American Lease (A Dylan Cold Novel Book 1)

by McAdams, K. D.

  He felt responsible for her name coming into the public eye. There was no way he could have known, but still, he hadn’t thought through the whole plan of getting the press involved. Maybe on his way out of town he could stop at the farm stand and giver her a head’s up. That and a quick message to the police station outlining his concerns would probably be enough to keep her safe.

  All of it would have to wait. There was no way he could get far with the sleep that was heavy in his eyes. Montana came and sat on his feet, and Dylan closed his eyes and slept soundly.

  Chapter 21

  Dylan woke with a shiver. Montana rose to his feet, stretching his rear legs to their full length. His master did the same with his arms, cracking his stiff neck to the side. The sleep had been bad and not nearly long enough.

  Dylan looked to his bags of things by the door and decided that he was rested enough to get six or eight hours away. A few days spent just driving would get him far enough away to forget and give him a chance to start over new.

  Suddenly Dylan remembered the rocks he had slid into the drawer. He didn’t want Eliza, or worse, Ryan, to find them.

  The makeshift tin can pipe on the mantle reminded him how close he had been to using last night. One hit of that stuff and he would probably have been awake for days. Maybe that was the best way to get far, fast.

  Dylan stared at the drawer. His keys were inside, and he would have to open it in order to leave. Opening the drawer would make it almost impossible to hold off on the drugs.

  What was it about running away and using that went so well together? Every time he thought about leaving town and moving on from his problems, he thought about getting high. They were both forms of the same thing; one was physically leaving, the other was mental. Why couldn’t the physical escape be enough?

  The only time in the last twenty-four hours that he hadn’t thought about using was when he was trying to figure out the lease. That and when he was worried that he had gotten the girl from the farm stand in trouble.

  He knew that idle time was bad for his sobriety, but it is hard to keep busy when you are running to some place you hadn’t discovered yet.

  The sound of a tractor on the road startled him out of his thought. He came up with a simple plan that should be good enough to get him out of the house and occupied enough to stay clean: Find and warn Abbey, stop at the bank, and then start driving. Just get through the next hour, he told himself as he stood from the sofa.

  His keys were always in the same place in the drawer. In this case, he was grateful for his habits. He opened the drawer and grabbed his keys without looking. “See no evil,” repeated over and over in his mind.

  At the door, he paused before picking up his bags. Something inside told him that he was not leaving yet, but he wasn’t sure why. He looked back at the drawer and called to his dog.

  Dylan and everything important in his life were in the truck. As he pulled to the end of the driveway, Montana looked back at the house. Dylan stopped the truck and looked in the rearview mirror. Every fiber of his being told him that running away was the wrong thing to do.

  He looked up the empty road to the right. In that direction lay suspicion, anger, and hatred. The center of town was what he wanted to run away from, the reason he wanted to drift off into a drug-induced haze.

  Looking to the left, in the direction of the highway and his escape, he noticed a nondescript sedan turning into the orchard. Usually it was only pickup trucks or tractors in the orchard. Occasionally there was a car, depending on who was working and what the job was. But it was never a late-model sedan though; this was wrong.

  Knowing that Abbey Holt owned the closest orchard, it was possibly her who had driven the tractor past when he woke up. If the cop killer had just read the paper or just found out where Abbey would be, they could be going after her right now. There were no cops in sight, so even if they had determined that the farmer might be at risk, they hadn’t done anything about it—or she hadn’t let them.

  Sticking his nose in wasn’t without risk. The number of times a gun had been pointed at him in the last week was concerning. If it continued, the chance one of them would go off increased. Getting shot wasn’t high on his list of to-try experiences and he knew that if he survived it would be almost impossible to manage the pain without drugs.

  Right or not, he felt some level of responsibility for the woman’s name and her knowledge of the lease becoming public. Besides, thinking about helping didn’t bring with it any of the thoughts of getting high that accompanied thoughts of running.

  If he was going to die, his preference was for it to happen while he was trying to do the right thing, not in some narcotic-veiled act of idiocy.

  “Stay here, Montana,” Dylan ordered his dog.

  He hopped out of his truck and crossed the street. Carefully jogging down the street, Dylan tried to get a fix on where in the orchard the tractor was located. It seemed like the tractor had made its way in the direction of Dylan’s apartment. That was good news; it was between him and the guys who had just driven into the orchard.

  As soon as the rows of apple trees came into view, Dylan veered off the road and up over the stone wall that lined the edge of the orchard. He crouched to look under the trees and caught a glimpse of the black tire on a green rim rolling from his left to right. He looked to the left to see if he could spot the car that had driven in, but it wasn’t visible.

  Before he set off to stop the tractor, he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed 9-1-1. The central dispatch struggled to understand his message, but he didn’t want to stay on the line and wait to be transferred to the local station. Hopefully they would have a handle on the big picture and get the right idea.

  Dylan ran to the end of the row and turned left, toward the tractor. He hoped he would get there first, but he wasn’t sure what to do once he was there.

  Seconds later, the big green farm machine turned around the last tree in a row and came directly toward him. Abbey Holt was driving and he could see the surprise and anger in her face.

  The tractor came to a complete stop and the engine began to slow.

  Dylan shook his head and rolled his hand over and over frantically. He wanted her to keep it running; if someone were looking for her, he didn’t want them to think that anything unusual was going on.

  She didn’t get the message. The tractor slowed to an idle and Abbey climbed out of the cab.

  “What the hell are you doing? Get out of my orchard or I swear to God I’ll run you over,” she said.

  “Your name was in a newspaper article about the American Lease,” Dylan said.

  “I know. They tried to interview me. Not interested in talking to you about it either, so again, get the fuck out of my orchard.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, but there are two men here right now who aren’t going to give you a choice. I think they’re the ones that killed your friend and beat up the women at the historic society.”

  “Bullshit. You’re an idiot and no one is going to attack me over that stupid fucking legend.”

  “If you come with me and I’m wrong, you lose ten or fifteen minutes. I’ll leave town immediately and you will never have to see me again. If I’m right and you get in that tractor, you may never leave this orchard alive,” Dylan explained.

  “Excuse me, Miss Holt?” a man’s voice with a thick British accent called over the idling tractor. “We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions about the American Lease?”

  Abbey gave Dylan a surprised look.

  “If they were respectable, they wouldn’t hunt you down in an orchard; they could have just waited at your farm stand.” Dylan raised his eyebrows and sensed that she was getting ready to trust him.

  “So what do we do?”

  “That way.” Dylan mouthed and pointed toward the rear of the orchard, away from the street.

  They both dropped into a crouched walk and headed past the rear of the tractor. After turning down the l
ast row, Dylan started to look off into the woods on the other side of the rock wall.

  Abbey stopped and knelt to the ground. She looked back toward her tractor and scanned the area under the trees.

  “I think we should keep moving,” Dylan whispered.

  “That tractor is worth more than—” she paused and looked at him. “More than everything you own.”

  “And I bet it’s insured—” Dylan started before her hand grabbed his arm and cut him off.

  He leaned to see around the closest tree. The two men in the black suits were standing behind the tractor, guns in their hands.

  “Where the hell did she go?” one of them asked.

  “I told you not to call to her, you wanker,” the other answered.

  “Let’s go,” Dylan said as he pushed Abbey to turn away from the men and her tractor.

  “AHHHH!” Abbey screamed in shock.

  FBI Agent Smith smiled and trained his gun on Dylan.

  “Looks like I wasn’t the only one who wanted to talk with you, Ms. Holt,” the agent said. His British accent was thicker than Dylan had remembered.

  Chapter 22

  The orchard was silent as Dylan’s mind raced. Were the two men who assaulted him in the gas station parking lot also FBI agents? Was the National Security mandate so broad that they were allowed to beat, almost to death, two old women?

  Maybe the two men weren’t with Agent Smith. If he had heard the 9-1-1 call on a scanner or the local police had passed it on to him, it would make sense that he was here. It would also make sense for him to think Dylan was harassing Ms. Holt. Yet again, things with Dylan weren’t as they appeared.

  When Dylan finally spoke the words came out in a rush. “There are two guys with guns a couple of rows over. I think they are after Ms. Holt.”

  Agent Smith looked to the right before squatting to look under the thick canopy of leaves. His actions were slow and confident.

  “What did they look like?” he finally asked Dylan.

  “Black suits, white shirts, black ties. Not exactly apple-picking attire.”

  Abbey supported Dylan’s story: “He’s telling the truth. I saw the men, and the guns.”

  The agent seemed lost.

  “Unless they’re with you, we should get out of here. Two on one isn’t my idea of good odds.” Dylan was hoping the agent would escort them out of the orchard and off to safety.

  Dylan heard a click that sounded exactly like a gun being cocked.

  “You boys can go off wherever you’d like. The young lady is going to stay here and have a nice old chat.” One of the suits emerged from the trees behind Agent Smith, his gun aimed squarely at Smith’s back. The voice that spoke was behind Dylan; he assumed another gun was trained on his back.

  Dylan glanced over at Abbey, her face washed with terror. It was reasonable to believe that this was the first time she had ever had a gun pointed at her. He hoped that it was not something she would have to get used to.

  The agent did not speak or move. Dylan hoped that he would take charge and respond. Surely a federal agent had been trained or at least read about the best way to deal with a potential hostage situation.

  “Go on,” the voice behind him said again with an edge of annoyance.

  Still, the agent did not react.

  “People may not care about some druggie carpenter or a hick farmer, but this is an FBI agent. You’ll have the whole country hunting you if you kill him.” Dylan hoped he hadn’t ruined anything the agent was planning, but he felt like he needed to say something.

  “Don’t care if he’s the fucking president. We want to talk to the girl, alone,” the voice answered coolly.

  Agent Smith finally spoke: “You won’t find it, even with her help.”

  “Then why not back off and let us talk to her?” the Brit said.

  “How can I be sure that she’ll walk out of here if I let you have her?”

  “Hey! I’m standing right here, and I am not going to sit and chat with some asshole who’s pointing a gun at me,” Abbey replied indignantly.

  “Quiet, honey. The men will sort this out and you’ll do as your told,” the British thug snickered.

  Abbey began to turn and face the man when the blare of a police siren shattered the quiet of the orchard.

  The man behind the FBI agent turned in the direction of the noise, his gun straying from its target.

  In slow motion, Agent Smith’s own weapon raised and aimed just past Dylan’s head. A shot rang out as Dylan jumped to his right and out of the line of fire.

  Hoping that the man behind him was taken care of, Dylan stepped past the agent and brought his right foot up into the crotch of the second man. Muffled howls filled the air and a second gunshot rang out.

  Looking behind him, Dylan saw that both the FBI agent and the second suit were on the ground. Abbey stood partially hidden by an apple tree with her hands and arms covering her head. She was screaming, but he did not see any signs of an injury.

  Grabbing her arm, Dylan pushed himself through the space between two trees and pulled her along. The branches slapped and scraped him and he heard Abbey’s scream change from terror to pain.

  Dylan pushed through three more rows of trees before turning to look behind him. Abbey’s face had small streaks of blood that he assumed were from the branches they had just come through. She was no longer screaming, but her eyes conveyed the fear that her lungs could no longer express.

  “We need to get to that police car,” Dylan said. He spoke far louder than normal, but could barely hear himself over the ringing in his ears.

  “What?! I can’t hear you!” Abbey screamed back at him as tears pooled in her eyes and streaked dirt down her cheeks.

  Dylan pointed toward the entrance to the orchard and mouthed “Police car.”

  She gave a shaky nod and Dylan set off toward the center row of the orchard, never letting go of her arm. As they got closer to the entrance, Dylan noticed that his hearing was slowly returning but that it was still drowned out by the beating of his heart and the pounding of his feet.

  Stopping abruptly, Dylan dropped to a knee and scanned underneath the trees. If the suits were alive, they could be coming back to their car. He had no doubt they were prepared to shoot their way past the local police and he wanted to stay clear of any crossfire.

  After several seconds, Dylan nervously checked behind him. His hearing loss would have made it easy for someone to sneak up on them. The orchard was still, but Abbey was breathing heavily and her eyes were glossing over.

  Looking back to the center row Dylan watched as the police cruiser pulled in and skidded to a halt. They had overshot his row by one and he pulled Abbey along as he scrambled under the branches to get a better view of the car.

  After another nervous check behind them revealed nothing, Dylan helped Abbey to a full standing position.

  When the officer exited his car and stood, Abbey called out, “Kevin!”

  The officer looked directly at them and disappeared around the front of the car. A moment later he was in their row, jogging toward them with his gun drawn.

  “Abbey, are you okay?” the officer asked when he finally arrived at the pair.

  “I can’t hear!” Abbey yelled and started crying again.

  “What happened?” The cop was now looking at Dylan.

  “Two guys tried to attack her or something. Agent Smith shot at them. We were close, so it’s hard to hear right now.” Dylan did his best to regulate the volume of his voice but suspected it was still too loud.

  “Where?” the cop asked, looking suspiciously at Dylan.

  “The back corner of the orchard.” Dylan pointed to where they had come from.

  The officer nodded and took a step down the aisle.

  Abbey grabbed his arm. “Don’t leave me,” she pleaded with him.

  The young cop was clearly torn. The need to investigate and understand what had just happened pulled him away, deeper into the orchard. His friend who w
as scared, who needed protection and reassurance pulled at him to stay.

  “I got her,” Dylan assured the man in uniform.

  His look said he didn’t trust Dylan, but his body leaned away, indicating that he wanted to explore.

  The officer looked to the back of the orchard as if he could see or sense something through the trees.

  “Kevin?” Abbey was no longer holding him back; she was pulling him down to her.

  He holstered his weapon and kneeled next to his friend.

  “It’s okay, Abbey, I won’t leave you. Let me call this in though; we’re going to need some more help.”

  He leaned his head and spoke into the radio mounted to his shoulder. With his mouth directed away and obscured by the microphone, Dylan could not hear what was being said.

  The cop’s head snapped up and Dylan spun around to follow his stare. The faint sounds of an engine running and gravel spraying against a car made it through Dylan’s fog.

  Light glinted off a window and Dylan watched as a car shot past the parked police cruiser, toward the main road. He didn’t know if it was one or both of the suits, but someone had gotten away.

  The cop spoke into his radio again before looking back to Dylan and Abbey.

  “The ambulance will be here in a couple of minutes. Everything is going to be okay.” He smiled and squeezed his friend’s hand.

  Chapter 23

  Dylan was in a weirdly good mood. After more than an hour of answering questions from an overzealous rookie EMT who tried to diagnose everything from a concussion to PTSD, he had gone home. Montana was waiting patiently in the cab of the truck and wagged his tail when their eyes met.

  Both owner and dog enjoyed a long drink of water before heading off into the woods to meander. Dylan didn’t want to walk on the roads with his hearing still not fully restored, but he couldn’t sit at home with all the adrenaline coursing through his body.

  When the walk was done, he drove toward the city and stopped at a pizza place to get a sub. He wasn’t sure why he was so hungry, but he could have sworn it was the best steak and cheese he had ever had. It was gone by the time they got back to the apartment, and he barely made it in the door before crashing with exhaustion.