by Bobby Akart
The men got to work and Jake walked briskly around the three-building complex, his eyes scanning the empty parking lot for any signs of movement. He checked his watch as he made the rounds, while monitoring the men’s progress. The second pickup was almost full in just eight minutes.
On his last lap around the buildings, he tried the wooden door which entered a utility shed located at the end of the complex. It was unlocked. After a quick glance around the outside, Jake stuck his head in, preceded by the Mossberg. The space was empty except for gardening equipment and rows of shelves with clear plastic bins stacked on them.
Jake quickly backed out of the building and looked around again before he set about exploring the inside of the space. He pulled out his tactical flashlight from his pants cargo pocket and illuminated the bins. They were labeled with masking tape. Jake muttered the words aloud.
“Arugula. Bush beans. Broccoli. Carrots. Melon. Pepper.”
He reached into the tomato bin and pulled out a handful of seed packets from Burpee. He shined a light on the different varieties of tomato seeds, all of which were marked heirlooms.
Jake placed the seeds back in the container and ran out of the building to check on his men. They were just loading the last box when he came upon them.
“We’re full. Did you guys find some wine for your ladies?”
One of them responded. “We’re going into the store now. You comin’?”
“No,” Jake responded. “I’ve got some flower seeds for my girl. She’s quite the gardener.”
“That’s really romantic dude, but I doubt it’ll get you laid,” said one of the men, drawing laughter from the others.
“Yeah, probably right. Hit the store and let’s wrap it up.”
Jake ran back to the shed and searched the interior for something to carry the seeds in. He spotted some empty grain sacks stuffed under a work bench. This was the point where Jake hesitated. He had no idea which seeds to pull. He knew nothing about growing food but he assumed certain vegetables did better in cooler climates, like Northern California than areas much farther south.
Unable to apply logic to his choices, he simply pulled as many different varieties that he could cram into the grain sack. Although he didn’t know what the heirloom designation meant, he focused on those because they appeared to be the most abundant variety on hand.
A few minutes later, he’d gathered forty different varieties and almost two hundred seed packets. He tied off the grain sack and tossed it over his shoulder like Santa Claus ready to move on to the next chimney.
Chapter 41
The Sunnyvale Gun Club
Saratoga, California
Jake was prepared to call it a successful night. They’d loaded up the trucks with just two stops. They could hit the other wineries and the gun club another night after the dust settled on these break-ins. But, when he suggested heading back to Fruitvale West, the driver of the other truck insisted that Jake follow Mike’s orders to check out the Sunnyvale Gun Club. Jake thought it was odd that the man insisted, and then he realized that one or more of his guys were most likely Mike’s guys.
“All right, let’s do this but I’m not happy with the ingress and egress,” said Jake before they left. “It’s been a long time since I drove up there but we don’t have any alternate routes out.”
The driver offered to take the lead on the trip into the shooting range and Jake agreed with his suggestion without hesitation. They wound their way through the hills until they reached the base of Stevens Canyon and the small lake alongside the road.
There were a handful of tents set up in an open space across the water and a campfire was burning in the center of them. The camp was secluded and surrounded on three sides by the lake which was most likely full of fish. Not a bad spot, Jake thought to himself, except the water would soon be contaminated by ash fallout.
They reached the turn for the gun club and found a chain link gate closed, blocking their progress. One gate led to the rock quarry on the left and the other was marked with an etched-wood sign bearing the gun club’s logo. The passenger of the lead truck tried the gate and indicated it was locked.
He tried to break the lock off with the buttstock of his rifle, never a good idea. Jake never understood why movies and television shows depicted their characters beating on things with their rifles. A gun was not intended to be used as a sledge hammer whether you were trying to break a lock, bust open a head, or dispatch a zombie.
This is taking too long.
Jake didn’t like the fact they’d been sitting out in the open for so long. He’d shut off his headlights but the lead driver did not, choosing instead to illuminate the gate for his passenger. When the man gave up on the lock and began to jog back to the pickup, a sense of relief came over Jake as he was pleased the mission would be called off.
He was wrong.
The driver gunned the engine, spinning gravel all over Jake’s truck and lurched toward the gate. He was probably doing thirty miles an hour when the front bumper collided with the chain link, slamming it open until both sides careened off some shrubs and ricocheted back into the side of the truck.
Jake exhaled and followed their companions into the gun club, hoping the noise created by the breach didn’t attract unwanted attention. As they sped up the hill toward the facility, without regard to taking the stealth precautions Jake employed at the Ridge Estate, he secretly hoped the club had been emptied of its weapons, either by the gun owners themselves, or the operators who most likely possessed a master key. If the lockers were empty, they could leave that much sooner.
Unlike the two prior stops, Jake fell back and allowed Mike’s man to run point on this raid. He’d never seen the new facility and had little interest in the mission’s success. At this point, self-preservation was foremost on Jake’s mind, and an exit from the recklessness of this group.
The man turned to Jake and hollered, “Are you coming Wheeler?”
“Nah, I’ll take perimeter security again. You guys knock it out.”
Jake readied his shotgun and walked through the parking lot. The sides and rear of the gun club facility were blocked off with fencing or cinder block walls. To the mountain side of the parking lot was the trap shooting area and Jake surmised the rear of the building led to the rifle range. There was really no perimeter to patrol, so he just waited for the men to return.
He could hear the sound of an owl in the distance as the first ten minutes had passed. These guys were taking too long inside. Despite his concern, Jake resisted the urge to go inside and attempt to abort the mission. Mike’s guy appeared to be gun hungry and possibly looking to garner favor with his new boss by bringing home several new weapons.
Jake wandered to where the paved parking lot turned into the gravel driveway. He paused and listened. The owl had stopped its staccato hoot sound, allowing Jake to focus on other sounds of the night. That’s when he heard it. Muffled voices followed by the sounds of gravel crunching underfoot. He knelt down to reduce his visibility and to focus on the noises emanating from down the driveway.
Several men, whispering to one another, moving briskly up the gravel road.
Jake turned and briskly walked down the side of the parking lot using the overhang and picnic tables of the trap shooting observation area for cover. He stopped to catch his breath and listen again. The men were getting closer, as they were also jogging up the gravel road. Then their footsteps changed. The crunching was replaced with the pounding of their shoes on the hard, asphalt surface.
Jake didn’t have much time. He raced toward the gun club only to find one of the guys smoking a cigarette as he was loading rifles into the back of the pickup truck.
Before Jake could warn him, several shots rang out and the man was struck in the back, knocking him against the tailgate before he fell backward onto the pavement.
Jake opened fire at the attackers from the side, sending buckshot spraying across the pavement and skipping at the feet of the men. The loud
blast served to stop their forward progress, but not their gunfire.
Jake knew they’d scattered because he was taking on gunfire from three different directions. He crawled behind the concrete picnic tables as bullets ricocheted around him. Seconds later, the other two members of his team emerged from the gun club shouting his name. Jake ignored them, choosing not to give away his new position, as he fell back toward the club, darting from pavilion to pavilion, unnoticed by the assailants.
A voice shouted from the darkness. “You boys ain’t leavin’ alive unless you come out with your hands up!”
Jake hustled along the side of the building to where they were hidden behind the pickup trucks.
Mike’s guy crawled on all fours between the trucks to check on his passenger. He returned, pulling the man along the ground behind him.
“He’s dead,” he said with disgust. Then he snarled at Jake. “I thought you had the perimeter?”
“I did,” Jake said. “These guys have long guns. The cherry on his cigarette gave him away.”
All three men leaned against the front of the trucks. Mike’s guy asked, “How many of them?”
“At least three. They’re flanking the road and at one of them is moving up the side along the quarry.”
“Should we make a run for it?” asked the other man who’d been Jake’s passenger.
“Give it up, boys! We don’t want to kill anyone. We just want those trucks and whatever you’ve got in ‘em!” The voice was getting closer.
Jake assessed the situation. “One of us has to distract them, attract their fire while the other two drive out of here.”
“I’m too overweight to run,” said Jake’s passenger. The man was being honest.
“I’ve got kids,” said Mike’s guy. That was the lamest of the two excuses in Jake’s mind. If he was concerned about his kids, he shouldn’t be making these runs, especially ill-advised ones like the present situation.
“Fine,” said Jake. “I’ll draw their fire. Here’s what you’re gonna do.” Jake laid out the plan and gained the absolute assurance of his driver that he wouldn’t leave him behind. When the time came, Jake would appear in the road and he’d better stop for him, he warned. The tone of Jake’s voice was very convincing.
The men agreed, and Jake cautioned them to wait until they heard his shotgun blast. This would be their signal. Jake patted his driver on the back, offering encouragement and making that partner-like connection. He could survive if the two men left him behind, but it would be a long walk home in the dark.
Jake took off into the darkness, retracing his steps through the observation pavilions. As he maneuvered through them, he looked ahead to make sure he wasn’t running toward one of the assailants. Jake had to assume the gunmen were as frightened as his team was, and therefore wouldn’t intentionally walk toward Jake’s earlier position. Most likely, all eyes were focused on the two pickup trucks.
He’d reached the end of the pavilions, studied his next options for cover, and then fired the next two rounds of double aught buck into the one-thousand-gallon propane tank which was positioned across the parking lot. That was the closest point of cover to the gun club building other than some large boulders overlooking the rock quarry below.
Jake knew the buckshot wouldn’t be powerful enough to pierce the steel propane tank, but he hoped the attackers didn’t know that. After the shot pelted the tank, Jake saw two men scurry for cover near the rocks.
The distraction worked. The pickups fired their ignitions and squealed their tires as they simultaneously sped in reverse. The lead truck, driven by Mike’s guy began speeding out of the parking lot, taking several shots into the right-side passenger door.
Jake’s truck hesitated momentarily as the driver appeared to have difficulty in finding the gear of the four-speed manual transmission. The attackers opened fire, blowing out the glass of the passenger window and littering the rear fender with bullets.
Jake ran toward the propane tank, firing birdshot this time in the general direction of their muzzle flashes. The driver found first gear and the smoke from the spinning tires could be seen floating above the roofline of the gun club. He was speeding toward Jake as one of the gunmen stepped out into the open to take his shot.
Jake didn’t hesitate as he ran toward the man to get a closer shot. He racked a round into the Mossberg and squeezed the trigger, filling the shooter’s upper torso with the deadly double aught buck.
His driver swerved toward the right in Jake’s direction which had the effect of illuminating his position with the headlights. He was at risk, so he darted across the front of the truck and the driver slammed on the brakes, causing the truck to fishtail slightly.
Jake jumped on top of the boxes in the pickup truck’s bed and lay flat on his back.
“Go! Go! Go!” he shouted as the truck once again lurched forward in a cloud of burning rubber. The attacker’s rifles missed their mark as round after round sailed over Jake’s head or imbedded in the tailgate.
Once they hit the gravel road, the driver slowed somewhat as the curves could easily cause him to lose control. Jake closed his eyes and held his body flat against the jagged boxes, hoping it was over.
At the bottom of the hill, the truck took a sharp turn to the right onto Steven’s Canyon Road. The attack was over, or so he thought.
Chapter 42
Fruitvale West
Saratoga, California
The sun was rising as Jake arrived back at Fruitvale West. It was going to be a long, stressful day for him. It would also be looked back upon as a turning point in this new life with Ashby.
A group of men awaited Jake and his driver when they slowly approached the gate of the community. At first, Jake was puzzled that the black, wrought iron gate wasn’t immediately opened for them as his driver eased up to it.
Then he saw Mike speaking with the other surviving member of the four-man team. A crowd had gathered around his truck, pointing at the blood which had been splattered across the tailgate and the holes created by the high-powered rifles which had attacked them.
Jake saw the heads turn as they stopped, and the looks on their faces said it all. Fingers of blame were being pointed and he suspected he was the scapegoat.
His driver leaned out of the truck window. “Hey, what’s the holdup? Open up and let us in.” The keepers of the gate hesitated and turned to Mike for guidance. Mike, accompanied by the driver of the other pickup, approached the gate followed by two men armed with rifles.
“I don’t like this,” muttered Jake.
His driver looked at Mike and then over at Jake. “Why won’t they let us in?”
“I suspect they blame me for the death of the other guy.”
“Well, that’s a load of crap and I’ll tell ‘em so myself. We should’ve never gone up there to begin with. And for what? Seven rifles and half a dozen pistols. We lost a guy and I could’ve been killed if you hadn’t—.”
“Get out of the truck and lay down your weapons!” Mike shouted.
The driver turned toward Jake. “What do we do?”
“This doesn’t involve you. It’s me they’re mad at. Go ahead and get out. I’d appreciate if you’d back me up, though.”
“For sure.” The man exited the truck and walked toward the gate with his hands up. He immediately began talking to Mike, waving his arms and pointing as if to illustrate what happened. Then he started pointing at the driver of the other truck, which is when the argument got heated.
“If anybody’s responsible for his death, it’s your guy! Jake never wanted to go to the gun club because it was too risky. Turns out he was right about that, and the fact we had no escape route.”
“Shut up! We don’t want to hear—.”
Jake’s driver cut Mike off and continued to defend Jake. “Jake saved my life. One of the gunmen had me dead to rights and Jake charged at him across the parking lot with no cover and no back-up, I might add, because your guy took off without us. How much sooner did
he get back before we did? Where was he when the going got tough?”
“You shut your mouth,” screamed the other driver.
“I won’t! Jake charged at the guy and took him out with one shot. I would’ve been dead too if it wasn’t for Jake.”
Jake saw that the argument was turning in his favor so he decided it was time to face the mob who’d come ready with their tar-and-feathers. He exited the truck but he didn’t lay down his weapon. He also slung the feedbag over his shoulder as he approached.
“Fellas, it’s been a long night and I’m tired. I think everybody needs to calm down and recognize one thing. Every time we venture outside of this wall, some of us might not make back. No one man can be held accountable for another’s life. If you’re not able to accept that basic premise, then you need to go find a FEMA camp somewhere so the government can take care of you.”
Jake pushed open the gate and said thank you to the man who plead his case. He shoved past Mike and the other driver without hesitation.
“Wheeler, what’s in the bag?” shouted Mike as Jake walked away.
“A present for my girl — flower seeds.”
He never looked back, thankful that a bullet didn’t follow him.
Chapter 43
Fruitvale West
Saratoga, California
Jake went straight to the house and showered, keeping the Mossberg propped against the wall next to the door. He needed to refresh his body, and his mind, before he approached Ashby with his concerns. He understood her desire to find a place to get settled. He wanted the same thing. With each passing hour, however, a voice was screaming in his head, run!
He got dressed and left the house, locking the doors for the first time, not that the act would stop these people. They were living proof that a mentality existed to fulfill the axiom—what’s mine is mine and what’s yours is mine too. Fruitvale West reeked of that attitude and he wasn’t going to fall victim to it.