He’d seen the rise from a distance that morning, as he watched the north side of the house. He’d noticed that far to the right, almost out of his view, the pasture along the west fence line rose rather dramatically. So much so that a sentry, seen in the distance atop his horse as he patrolled the fence on the north side of the property, actually disappeared from view behind the rise for several minutes. Then, after he made his turn and headed south along the west fence line, he eventually crested the rise and came back into view.
Since he’d seen the rider disappear, he started formulating his plan, but first he had to wait until he made it around the property and onto its west side.
Once there, he confirmed that the rise was high enough to hide his activities from the next rider making his rounds. He also looked at the surveillance cameras on the outside corners of the farmhouse. One was pointing in the other direction. That was good.
One was pointing directly at the place where Dave would make his assault.
That was very, very bad.
But there was nothing he could do about it.
He couldn’t see the hayloft door on the big red hay barn from this location. That was good. If Dave couldn’t see the barn’s sentry, then the sentry couldn’t see Dave.
The best thing about his ambush point on the west side of the property were the intermittent shrubs along the outside of the fence line.
Dave had a lot of respect for his brother-in-law Tommy, both as a man and as a prepper.
But leaving the shrubs in place along the tree line was a serious mistake.
If the property were still in the hands of the good guys, the shrubs would have allowed marauders to sneak right up to the property and remain hidden from view.
Not that Dave could complain much.
For it would allow him to do the same thing,
He looked toward the west and saw that the sun was beginning to drop behind the tall pines.
It was time to go back.
It was time to get ready.
Chapter 20
It was dark when Dave made it back to the fiberglass box. He was tired and hungry and his mind was racing a hundred miles an hour.
He knew he’d have to be at the top of his game in the morning, when he went to war against the men on the farm.
But he also knew instinctively that he’d have a hard time getting to sleep. In his mind, he’d be going over a thousand different things. The game plan for his one-man guerilla warfare campaign. His hand to hand combat skills. The backup plans that Red convinced him could save his life should something go wrong. And even backup plans to the backup plans.
He unbolted the thumb screws on the fiberglass box and put his gear inside.
But he didn’t follow it. He had to unwind, and he knew he couldn’t do it in the tunnel.
When he was a kid, Dave ran away from home several times when times were tough. He did it when his grandfather died, telling his father, “I just have to get away. But don’t worry, I’ll be back.”
For two weeks, he camped out in the woods near their home, shooting squirrels with his .22 rifle and catching perch with his bamboo rod. Even at age eight, he was an expert outdoorsman, and although his absence drove his mother crazy, his father was at ease with the idea.
“He’s having a rough time of it. Let the boy be. If he needed us more than he needed his solitude, he wouldn’t have left. He’ll come back in due time.”
He did it again his junior year in high school, when the love of his life broke his heart. And a third time two weeks after graduation, when his best friend was struck and killed by a drunk driver.
For Dave Speer, the forest wasn’t a dark and foreboding place. It was an old and trusted friend. Especially in the night, when a thousand creatures came out to play under the slowly swaying treetops and the stars overhead.
It was relaxing. It had a calming effect on Dave that nothing else did.
Not even laying in his sweet Sarah’s arms, as pleasant as it was, could calm him down as much as lying in a patch of tall grass in a forest clearing, feeling a cool breeze wash over him and watching a squirrel jump from branch to branch.
After a while he could almost feel the tension leaving his body. The adrenaline that had been coursing through his veins, the almost giddy excitement he’d started to feel because the time for battle was getting ready to begin… they started to subside as well.
He started to relax.
Purposely and systematically, he began to go over the actions he needed to take to prepare for the morrow’s activity. Just to make sure he left no I undotted, no T uncrossed.
He was back on his game, and the sense of confident calm he felt was familiar to him.
It felt like the days when he was in combat, going out on morning patrols in the desert sands north of Fallujah. Each day he’d brief his fire team. Tell them what to watch out for. What terrorists were rumored to be in the area. How to spot them and what to do when they did. The latest tactics the insurgents were using, and how best to counter them.
In those days, the lives of his Marines were in his hands. They might live or die based on whether he did his job well.
Tomorrow his wife and daughters would take the place of those Marines. If he did something half-assed or stupid, or if he got sloppy and careless, his loved ones could pay a terrible price.
But Dave Speer knew he was up to the task.
He knew it in two tours in Iraq.
And he knew it in God-forsaken Kansas.
He never let his Marines down.
He wouldn’t let his family down either.
Chapter 21
After dinner that evening Swain had taken Sarah aside while the others were clearing the table and starting the nightly ritual of washing the dishes and scrubbing the kitchen.
“Sarah, honey… why don’t you see if you can sweet talk Lindsey into covering for you? I’ve got something I’d like for you to see.”
Lindsey, passing by, heard the remark and shot her mother a sympathetic glance.
Lindsey was sixteen now, but wise beyond her years. She’d known that Swain fancied her mother, almost from the beginning. She didn’t know why, at first, until Swain himself had told her how lucky she was.
“Your mother is beautiful in a way most women strive for and never obtain, Lindsey. Few women have such natural beauty. Most women use makeup to cover up their flaws and hide their imperfections. As such, they are little more than painted clowns, putting on an air of passability simply for the purpose of attracting men and keeping them interested.
“But your mom is different. And so are you. Your mother’s beauty is such that putting makeup on her face would be a crime. It would cover up what God gave her and deprive the world of seeing her natural beauty. She doesn’t need makeup, for it would merely hide what she already has to show off.
“Lindsey, you are the same way. You’re young still, so you probably don’t even know it yet. But someday soon the mere sight of you will cause men to turn their heads, stop dead in their tracks, and ask your name. They’ll want to get to know you, even if knowing them is the last thing you’ll want.
“Trust me, sweet child. It is so obvious to me that you possess the same rare beauty that your mother has. And the day is not far off when you’ll come into your own.
“I know you wonder why I shower so much attention on your mother. Sure, I’ve seen other beautiful women in my time, and had quite a few of them. But your mother is in a class above them all. Except for my own sweet Sarah, who I lost a long time ago. Your mother is my Sarah’s spitting image. That’s why I fawn over her so. She brings back such powerful memories of what I once was, before my world went to hell and then the rest of the world followed suit.
“My Sarah, you see, died tragically when she was way too young. Finding your mother has given me a second chance for the love that was cut short so many years ago. That’s why I’ve made her mine. She’s my second chance to get everything right this time.”
“But she’s not yours. She belongs to my father. And he’ll come for her someday.”
Even as young Lindsey said the words, she realized she’d gone too far.
But Swain was in a benevolent mood that day. Or perhaps he didn’t want to upset Sarah and lose whatever ground he’d been making with her. In either event, he chose not to beat Lindsey down, as he’d done so many of the others who’d questioned his authority or talked back to him.
Then he took credit for his generosity.
“I’m going to overlook that slight, sweetheart, because I want you to see that I’m your protector as well. Whatever evil the world has become, I will watch over you and make sure it doesn’t come for you. Your father has already died, or he’d have been here by now.
“I’m terribly sorry that little Beth is gone too. If I could, I’d bring her back. You’ll see her again someday, and you’ll both be in a far better place than this cold and miserable world. But in the meantime, it’s essential for your own well-being that you face the facts of your current situation. It’s just you, me and your mother now. Sure, my men are here to serve us, as is your aunt and your cousins and some of their neighbors. But they’re just bit players, and we’ll rid ourselves of them one day when we no longer need them.
“And then you’ll see that I’ve been right. That you’ll love me just as much as the father and sister you once had. And your mother will too. I can already sense that her feelings for me are changing.”
Lindsey shivered as she remembered the conversation, and the chill helped her refocus on the present. From across the kitchen, she could see Swain stand and take her mother’s hand and lead her toward the stairs and to the master bedroom.
He was wrong on so many levels. Her father was alive, and was coming for her. She just knew it.
And she would never love Swain, or even like him. Neither would her mother. They were just biding their time and plotting their escape.
Chapter 22
Swain closed the bedroom door behind them and said, “Please, my dear. Take off your clothes. Let my eyes feast on your body.”
His tone was soft, but she knew it for what it was. A command. A directive that was not debatable and non-negotiable.
She complied not because she wanted to, but because she had to.
“I see you’ve shaved this time. Thank you for that.”
“I know that’s how you like to see me.”
“My own Sarah did, long before it became the standard…”
He caught and corrected himself.
“I’m sorry, dear. I meant you no disrespect. I meant my first Sarah.”
“I know what you meant, sir.”
“Ah, once again, you call me sir. Why the formality, after all this time? I’ve asked you time and time to call me John. You’re the only one in this compound I’ve given that permission to, yet you choose not to take advantage of it. Why is that?”
“I just don’t want you to think I’m giving into you. That’s all… sir.”
“You’ve gotten more bold over the past months. If you were anyone else I’d have knocked you down. Maybe even had you taken out and shot. Do you realize that?”
“Yes, sir.”
As Sarah settled into an easy chair, completely naked and trying to position herself to hide her most intimate features, Swain walked to the dresser and opened the top drawer.
He removed a glass pipe about six inches long, with a bowl on the end about the size of a golf ball. At the top of the bowl was a tiny ventilation hole.
Crystal meth addicts called the contraption an “oil burner” because that’s essentially what it did. It turned crystalized meth into liquid form, then to a gas, which could then be sucked into their eager lungs and expelled quickly in a thick white cloud.
From another drawer Swain took the package that had been delivered by horseback from his dealer.
Just because the world had gone to hell in a handbasket didn’t mean he had to give up his favorite pastime.
He loaded the burner by dipping the long end into the pile of chunky powder, then raising it upright and tapping it until the powder fell to the bottom of the bowl.
Then he took a cigarette lighter and held the flame beneath the bowl, while he slowly twisted the pipe back and forth with his fingertips.
The first time he’d done it in Sarah’s presence he saw the curiosity on her face and had explained.
“Once the powder is melted you have to keep it moving to keep it from burning. You have to get it hot but not too hot. You have to turn it to gas without it burning, because if it burns it loses most of its potency.”
After a few seconds a thin wisp of pure white smoke began to seep out of the tiny ventilation hole.
Swain wrapped his lips around the end of the pipe and slowly drew the smoke into his lungs, while continuing to hold the flame beneath the pipe and turning it with his other hand.
When his lungs were full, he quickly exhaled, blowing the sweet-smelling white smoke in Sarah’s general direction.
“Oh, don’t worry,” he’d said while laughing. “You can’t get a contact high. It ain’t weed. That’s why you can’t hold it in, like you do weed. If you don’t exhale quickly, it crystalizes in your lungs. It can cause all kinds of problems.”
Sarah had watched, a bit fascinated by the process. And a bit hoping that he’d overdose and die before her very eyes.
But then he’d dashed her hopes by saying, “You can’t OD from this stuff. All you can do is over-amp and crash for a couple of days.
He’d never explained what “over-amp” meant, though she was a bit disappointed that it didn’t sound fatal.
He took four quick hits from the pipe and then held it up to the light to see how much was left.
Then he turned and offered it to her, knowing full well she’d pass as she’d always done in the past.
“Want some, my love?”
“No thank you, sir.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing. The rush is amazing, when you get the good stuff instead of the crap. You really should try it sometime.”
“Perhaps another time, but thank you, sir.”
“Very well. Fix me a bump while I get comfortable.”
Sarah rose from the chair and approached the dresser while Swain removed his clothing.
She didn’t mind fixing his needle for him. It gave her something to distract her while he sat on the bed and pleasured himself while watching her.
She took the packet and poured about half a gram into a glass ash tray, then took a bottle of water and poured a bit over the powder.
Then she took the dull end of a cheap ink pen and used it to crush the coarse powder until it dissolved.
While Swain watched her body move and fondled himself, she tried her best to ignore him, focusing instead on the task at hand.
She tore off a piece of a cotton ball and dropped it into the solution, then took a diabetic’s hypodermic needle from a package in the second drawer. Using the cotton ball to filter any clumps or impurities in the dope, she drew the liquid through the cotton and into the syringe.
She’d done it enough times now to know exactly how much he needed for his “bump,” and how potent he needed the mixture of meth and water to be.
As much as she wanted to, though, she knew she couldn’t drag out the process forever.
She knew he wouldn’t finish his act until she injected him, and then sat in the chair to watch.
He’d told her many times that smoking the pipe only made him amorous. It was the bump that made him a “sexual beast.”
Still, it could be worse. He’d never actually forced her to touch him, or to have sex with him. She knew he could well have done so, for at this point in time he held all the cards.
He’d told her he didn’t force her out of respect.
She never told him so, but she thought he had a very odd interpretation of respect.
But she did what she had to do, out of self-preservation, and to protect Li
ndsey and the other hostages.
And all the while, she’d bide her time, and wait for the tide to turn. For her to get her own hand of cards. And to make this bastard pay.
“Where do you want it, sir?”
He paused long enough to inspect his arms. The main veins were getting scarred over now, and it was getting harder and harder to find a good vein.
He found one in his left forearm that looked promising.
“Try this one. Let me see the stick.”
She handed him the needle, and he examined it closely. He didn’t really think she’d fill it full of air before injecting him. But one could never be too careful.
She took a soft rubber hose from the night table and placed it around his arm. He clinched and relaxed his fist several times until her target vein swelled.
As she pumped the clear liquid into his body he leaned back onto the bed. His eyeballs rolled back into their sockets as the hot rush overtook his brain.
At that very moment, as she’d done several times before, she thought how vulnerable he was at this particular point in the process. How she could stab a knife into his heart. Or remove the needle, pull back the plunger to fill it with air, then plunge it into his jugular vein.
But once again, she chose not to act. His loyal troops were all over the house. One cry from Swain, even if it was the last one he’d ever utter, might send one of his men to slit Lindsey’s throat. Or her sister Karen’s, or one of Karen’s sons.
She couldn’t risk it.
Instead, she released the rubber hose, removed the needle from Swain’s arm, and pressed her thumb against the puncture site until it stopped bleeding.
Swain lay back on the pillow, his eyes closed.
But she knew he wasn’t sleeping.
“How many nights have you been up?”
He said, “I don’t know. Five. Six. Why?”
“You should take a day off from the junk. Get a good night’s sleep. It’ll do you as much good as this stuff.”
He opened one eye and looked at her.
The Battle: Alone: Book 4 Page 8