go in the back door. He wasn't used to this kind of exertion and staggered, his legs tired from plowing through the underbrush. For him, a hard day was walking through Wal-Mart to buy beer.

  He passed what appeared to be plumbing coming out of the foundation wall. He didn’t know anything about construction so he paid no attention to the large curved fittings until he got close to them. When he passed beneath them, he heard sound coming from one of the pipes. The realization hit him that these pipes might go to that room. He stopped dead and backed up.

  He angled his head to the pipe and listened. There was conversation. No, not conversation. Dialogue. And a soundtrack. Someone inside was watching a movie.

  Paul craned his neck to see if he could see through the pipes but he could not. He tried to shove his hand inside one only to have it shredded by what felt like balled up barbed wire blocking the inside. He cursed out loud. Then it occurred to him that if he could hear what was going on in the room then they could probably hear him too. Maybe he could use that to his advantage.

  Paul leaned close to the pipe. "Hey, can you hear me?"

  He listened. There was no reply but the volume of the movie was turned down. Somebody had heard him.

  "Hey, Dylan? Can you hear me?"

  Paul listened again but there was no response. He suspected that Dylan heard him but was just not answering. He was probably sitting in there laughing at Paul. This infuriated him.

  "You little bastard! Answer me!"

  There was no response. He had to calm down or he was going to blow this. Paul sagged against the house and rested his head in his palms. He was angry and embarrassed. His damp pants clung to him, the smell rising from them overpowering his already pungent body odor. He couldn't believe he'd peed on himself like a two-year-old. Somebody had to pay for this.

  "Dylan, look, I'm sorry I yelled at you. I'm just scared. Your mommy is hurt bad and I'
m trying to take care of her. Do you hear me?"

  When there was no response, rage swelled in Paul. He balled his fist and wanted to pound it against the basement wall. He wanted to scream threats at the child. He choked it down and struggled to keep his voice calm.

  "Dylan, can you hear me? Your mom needs you. She's hurt really badly. I'm not sure I can take care of her by myself. If you don’t come out and help me, she’s probably going to die."

  Paul shook his head. It was a lost cause. The kid would never come out for him. He'd burned that bridge a long time ago. He would remember this though. If he ever got a hold of that kid he would make him pay. He couldn't afford to linger at the basement any longer. He had to get back in the house before somebody beat him there. He started to walk off when he heard the tiny voice through the vent.

  "Mommy's hurt?"

  Paul scurried back to the vent and pressed his ear against it, his eyes wide with excitement. Inside, he could hear heated debate. He didn't know who all was in there now, but he heard a warning voice, someone trying to tell Dylan to not answer. Paul needed to overpower that voice. He needed to make Dylan feel the urgency of the situation. He needed to make Dylan feel that his mother would die and it would be his fault if he didn’t come out right now.

  "Dylan, I need you. Your mommy is bleeding. Bad people hurt her. I need your help. You have to come out here." Paul felt like he had this fish hooked. He was reeling him in and he didn't want to lose him. He had to play this just right.

  The argument inside became more intense. Paul pressed his mouth toward the vent. "Dylan, I'm coming in the house. I'm coming to that door and I want you to open it. I won’t hurt you. You come out and help me take care your mother. If you don't, she's going to die. Don’t let anyone stop you."

  Paul smiled. The kid would listen. He had no guts at all. He was a simpering little baby and he knew who was in charge. It was Paul. Now Paul had to get in the house and get to that door in the basement. He needed to be there when Dylan opened it so the kid wouldn’t change his mind.

  He ran to the corner of the house, huffing and puffing, and turned left up the steep bank that would take him to the backyard. When he reached the corner, he was a left turn away from the back porch. The back door would be right there. He swung around the corner, all his attention focused on getting to that back door.

  Paul didn’t realize how much time he’d blown talking into the vent. When he came around the corner, there was already someone standing at the back door. When he finally noticed, he tried to bring himself to a stop, to run, but his momentum was not cooperating. His feet slid out from under him and he went down. He yelled in frustration but the fall probably saved his life. There was a loud boom and a shot whistled over his head. He scrambled to his feet and ran back toward the corner.

  Boom! Boom! Boom!

  Semi-auto fire rained all around him, punching up divots of dirt. Then a round caught him, piercing the flesh of his bicep. He cried out but didn’t stop. Then he was around the corner and still running. His legs were going too fast for the steep bank and he wiped out again, rolling all the way to the bottom.

  At the bottom of the yard were large rocks that been pushed aside during the excavation. Some were as big as cars. They formed the boundary of the yard now. He took shelter behind one, aiming the revolver over top of the rock and toward the corner of the house. He saw the girl’s head bob around the corner and he fired in that direction. It was a long shot and his aim was lousy. She got the point though, yanking her head back.

  Paul slid his sleeve up and examined his arm. It hurt like crazy, burning like someone had stabbed a burning stick through it. The shot had taken a chunk out of his arm but it didn’t appear that the bullet was still in there. He was bleeding like a stuck pig. He wrapped his shirt around the wound and tried to tie it off.

  He heard yelling up there now, other voices, and he ducked. Paul couldn't believe those women had beaten him into the house. He would stay here for now. He had a secure position and he wasn't ready to leave. He had to admit he was at a disadvantage now but he was not giving up. The reward was too high.

  How could anybody abandon this house? It was his best chance of surviving whatever mess the country was in now. No, it wasn’t his, but that was a minor detail. The owners wouldn't give up without a fight, but that was okay.

  As he thought of renewing the fight, he realized he hadn't even thought to check his gun. He hadn’t counted how many rounds he’d fired. He didn’t know how many rounds most guns carried but he understood you couldn’t just shove another magazine into a revolver and he didn’t have any more cartridges for it.

  It took him a moment to figure out how to open the cylinder. When he finally accomplished this he found that there were no unfired rounds remaining. He slapped himself in the head and started to throw the gun into the weeds. Had he gotten into another gun battle with these folks, he’d probably have been killed. It would have been just his luck to take an empty gun into a gunfight.

  This changed everything. He couldn’t stay and fight. He would have to get out of there and get better weaponry, or at least more ammo. Finding some backup would be nice too. That made him wonder about Debbie again and what the hell she was doing out there. She should have been back already. Was she just goofing off somewhere? She’d probably gotten high and forgot all about him.

  Paul tried to plan the easiest route of escape. He didn't want to get shot while he headed for safety. That would be his dumb luck. He scanned the yard for threats. As his eyes passed over the storage building in the backyard, he saw the door move.

  He froze. Was someone coming after him? If they were, he was screwed. He had nothing. He would have to throw his gun at them and run away in his urine-soaked pants with blood running down his arm. Then the door swung open fully and Dylan stepped out of the building.

  "I'll be damned," Paul breathed. “I did it. I talked him out of there.” This wasn’t as good as the kid opening that secret vault to Paul but it was the next best thing.

  Paul had to assume Dylan was coming to him because of what he’d whispered through the vent. Dylan was trying to find him because he thought his mother was hurt and that Paul needed his help. Paul didn’t want to expose himself to potential gunfire but he needed the kid to come to him.

  "Dylan!" Paul hissed.

  The boy didn't hear him

  “Dylan!" he called a little louder.

  This time the boy heard him and it startled him. He turned in Paul's direction and Paul raised a hand to wave at him. He could see indecision in the boy’s expression, that he was unsure of whether to approach the man or not.

  "Come on, Dylan, we need to get to your mother. We have to get back to her or she might die. Come on!"

  That statement appeared to have some effect on the child and he reluctantly moved toward Paul. Paul kept urging the boy until he was at the edge of the yard, almost within his grasp. Paul’s fingers curled as if he wanted to lunge at the boy and snatch him away.

  When Dylan stepped into the weeds and came toward him, Paul knew he had him. He tried to curb his anger. It was to his benefit to continue to allow the boy to believe his mother was injured. The kid needed to believe Paul was only trying to rescue her. He would be more cooperative that way. Paul wouldn't end up having to carry him kicking and screaming.

  When the boy was within reach, Paul grabbed him. He tried to mask his excitement at finally nabbing the boy as concern. Dylan looked at Paul's hand on his forearm, terrified, as if it were a snake latched onto him.

  Paul got a grip on his anger and released the boy, patting him on the back. The gesture did not seem to calm Dylan at all. Since Paul had never buddied up to him that way, the boy found the gesture unsettling.

  "Sorry, Dylan. I'm just a little nervous about your mother. We have to get to her now. There's no time. Let's go."

  With no trail to follow, Paul moved in a general direction away from the house. He wanted to put as much distance between him and the hous
e as possible. If they knew he had Dylan, they’d come after him and he had nothing to fight back with but an empty gun.

  "How the hell did you get out of there anyway?" Paul asked. "How did you get into that storage building?"

  Dylan looked at Paul apprehensively. He was scared to lie to the man but felt an obligation to preserve the family's secret. Especially since it was his loose lips that had led Paul to the Hardwicks’ home in the first place. He hadn’t wanted to give away their secret back at Paul’s trailer in the first place but he hoped that doing it would make his mother like him. He hoped it would make her come home.

  "I got out of that room when nobody was looking. I ran out to the house. I was in the front yard and I heard shooting. I got scared so I ran and hid in the building."

  Paul nodded. It sounded reasonable to him and he had no reason not to believe the kid.

  As they got away from the house, the woods opened up more. The trees were taller and there was less underbrush, but it was still slow going. Shortly, Paul saw a gap in the woods below him and realized it was the driveway coming into the family's home.

  "Let's go that way," Paul said. "These woods are killing me. I’m starting to feel like a mountain goat."

  Paul cut down through the woods, turning occasionally to make sure that Dylan was still with him. The boy was his ace in the hole. If he could get the boy somewhere and stash him for safekeeping, he could use him for leverage. They’d probably give him food, weapons, whatever he wanted. Debbie's mother would do anything to get the boy back. He was lucky she was still alive. He hadn’t been certain up until he saw her in the barn. He was certain she'd crawled off and died like a sick cat.