K-9 Outlaw: A Kelton Jager Adventure Book 1

by Charles Wendt

  K-9 OUTLAW

  A Kelton Jager Adventure

  BOOK 1

  A novel by

  Charles N. Wendt

  All Rights Reserved, 2016

  CHAPTER—1

  Baylee Ann let go of Jessie to take off her motorcycle helmet and shake out the wet protruding ends of her dark hair. The muffler hissed from the rain drops rolling off their leather jackets. Her damp tight jeans grabbed as she threw a leg over the bike’s seat and she nearly stumbled in the stilettos. She stole a glance at Bambi who was trying to light a cigarette with shivering hands, flicking the lighter without success. The five boys were already unzipping at the concrete columns of the overpass, the oily smell of wet asphalt giving way to the odor of warm urine.

  “Watch my boots, Dickhead.”

  Jackets rustled as someone was shoved.

  “Go mark your own tree, Bitch.”

  Baylee Ann took the lighter from Bambi’s numb fingers and made a flame. Her friend’s blank eyes showed a soft flicker of gratitude as she leaned in and sucked hard, the orange glow rapidly claiming half an inch of the Marlboro Red. They both leaned against Jessie’s bike and shared a drag while the boys hooted in the background over some unheard remark.

  “What do you think? Another half hour?” asked Baylee Ann.

  Bambi nodded, “With the weather. Boys are lucky. I so have to pee.”

  “It’s getting dark quick with the rain. Maybe you can sneak around the embankment?”

  “Only if the rain let’s up a little. My cunt’s sore enough without getting rubbed by wet panties.”

  Bambi dropped the butt and coughed, the rattling of phlegm audible over rain pounding the overpass above their heads. She didn’t bother to smear it with her foot.

  Baylee Ann nodded shivering as drippings from her bangs went between her tattooed boobs. She pulled her thin jacket tighter and looked at the gray divided lanes winding between the cow pastures and scattered woods. Then she saw the figure up ahead walking alongside the road.

  She guessed it was male given the broad brimmed slouch hat and the straight gait, but with the failing light she wasn’t fully sure. A few more steps, and then yeah, definitely a man given the evident square shoulders despite the dark baggy poncho that hung to just above the hiking boots. There was a dog heeling with him, not big enough to be a German Shepherd, who wore a drab body harness. The dog alerted him and he hesitated a second upon seeing them in the shadows himself. Then they moved quickly across the deserted lanes to the other side of the overpass.

  “Who the fuck is that guy?” asked one of the boys in a muffled voice.

  Baylee Ann though it was most probably Grover. He couldn’t talk without an F-word in a sentence.

  The wanderer weaved around the columns on the far shoulder, and climbed the sloping concrete of the retaining wall. In a few seconds the dog and he had silently disappeared into the darkness of the top corner. The rain slowed some.

  Shawn stuck a tongue out of a smiling hairy face and rocked his head side to side. Jessie gave him a playful shove, making his long silver wallet chain jingle. Grover and the others fell in alongside as they formed an informal phalanx and crossed into the median.

  Baylee Ann and Bambi huddled closer together without saying a word. They both knew that Shep and Rebel would be pissed at the diversion, but the boys were restless from the long ride down from Richmond and had grown bored of the two of them. The stranger was alone in the wrong place at a very wrong time. Bambi began to reach for another Marlboro, met Baylee Ann’s eyes and knowingly pulled out a joint instead. The line of bikers stepped onto the far shoulder.

  “That’s far enough; I can hear you from there.”

  It was a commanding voice, with a confident and well measured cadence, despite a tone which indicated a younger man. The forceful challenge made the bikers fumble to an awkward and confused stop.

  “We ain’t coming to talk,” called Jessie.

  “We gonna fuck you up!” added Grover to some chuckles.

  To her boys, inflicting fear was more fun than inflicting pain. It was probably making Grover’s cold clammy dick stir. As Jessie stepped forward, the others followed. Bambi stared blankly at the gravel as her fingers took back the joint, trying to move as little as possible so not to draw attention.

  “Advance at your peril!”

  The voice made Baylee Ann look up from Bambi, eyes trying to pierce the darkness above. There was no trace of panic or fear in that voice, the tone and cadence as before and the vocabulary choice a brutal contrast to her socializations near the North Carolina state line. Grover and Jessie exchanged blank looks of knitted eye-brows as their legs raised again.

  Baylee Ann’s lips began to form “No, wait!” but the inhaled warm smoke choked her voice into a cough. It wouldn’t have mattered.

  Five shots, so close together they echoed as a single roar. The dazzling muzzle flame of orange and blue licked out like dragon’s breath from the shadows. The concussion reflected from the bridge overhead to the asphalt below, rang her ears and crushed her consciousness. Bambi upset the bike as she instinctively turned away, and the two women wound up in a heap on the gravel with high heels in the air.

  The boys were dead; all of them. There was no contemplating the end of life while staring at bloody fingers failing to staunch a mortal wound. There was no crawling, vitality draining away, just to see the fading eyes of a fellow comrade. They simply dropped in their black leather jackets like a pile of discarded giant dominoes. She clutched Bambi on the ground, closed her eyes and wailed.

  Kelton scanned over the Glock 40, the tritium reflex site glowing as a pale green triangle in the dark. He was sitting with his feet pulled against his butt, using his bent knees as support for his arms and his shins a shield for his vital organs. He switched magazines during the tactical pause to be ready for further action, but no one was moving down below.

  “Azrael!”

  The Belgian Malinois came bounding back into the darkness under the bridge from where Kelton had sent him outside less than a minute before. There had been no time to dress him in “mutt-muffs” or “doggles”. He did a quick pat but the only wetness felt like cool rain water rather than anything warm and sticky and there was no smell of plasma. Ivory fangs glowed white in the low light and the tail repeatedly thumped the concrete as he passed him a Milk-Bone marosnack.

  He holstered the gun, pulled off his ear muffs, and chomped several starlight mints as fast as he could. It didn’t take long for the adrenaline dump to drop his blood sugar and the shakes to start. He extended his legs and lay down. His head throbbed and he worked on keeping his breathing slow and rhythmical. He wiped sweat away from his burning forehead, but it felt icy cold on his fingers. The world seemed to rush and envelop him as peripheral vision returned and he began to hear crying on the wind. Azrael panted and put a paw on his chest.

  Kelton sat up to retrieve the iPhone in his buttoned shirt pocket and turned it on, but returned to scanning below while it booted. The bodies of the five bikers hadn’t moved. Across the median and through the concrete columns he could see portions of the motorcycles parked on the far shoulder. It looked as if one or two had maybe fallen over. With the low light and the obstructed view, he was far from certain. He took a deep breath and fingered the keys.

  “911 Operator, what is your emergency?” said a man’s voice who sounded as if he made that greeting several times an hour.

  “I’m at the 615 overpass on Virginia Route 903.” Always give them your location first in case the call fails, thought Kelton. Do it just like they taught you at the academy.

  “I’ve been attacked by a group of
men and had to fire a pistol in self-defense to save myself. I’m wearing a brown hat and an old military poncho. There is a dog with me.”

  “Okay, Sir. I’m contacting emergency services to assist you. What’s your name?”

  “Kelton. Kelton Jager.”

  “Okay, Kelton. My name is Brett Kissel. Are you in a safe location?”

  “No, but I’m hiding under the west end of the bridge. There may be more of them.” Of course it’s not a safe location he thought looking at the bodies below.

  “I need to ask you some more questions, Kelton,” insisted Mr. Kissel.

  No you don’t, he thought. He pushed at the red disconnect button but the call didn’t drop.

  “Are you injured, Kelton?”

  “I’m not sure. I was attacked and I’m not feeling good.”

  Kelton remembered the old policeman who’d lived next door when he was in school and his advice to never give definitive answers. In nearly every case where someone is convicted of wrongdoing after a defensive shooting the 911 recording is the biggest piece of evidence. Be first to call 911 so you are the victim. Get the emergency services on the way to help you. Establish your self-dense claim. And then, most importantly, shut the hell up!

  “How many times did you shoot?”

  “I’m not really feeling good; I need to set you down.”

  “How far away were they when you opened fire?” persisted Brett.

  “I think I hear more of them. I’ve got to hide.”

  He looked at the time on the phone and shoved it deep into his pocket. More muffled questions came, but he was tearing the wrapper on a power bar. He turned toward Azrael.

  “This jerk is going to run our phone battery down.”

  It took nearly twenty minutes before he could see fast approaching blue flashes with red ones not far behind. Azrael started to howl at the sirens. He petted him, took a swig of water from the CamelBak, and waited.

  Sheriff Chandler Fouche leaned forward in his seat, peering through the windshield of the Durango as the 615 bridge quickly came into view. The Rain-X treatment was doing its job so he hardly needed the wipers. Nor did a single bug spot mar the view. A quick glance in the rearview showed Rescue lagging well behind. They weren’t brave when shooters were at large, but otherwise were competent and professional.

  He stopped short with his high-beams still on, flipped on the auxiliary spot lights, and slowly surveyed from left to right and then bottom to top two times. Everything of note sheltered from the weather under the bridge, the grass embankments and gray concrete yielding nothing of interest. On the right shoulder, two women cowered in the circle of motorcycles like cavalry troopers taking cover behind their dead horses for the final stand at Little Bighorn. On the left shoulder, at the base of the concrete slope, a still line of bodies. Chandler couldn’t make out for sure how many. Further up the slope, in the dark corner of the very top, someone turned on a small LED flashlight and gave it a small slow wave.

  He pushed his radio’s microphone button, “Be advised, Sheriff Fouche is on scene. Better get Buck out here, too. If you can’t raise him on the radio, call Dixie’s.”

  St. Albans Control Center came back, “Roger, Sheriff.”

  He unfastened the seatbelt and got out slowly, placing the pressed smoky bear hat with its clear plastic rain cover on his head despite the slackening drops. A couple steps forward, and then he stopped with hands on his hips to repeat his double scans, left to right and down to up, again. The shoes, pistol belt, and holster were corfam, with a shiny black finish despite a dusting of rain droplets. His dark brown shirt and khaki trousers were starched, pressed and creased. A little gray showed in his short hair, but he was fit at seventy. No smudges dared infringe upon his brass nameplate or badge.

  “Mr. Jager, come down so I can see you.”

  The voice was commanding, and practiced. Chandler had served as the county sheriff for thirty-five years.

  A small light came shuffling down the concrete slope, and he could make out the figure in a poncho holding an iPhone with its flashlight on. The other hand held a web leash to a dog that heeled obediently beside him. Chandler’s hand tingled over the magnum stainless-steel revolver. Threat? No Threat?

  “I called 911. My name is Kelton Jager, Sir. My sidearm is holstered on my right thigh.”

  Chandler looked at his face, the vehicle’s spotlight illumination dashed with red as well as blue, letting him know without turning around that rescue was on scene behind him.

  “I want you to sit down right there at the base of the wall and not move around. Okay?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The young man sat and the dog went down beside him. He sat quietly without fidgeting. Chandler could hear the pair of medics trotting up behind, the soft rattle of medical gear in plastic boxes announcing their advance. The sheriff strode forward, eyes still focused on Kelton and his hand at the ready to draw. He circled around behind him, and kneeled to pull the man’s gun from the holster on the right thigh.

  “Sir, please be advised that my weapon is in a loaded condition,” stated Kelton as a matter of fact.

  It was a huge automatic with an optic on top and a fat butt that certainly held a double stack magazine.

  Chandler stared at Kelton and the dog a few seconds, but neither moved at all. He made a fast judgement, given the limited manpower on scene and the likely urgency of medical attention needed.

  He yelled to the medics without moving his head, “The scene is secure. There’s men down up ahead by those columns.”

  Chandler watched as the medics began pulling on latex gloves and kneeling beside the bodies, all sporting jackets of the Lowland Outlaws complete with their own bloody hole. It didn’t take long before they knew there would be nothing to do there but stuff body bags after the photos were taken. They then divided forces, one medic crossing the median to the girls and the other returning to Kelton and the sheriff.

  “Call me if he moves on you, but I don’t think he will. Stay off the road. We’ve haven’t stopped traffic on your side yet.”

  Chandler turned to follow the first medic across the median. His deputy’s blue lights became visible to the west on I-85, putting additional help just minutes away.

  He recognized the two women, although their names hadn’t been worth keeping track of. Young teens, desperate for money, entertained the drivers at the truck stop. Soon they aged out like these two and turned to other nefarious things. In his younger days, Chandler tried to put a stop to it but it was a losing battle. Instead he ticketed the drivers who didn’t vote locally, and everyone knew it helped keep downward pressure on rising property taxes.

  “Either of you ladies hurt?” began the medic as he kneeled down and flashed a penlight in their eyes. Everyone could smell the lingering pot smoke, but Chandler sized up the motorcycles instead.

  They were all older mid-ranged Harley’s, who had experienced a lot of time on the road. But beneath the paint chips and small gravel dents, it was clear they were all someone’s pride and joy. There was road grime, but not the cake of dirt and bugs that occur in the absence of frequent washes. Plenty of tread showed on the tires. Here and there a new part glowed in comparison to the duller veterans. He unbuckled the straps on a black leather saddlebag.

  “Do you have a warrant, Sheriff?” challenged the brunette over the shoulder of the kneeling medic as she sat by the blond girl.

  “Does your name appear on the title of this motorcycle, Ma’am?”

  Her eyes fell and he flipped the top up. Inside, in a sealed clear plastic pouch, were bales of paper cash. It was heavy duty plastic, like to ship small machine parts. You wouldn’t tear at it very long with just your fingers before looking around for a knife. He took a quick picture with his camera phone. There appeared many denominations, so he gave a gentle heft holding it in his right hand. Maybe five pounds?

  “What’s the good word, Boss?” Deputy Buck Garner called from the window of his Chevy Interceptor patrol c
ar. Buck’s eyes were intent on the clear plastic bag.

  “Back up to the exit so you don’t drive through the crime scene and go up and over. Then get across the median and park to block oncoming traffic. There’s this guy over there with a dog. Find the drugs on him. This is a deal that went bad.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Buck put the car in reverse and flew weaving pass the Durango and ambulance. A couple of cars parked behind in silent frustration backed up to follow the deputy over the bridge. Another set of headlights approached from that direction, big and blocky, indicating the approach of the county coroner’s sedan. Thankfully there were no collisions in the chaos of two-way traffic on one way lanes.

  Chandler advanced on the women, the medic giving a nod of good health to him and tactfully backing away from the interview. The two remained seated on the pavement, backs against the rear tire of the fallen chopper.

  “Were you buying or selling?”

  The little blond just sat there with blank glassy eyes looking off into space. The tears and wet hair frazzles mixed with the road soot on her face.

  “We just stopped because of the rain,” said the brunette in a defiant tone.

  “Where were you coming from?”

  “I don’t know, I wasn’t driving.”

  Her eyes gleamed hard.

  The sheriff sighed. The two were definitely locals, although their lot lizard days must have ended years ago. He’d send Buck over later to get their witnesses particulars. That’s what deputies were for. He crossed the median a second time, staying on the gravel under the bridge so mud wouldn’t foul his shoes, still holding the bag of money in his right hand.

  “Did you find the drugs?”

  His deputy shook his head slowly, standing easy with hands draped at his side.

  “No drugs. I mean other than a small plastic bottle with aspirin, Motrin, and cold medicine.”

  “What else you got?” asked Chandler posing again with feet shoulder width apart and hands on his hips.

  Buck didn’t reply to the question as the sheriff scanned the display.