Grace Under Fire: Book Two In The Locker Nine Series

by Franklin Horton

  "I have to find some way to let her parents know," Grace said.

  Teresa nodded. "We'll find a way, when we can."

  When the tears stopped flowing, she continued the story with her arrival at Arthur's compound and how happy she was to see her dad. She told the story of how they ended up hitching a ride home on a chopper and what they found upon their arrival in town.

  "Those poor hikers," Teresa said. "I wish there was something we could do for them."

  "There's too many," Grace said. "They would overwhelm any resource we offered. Their group is the size of an army. If they become aware of any resource, I don't know that anyone could stop them from taking it. They would overwhelm us with sheer numbers."

  *

  Teresa, Tom, and the two children remained at the Hardwick compound while Grace and Conor escorted Mrs. Brown to the trailer where they believed the group had come from. Grace and Mrs. Brown rode together in a side-by-side ATV, Conor following behind them. They parked the machines in the driveway by the trailer. To Grace, it looked like any number of similar trailers that were scattered throughout the region.

  "Stay out here with Mrs. Brown,” Conor instructed. “I'm checking the trailer."

  Grace got out and stood by the ATV with her weapon at the ready, safety off. Mrs. Brown sat rigidly on the bench seat, holding tightly to the grab handle even though the machine was not moving. Grace wasn't sure if the handle provided emotional support or just kept Mrs. Brown upright.

  Not one for subtlety, Conor didn't knock. He twisted the handle and found it locked. He stepped back and booted the door off its frame, ducked to the side, and waited for any response before advancing. His rifle raised, he disappeared into the dark interior of the trailer for several tense moments. He came out a few moments looking only slightly more relaxed. He came down the steps of the trailer and over to the ATV.

  "I got one dead female in there," he said. "From the description, it doesn't sound like your daughter. Looks like she overdosed. Still has the spike in her arm."

  Mrs. Brown's lips pulled tight but she remained silent.

  A desperate pounding suddenly reached their ears and everyone came on guard instantly, Conor swinging and raising his rifle. Grace threw hers up and stepped around the back of the ATV.

  "There's someone in that shed," Conor said. "Cover me."

  Conor made his way cautiously to an outbuilding. When he got there, he found it padlocked. While he could break the lock with a little effort, the chain was threaded through a cheesy hasp fastened to the shed with rusty drywall screws. A scrap of galvanized water pipe propped against the building gave him all the leverage he needed to pry the chain and the handle free of the door. It clattered to the ground and Conor backpedaled, raising his rifle and leveling it at the door. A woman pushed it open and staggered out. Conor had his rifle trained on her.

  "Stop right there!" Conor barked. "Are you armed? Do you have a weapon?"

  The woman was sobbing hysterically, her fingertips raw and bloody from trying to claw her way out. She held them in front of her, showing that they were empty. "I don't have anything. They were holding me prisoner."

  The woman blinked and squinted, her eyes unaccustomed to the bright light. As they adjusted, she looked from face-to-face and then spotted Mrs. Brown in the side-by-side.

  "Mama!"

  The young woman staggered toward the ATV her arms outstretched. Mrs. Brown climbed from the side-by-side, her movements slow and stiff. She received her daughter's embrace, but was slow to return it. Finally, she conceded, wrapping her arms around her daughter and holding her tight. Debbie had shown no reaction to her mother’s battered face. No guilt. No concern.

  Debbie was babbling hysterically, a mixture of words and sobs. Mrs. Brown nodded sympathetically, stroking her daughter's hair. Conor and Grace moved in, standing around without comment, watching the reunion. Conor watched their surroundings, wanting to make sure that they didn’t have any unexpected guests.

  "Did you come to get me?" Debbie asked.

  Mrs. Brown hugged her daughter tightly. Debbie continued to moan and cry.

  "I thought I was going to die, Mommy. I thought they were going to kill me. Then I thought they were just going to leave me in that shed to die. It was horrible."

  "It's okay, baby," Mrs. Brown replied. She stroked her daughter’s back, consoling her as she’d done when Debbie was smaller. She remembered the bike wrecks and the skinned knees, the hurt feelings.

  "I'm so glad you came for me. I don't know how you figured out where I was, but I'm so glad you came. I'm going to do better from now on. I promise. It was all Paul's fault. He was a bad influence on me."

  As she held her daughter, Mrs. Brown replayed all the broken promises she'd heard over the years. She recalled the disappointment on Dylan's face time after time when Debbie said she was coming to visit and never did. She recalled all the birthday presents that Debbie had promised and never delivered.

  Worst of all, there was single thought she would never in her life be able to banish from her head. It was what she saw as she was laying on the ground being beaten and kicked by Paul. It was the memory of her daughter sitting on the motorcycle and doing nothing. She hadn’t even asked him to stop. It was as bad as if she had been kicking and punching too. There was no forgiveness in her for such a thing. What if it were her precious Dylan receiving the beating next time while Debbie watched?

  Mrs. Brown trailed a hand from her daughter’s back and down to her own side. She moved it to her back pocket and touched the warm wooden grip of her revolver. She paused there, then wrapped her hand fully around the grip. She began sliding it free of her pocket. She would move it between them, fire it upward through her daughter’s diaphragm, and it would all be over.

  But she couldn’t do it.

  Mrs. Brown closed her eyes and allowed the revolver to drop back into her pocket. She took several deep breaths and let them out slowly, hardening her resolve for what she had to say. "You're not coming back with us."

  Debbie instantly turned off the tears and released her mother. “Excuse me?”

  Mrs. Brown didn’t respond. She could only look at her daughter and think about how close she’d just come to killing her.

  Debbie pushed herself back slightly, opening a gap between them. She looked her mother in the face. She gathered a baggy short sleeve in her hand and wiped her eyes. "What you mean? What are you talking about?"

  Mrs. Brown looked at her daughter sadly. "It's just what I said, sweetie," she said. "I'm not taking you back into our lives again. I'm not going to leave you in that shed to die but I don't want you in our lives either."

  Debbie erupted. "What the hell am I supposed to do? You can't just leave your own daughter out here in the middle of nowhere with nothing. I’ll starve."

  "I can't trust you. I could never trust you again."

  Debbie pushed her mother away from her. “You’re not taking my child. I want him back. If you won’t take me, you can’t have him.”

  “That’s not happening,” Mrs. Brown stated firmly. “You can’t take care of him. You can’t even take care of yourself. I don’t want you coming around again. I’m going to tell Dylan you’re dead.”

  “You can’t do that!” Debbie screamed. “You’ll break his heart. He needs his mother.”

  “Unfortunately, he won’t even shed a tear,” Mrs. Brown replied. “That should tell you something. It should tell you what kind of mother you were.”

  Debbie yelled and screamed. What little of it was decipherable was the same thing Mrs. Brown had heard before. Empty promises, assurances that she had changed, and demands that Mrs. Brown do as she wished.

  When these tactics failed, Debbie became aggressive. She stepped toward her mother and got in her face. Grace drew her Glock and aimed it at Debbie.

  "It's over,” Grace said flatly. “We’re going now."

  Debbie started in on Grace, hoping the same arguments that had failed on her mother might work on her.
Grace hooked her arm around Mrs. Brown's and guided the lady back toward the ATV.

  Conor had his rifle up also, just in case Debbie tried something stupid. He covered Debbie while Mrs. Brown and Grace got in the side-by-side and started it up. Debbie was ranting again and screaming at her mother. Mrs. Brown continued to gaze upon her daughter with the same disappointed expression. When the ATV drove off, Mrs. Brown never looked back.

  With the other women gone, Debbie looked at Conor expectantly. "Could you stay with me? I need help. Or I could even go back to your place. I could help out around the house. I could do anything you needed. Anything."

  Conor lowered his rifle. “Sorry. I live with my daughter and she’s a hard-ass. She wouldn’t tolerate the likes of you.”

  He mounted his own ATV and started it up. He backed down the driveway, not taking his eyes off Debbie. He didn't trust that she might not have a weapon hidden somewhere that she could pull out and start blasting at him.

  When he reached the bottom edge of the driveway, he sped away. He caught up with other women and fell in behind them. As a father, he couldn’t imagine the resolve it took to do what Mrs. Brown had just done. He couldn't imagine having to make that decision.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The Hardwick Farm

  Grace and Teresa cooked a large dinner that evening. Everyone was tired and hungry from all that had been going on. Conor and Tom kept watch outside while dinner was being prepared. Besides conducting a security assessment on the property, Conor, ever the machinist, insisted on studying Tom's track chair. He was able to offer some useful insight as to what were weak points in the design and what might give Tom trouble in the future. He also gave his suggestions as to how he could make those repairs if he didn’t have access to factory replacement parts.

  When dinner was ready, everyone filled their plates and ate where they could find a seat. The kids ate in Blake’s room. Mrs. Brown had retired to the guest room and collapsed into sleep. The remainder of the group stayed in the kitchen. While everyone was eating, Conor pulled his satellite phone from his vest and dialed a number. Everyone stared at him expectantly.

  "Hey, Kev. The Mad Mick here. Can I speak to your buddy Robert?"

  While Kevin was getting Robert, Conor shoved a forkful of macaroni and cheese in his mouth. Teresa’s eyes got wide and she looked at Grace eagerly, excited about the prospect of speaking with her husband.

  "Hey, Robert. Yes, the Mick here. Mission accomplished, buddy. I've got your family here and everyone's okay." Conor said it matter-of-factly, as if he were telling a customer his tires had been installed and the car was ready for pick-up.

  The room was quiet and they listened for Robert's faint voice over the tiny speaker.

  "Well, no, I can’t say it was all peaches and cream, but we made it work. There were a few hitches.” He listened a moment then responded, “No, I can’t. I expect I'll be heading out tonight. I've got a daughter of my own and you know how that goes. Yeah, you're welcome. Glad I could do it. Would you like to speak your wife?"

  Conor handed the phone across the table to Teresa without waiting for an answer. Teresa took it with tears welling in her eyes. The past few days had been the longest she and her husband had ever gone without speaking since they were married. Teresa offered Robert the same assurances that Conor had, not going into any detail that would unduly worry the man.

  "When can we expect you and Sonyea?" she asked.

  After a long pause, Robert replied, "I don't know. The area around the compound is not secure. It's not safe for us travel."

  "Don't you bullshit me, Robert Hardwick," Teresa snapped. "Don't talk to me like I'm a teenager. I want to know what's going on. Tell me what you know."

  The group around the table got up and wandered off, uncomfortable watching the way the conversation had turned. It had gone from happy reunion to very personal.

  "There’s another group that has their eye on this place. They’re led by a congressman. They may have been watching this compound for some time, since before the collapse. It looks like their plan was to take this compound and all the resources as their own. Sonyea and I tried to leave twice and both times came under fire. We weren’t injured but it was darn close. The safest thing for us to do now is sit tight. The compound is secure. There are a lot of men here, everyone's armed, and we’re safe. I'm sorry I can’t be there for you right now. You all just be careful and be safe. I'll contact you as soon as I can, or even better, I'll show up and deliver my message in person."

  “Don’t you worry about us, Robert. Don’t you apologize. You just stay safe and get here when you can do it in one piece.” Teresa was breaking down now, tears running down her face.

  "I love you," Robert said.

  "I love you too," Teresa replied.

  She hung up, knowing from their years together that Robert wouldn’t end the call until she did. She took the phone through the empty living room and onto the porch where she found the rest of the group sitting, well out of earshot.

  "I'm sorry about that," Teresa said. “I lost it for a second.” She looked at Grace. "Your father is not coming home anytime soon. They’re trapped and it's not safe for him to leave."

  Teresa started to tear up again but took a couple of deep breaths. She fanned a hand in front of her face, trying to dry the tears.

  "Yeah, that's the impression I got from Conor,” Grace said. “Things are safe as long as he stays put. That's okay. I'd rather Dad be safe there than in danger on the road.”

  "I think you'll be fine, Mrs. Hardwick," Conor said. "I've seen that daughter of yours in action. She's a crackerjack. And you've got Tom here. He's an impressive young man. You’ve got a good place and good people. As long as you can keep a low profile I think you’ll be alright."

  Teresa nodded, but it was clear she was struggling to hold the tears back.

  Conor stood. "I’d best be leaving. I’ve got a long ride home and a daughter of my own waiting on me."

  “How old is your daughter?” Grace asked.

  “She’s twenty-five,” Conor said. “She’s a crackerjack too.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Barbara,” Conor replied. “I call her Barb. You two would be thick as thieves.”

  “I hope I get to meet her one day,” Grace said. She stood and hugged Conor. "I appreciate everything you've done. We wouldn’t have done it without you."

  Conor smiled. "Don't be so sure of that. I think you can do about anything you set your mind to."

  Grace smiled back and took his arm. She and Tom followed Conor back into the house. He stopped off in the kitchen and picked up the bike battery he’d been charging in the wall outlet. Outside, he checked the air in the tires and sprayed lube on the chain. He double-checked the electrical connections and confirmed that everything was in good shape for the trip home.

  He started to kit up in his bicycle shorts but decided he would wait until he was at the bottom of the hill and away from the Hardwicks. Right now they all had a good impression of him and he didn't want to blow it. He didn't want them laughing at the sight of him the way his own daughter had. He’d been too busy with all that had taken place over the course of the day to think much about his daughter. Now that this mission of his was winding down, he missed her terribly.

  “Do you mind fetching me a piece of paper from the kitchen, dear girl?” he asked Grace as he finalized his packing.

  She ran inside and returned with a notepad and a felt tip pen. She handed them to Conor, who scribbled on the pad and handed it back to her.

  “Memorize that piece of paper and then store it in your Go Bag. That’s the physical address of my property. If you need to bug out for any reason, either before your dad gets home or after, you all would be welcome at my place. I’ve never extended that offer to anybody. I don’t really have a lot of friends. But I’d be proud to have you as my guests.”

  Grace and Tom were touched by the gesture. They both travelled among preparedness circ
les with their parents and knew that such invitations were not extended often or lightly.

  “I’m honored by your offer,” Tom said solemnly.

  Conor nodded. “If it starts going that way, cache all the supplies you can to keep people from looting them. You know how to do that, right?”

  Grace nodded. “We have watertight tanks stored in the ground just in case.”

  “That’s good. Carry what you can, cache what you can’t, and come to that address.”

  Grace hugged Conor again. The man shook Tom’s hand and mounted his bike. They waved as he pedaled off, humming a loud melody into the gloaming.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Russell County, Virginia

  Being anxious to get home did not keep Conor from enjoying his ride. When he made the trip to Damascus, his mind was occupied with what lay ahead of him, and he didn't think much about the journey itself. This time his mind was free to wander. With his night vision and his electric bike, he rode in a green bubble. The world was quiet and he felt as safe as one could in this world. Still, it was a dangerous place, as each day seemed to constantly remind him.

  The Hardwicks had been able to point him toward a different route that allowed him to bypass the town of Damascus on his way home. After several small roads, he picked back up with the same route he’d travelled before. The last big barrier between him and home was the Clinch Mountain range. He had to follow Route 80 and cross through Hayter’s Gap. It was a winding, narrow road that seemed as if it had been designed by a man who dropped a string from a ladder and drew the route from the way the string landed.

  Before he crossed the mountain, Conor coasted along a foggy river valley. The smell of wood smoke in the air told him that people still lived here. The smell mixed with the pungent smell of river banks and damp wood. He even got chased once by a persistent dog that probably woke the entire valley. Conor appreciated that dog, a reminder of normal times.