The Day After Never Bundle (First 4 novels)

by Russell Blake

  Boyd, the largest of the three men, nodded. “Might take all day.”

  “Once he’s out of the city limits, he’s fair game, far as I’m concerned.”

  Boyd, who had disarmed Lucas at the door, nodded. “Looks like he knows how to use that M4. Thing’s clean.”

  “Take your Armalite. He’ll never know what hit him.”

  Boyd grinned. The AR-50A1 .50-caliber rifle was notoriously deadly and had earned a reputation as a breathtakingly effective sniper rifle in the right hands. Boyd was ex-military and accurate with the gun up to a thousand yards for a human-sized stationary target, but would try for a kill shot at closer to five hundred – almost a third of a mile away, which was still an impressive distance absent modern conveniences like laser range finders and ballistic computers.

  “Fish in a barrel,” Boyd said, and the men laughed. Lucas would be safe until near the highway, and then the Raider would make short work of him.

  “Give him a decent lead. No rush,” the mayor instructed.

  “Roger that,” Boyd said, and went in search of his horse while his boss watched Lucas disappear into the scrub.

  Chapter 11

  The horizon swam from heat waves rising off the desert as Doug peered through the guard station telescope at an approaching group of riders still a half mile off. He caught sight of the pair in the lead and called behind him to the trading post building.

  “Duke! We got us a potential situation.”

  Duke appeared in the doorway. “What is it?”

  “Visitors. About fifteen riders. Look pretty hard.”

  “Crap. Bolt the gate.” Duke yelled into the interior of the building, “Aaron, Slim, get your asses out here, and come hard. We got company!”

  His men came at a run, armed to the teeth, and Duke ducked back inside to get his assault rifle and don his flak vest. After Lucas’s warning about the cartel, he’d been on edge, but had decided to remain open – if he’d closed up shop, it would have simply delayed the inevitable, assuming the Locos were still looking for the woman.

  They moved to the sandbagged guard stations on either side of the iron gate and waited as the riders neared, dust trailing behind them like beige smoke. When the group was no more than fifty yards away, the lead rider raised his hand, signaling his men to stop, and turned to a formidable-looking stranger on his right, his face covered in prison ink.

  Luis called out to Duke, “Open up.”

  Duke shook his head. “Sorry. We’re closed.”

  “You’re open now,” Cano yelled.

  “Not how it works.”

  “Open the gate,” Cano ordered.

  “You boys must be hard a hearing. I said we’re closed. Come back some other time.”

  “You’re playing with fire,” Luis warned.

  “You come to my place and start threatening me, you’re gonna find out right quick that you’re not bulletproof. Friendly word of warning,” Duke said.

  “We’re looking for someone,” Cano snarled.

  “Try a lonely hearts club.”

  Aaron couldn’t help but snicker, and the big Crew boss caught it. He eyed Duke’s men as though to melt them with the intensity of his glare.

  “Let one of us come in and verify you’re not hiding them,” Luis tried.

  “Why would I let you dictate terms to me? I’m curious. ’Cause I got enough rounds to mow you all down without breaking a sweat, if I want. What am I missing?” Duke asked.

  “What you’re missing is we have a good working relationship, Duke. We don’t want a fight. We just need to cross your place off our list, and then we’ll move on,” Luis said.

  “You think you’ve got the right to show up whenever you want and search my place? Have you lost your frigging mind?”

  “I’m not telling you, Duke,” Luis tried. “I’m asking.”

  “Funny way of going about it.”

  “Been a long ride.”

  “Might want to remember you’re a long way from home out here,” Duke warned.

  “Let my man here come in and look around. Won’t take too long.”

  Duke appeared to consider the request. “Gonna cost you.”

  “What do you want?”

  After a minute of negotiation, Duke was ten magazines of ammunition richer, and Slim was opening the gate. Cano handed his rifle and pistol to Luis and rode forward, his body language relaxed, his posture easy. When he was at the gate, Duke stepped from behind the sandbags and walked toward him. “Keep a bead on him, Aaron. He so much as farts, drill him,” Duke instructed.

  Aaron nodded, his AR-15 pointed at the newcomer.

  “Gonna have to search you, make sure you aren’t carrying,” Duke said.

  “You saw me hand over my weapons.”

  “I have trust issues.”

  Cano stared off at a point a thousand miles past Duke’s shoulder. “Get it over with.”

  “Off the horse.”

  Cano frowned but complied and put his hands in the air while Duke frisked him. When he was done, Duke stepped away. “Now why don’t you tell me who you’re looking for, and then I can tell you that they’re not here, and we can go about our business? Little hot for all the theatrics, don’t you think?”

  “A woman. Wounded. Has a tattoo on her arm. Like this,” Cano said, tapping the eye of Providence inked on his forehead. “You seen her?”

  “Don’t run that kinda place, pardner.”

  “Let me look around and make sure.”

  Duke shrugged. “Suit yourself. But make it quick. You’re cutting into my nap time.”

  Cano looked like he was going to take a swing at Duke. “Got quite a mouth on you.”

  “You want to get this over with or butt heads?”

  Cano eyed the buildings. “This is it?”

  “You’re looking at it.”

  Duke led the Crew boss through the structures, and within five minutes, they were back at the gate. Neither had spoken the entire time. When they reached Cano’s horse, he turned to Duke.

  “Broad daylight out. Why are you closed?”

  “We heard about the town up north getting wiped out. Bad for business. Thought we might want to relocate.” Duke eyed the gothic script ringing the man’s skull. “You know anything about that?”

  Cano looked away. “I’m not from around here.”

  “Yeah. I’d remember you.” Duke paused. “What do you want this woman for, anyway?”

  “That’s between me and her.”

  “Reason I ask is, I talk to a lot of people. Nature of the biz.”

  “She stole something of mine. I want it back.” Cano looked up at Duke’s men. “I’m willing to pay for any information.”

  “Yeah? How much?” Duke asked.

  “A lot.”

  “That’s not getting me very excited.”

  “We just handed you three hundred rounds of ammo to walk through your dump for five minutes. Trust me when I say I’ll pay as much as it takes.”

  “Dump?”

  “Keep it in mind. I’m serious. Whatever it takes. You can name your price.”

  “I can dream pretty big.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “How do I get in touch with you if I hear anything?”

  “I’m monitoring channel 12.” Cano glanced at the building. “I see by your antenna you have a radio.”

  “Who do I ask for?”

  “Cano. I’m staying in Pecos, but I’ve got a handheld.”

  “Good to know.”

  Cano’s eyes narrowed. “You haven’t seen her?”

  “How many times do I have to say it?” Duke asked, annoyance in his voice.

  Cano froze for only a moment and then mounted his horse. When he spoke, his words were a hiss. “I find out you lied to me, I won’t be happy.”

  “I don’t have a reputation for lying.”

  Cano’s eyes settled on Duke. “Neither do I.”

  Duke watched as Cano joined the riders and reclaimed his weapons. Luis
spun his horse and yelled something, and the men rode off, the ground shaking from the pounding of their hooves. When they were out of sight, Duke set his AR-15 down and looked at the building.

  “Seemed like a nice fella,” he said. Aaron laughed nervously, as did Slim.

  “Yeah. Kinda wound a little tight, though,” Doug said.

  “Women will do that to you,” Duke agreed, and then yawned. “Keep an eye peeled in case they come back. I don’t trust ’em as far as I can throw ’em.”

  “Will do.” Aaron paused. “What do you want me to do if they do?”

  “Shoot that Cano fella first. Should sort itself out from there.”

  “You serious?”

  Duke glanced up at the sun and wiped sweat from his brow. “All out of funnies for the day. Take out Luis second. Probably won’t have to do much shooting after that.”

  The men watched Duke trundle back to the building with his rifle, shrugging off his plate carrier as he walked. Slim and Doug exchanged a glance, and then Doug moved to the gate to close it as Slim collected his gear and followed the trader out of the afternoon heat.

  Chapter 12

  Lucas let Tango have his head and galloped as fast as the horse would carry him in the direction of the highway, this time well north of where he’d camped. The big stallion’s hooves pounded the trail with the strident insistence of a jackhammer as Lucas tucked low, sure that the mayor would double-cross him as soon as he thought it practical. He’d seen it in the Raider’s eyes. If he were a betting man, he would have gone all-in on the likelihood and was sure that there was already a party of assassins on his tail.

  He crested a small hill and stopped at a cluster of bushes, where Tango would be out of sight to anyone following. Once out of the saddle, he raised his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the horizon. He didn’t have long to wait – only one man, but he was good, far better than the usual sloppy Raider fare, sticking to the brush in order to avoid throwing any dust, sacrificing speed for stealth.

  The man was riding fast, but his steed was no match for Tango, who was in peak shape and used to marathon rides of twelve hours a day. That was an advantage Lucas would use, and it bought him time to select a good spot to sandbag the man, well away from prying eyes.

  Lucas rode for another hour and at a gravel area circled back around so he could come up behind him in much the same fashion he’d used to outwit the cartel trackers.

  Once clear of the trail, he slowed to a walk and looked for a promising spot to lie in wait. Tango would appreciate the chance to catch his breath too.

  He came to one of the numerous abandoned farms that dotted the hostile terrain and dismounted. There was sufficient cover to keep Tango out of sight, and he tied him in a shady spot and watered him before he slipped his long-range rifle – the Remington 700 – from its saddle scabbard and slid its sling over his shoulder.

  Lucas paused at his saddlebags and dug in the right one for the vest. He withdrew it and felt along the inner seam for the pocket, and his fingers found it on the second try. Lucas pulled the Velcro apart, and a small dongle dropped at his feet. He fished around in the compartment and felt a thick square of folded paper, which he slid into the front pocket of his jeans, and then stooped to retrieve the USB drive.

  There would be more than enough time to examine the note later. For now, he wanted to get up onto the building’s flat roof, from where he would have a good vantage point and be able to pick off the rider with relative ease. He found a foothold in one of the exterior walls and pulled himself up. The sheetrock and siding crumbled in his hands, but the studs beneath supported him nonetheless.

  Once on the roof, the sun was almost unbearable, but he ignored the swelter and moved forward in a crouch. At the lip he tested the roof for stability and, satisfied it would support him, lay down and prepared the rifle, chambering a round with the bolt action and then laying the weapon beside him and using the binoculars to spot the rider.

  It took him several sweeps to locate the man, who was about a half mile off, apparently unaware of Lucas’s ruse. Once Lucas had pinpointed him, he raised the rifle and looked through the scope, mentally gauging the amount of breeze so he could adjust for any drift. He was fortunate – there was almost no wind, he could see from the motionless scrub between them, which would increase his chances of a hit with the first shot.

  Lucas looked again for the rider and swallowed hard when he couldn’t find him. The man had been in a stretch with groves of spindly trees and fairly dense underbrush when Lucas had looked away and taken the measure of the environment; and now he was gone.

  “Come on. Where are you?” he whispered under his breath. “You can’t have just vanished. Follow the trail. You can do it.”

  Lucas continued sweeping the area with the scope, but he didn’t make out any movement. Perhaps the gunman had stopped to check the tracks? Lucas had done his best to stick to soft dirt that would memorialize his passing, but perhaps he’d overestimated his pursuer’s skills.

  A flash of sunlight on glass stopped him cold, and his breath caught in his throat.

  It had come from the brush.

  He zeroed in on the spot and found himself staring at the bodyguard who had confiscated his weapons, squinting through a scope of his own – attached to a rifle pointed at the building.

  Something had tipped him off. Too late for any surprise now; Lucas was obviously blown.

  He did a hasty reckoning of likely trajectory – the man was maybe seven hundred yards away. Not an impossible shot for Lucas, but he’d have to be quick about dialing in the scope, whose default setting he always kept at five hundred. He rolled away from the lip so he wouldn’t be in the open and quickly clicked the range dial to the appropriate setting. After checking it to ensure he’d gotten it right, he moved to a different spot and inched to the edge of the roof for another look.

  It took him a moment to locate the shooter again, and this time when he peered through the lens, he could see that the man was using a bipod for the futuristic-looking rifle. Whether or not he’d spotted Lucas on the roof would be a moot point if Lucas had calculated his range correctly. Lucas slowed his breathing and exhaled softly as he squeezed the trigger with a delicate squeeze.

  The recoil was significant enough to jar the scope from the target, and when Lucas steadied it again, he scanned the brush for any sign of the man. A chunk of the roof blew off two feet from Lucas’s head and he rolled to the side, cursing. The report of the big-caliber rifle reached him a split second later, telling him what he already knew: his first shot had failed to find home, and the shooter had acquired him and was firing back.

  Lucas clicked the scope adjustment one more setting and stopped again. He ejected the spent cartridge and chambered another, and quickly brought the rifle to bear on the gunman, a sense of quiet dread in his heart. He had four more bullets in the gun’s internal magazine, but he’d already thrown one away, and judging by the shooter’s equipment, he knew how to shoot – so Lucas had to make his rounds count.

  The next shot Lucas was better prepared for the recoil, and he was able to keep the scope on the target. A spray of dust four feet short of the man told him he was still off, and he rolled away again and made the appropriate adjustment before loading another bullet.

  An answering shot sent a piece of drain gutter flying no more than a foot from Lucas – far too close for comfort, the gunman now zeroing in on him with deadly accuracy. The next shot would be lethal if Lucas didn’t perform this time, he understood, but in spite of the pressure his hands were steady as he leveled the rifle again and took his time. He saw the man working the bolt and put the crosshairs on his throat.

  The gun bucked and Lucas was rewarded with a fountain of red from the Raider. This time Lucas worked the bolt while keeping the scope on the target, but there was no movement from the man. Lucas didn’t hesitate, but emptied the gun at the shooter, wanting to ensure that he wasn’t met by any nasty surprises later in the day.

  H
e lay still, ears ringing from the gunshots, watching the area for signs of life, but saw nothing. Five minutes later he lowered himself from the roof and made his way back to Tango, his job done. Lucas knew what he’d seen: at worst he had wounded the man, and at best, flipped his switch. Lucas didn’t care which – in neither case would the gunman be in any shape to continue following him, which was all he cared about.

  Lucas reloaded the Remington and slid it back into its scabbard with a silent prayer of gratitude. The man’s shots had warned Lucas that he wasn’t invulnerable. His hand went to the bandage on his grazed arm and he reminded himself to change it again later – it would be bitterly ironic if he survived numerous gun battles but succumbed to infection from a flesh wound.

  He checked the time and ran a quick calculation. At a moderate pace, Tango would be able to reach the root cellar within an hour or two of nightfall – close enough. There he could graze and drink his fill, and Lucas could get the rest he’d more than earned by achieving the impossible.

  Which reminded him. He climbed into the saddle and rode away, feeling in his pocket for the note. Tango, in no mood to run anymore, settled into a fast walk as Lucas unfolded the paper and studied the neat script handwritten in ballpoint.

  As Sierra had said, it was complete gibberish, a series of meaningless letters and numbers in no apparent order, six lines long, with little repetition that he could see.

  “Great. Just great. Risked my neck for nothing,” Lucas muttered and folded the note back up, brow wrinkled in thought. The jumble of code was a daunting problem – and one he couldn’t shoot his way out of. His only hope was that Ruby might have some idea of how to go about decrypting the message, because at this point it might as well have been written in Swahili, so barring a miracle, they were dead in the water.