Dead Drop Series (Book 1): Dead Drop (Rise of the Elites)

by K. S. Black

  Ten seconds later, the screaming engine quieted and returned to its normal roar. The Humvee slowed to a cruising speed of ninety mph.

  CHAPTER 7

  With the Stryker no longer visible in the rearview mirror, Cooper continued driving like a bat out of hell for several more miles. When they passed the local airport at Firebaugh, he eased his foot off the accelerator. Without taking his eyes off the road, he disengaged the window panels and turned off the camera.

  "Dad, I have to go to the bathroom bad."

  "We'll stop soon. But I have to put more distance between us and them."

  * * *

  Cooper parked the Humvee in the back of a convenience store so they couldn’t be spotted from the road. "Stay put until I've had a chance to check the Humvee. It’ll only take a minute."

  He examined the three points of impact. The composite armor on the right back panel had absorbed the impact from one of the rounds, but it resembled a miniature volcano that had grown sideways out of the door. The two impacts to the windows were about eight inches in diameter. The craters in the middle were the size of half dollars. The glass inside the protective coating had turned to powdery fragments, but the windows were still intact.

  His anger neared its boiling point, but he held it in check. The last thing Hayley needed was to see him lose it. He opened the passenger door and helped her out. She handed him the puppy, and he locked him in the crate.

  The store looked empty. No cars out front and no activity inside. When he tried the door it opened. “Hello. I’m coming in. If anyone’s in here, please come out. We need to use your restroom.” He listened for movement. Nothing. He entered with his Tavor ready and scooted Hayley behind him with his leg.

  After he checked the bathroom, he told Hayley to go in and lock the door. He checked behind the counter and tried the storage room door, but it was locked. He took several plastic bags from under the counter and filled them with protein bars, jerky, a couple of disposable lighters, and several bottles of water. The box of energy shots next to the cash register was empty, and the coffee carafes were empty.

  When Hayley came out, he handed her a bag and told her to load it up with what she wanted. He stuffed several packages of batteries into another bag and left a one hundred-dollar bill next to the cash register.

  “Dad!” She pointed outside toward the road. The Stryker was heading south on CA-33. It slowed to a stop and made a U-turn in the middle of the road.

  “Keep down and get to the Humvee.”

  Once inside the vehicle, he sucked in a breath. Why did they stop? “Buckle up. We may have to try and outrun them again.”

  “Did they see us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Another minute passed before the Stryker headed back in the direction it came from.

  Cooper checked the GPS to find an alternate route out of Firebaugh and scanned the road with the binoculars to make sure that the Stryker was gone before they headed out toward Bakersfield.

  * * *

  Just north of Bakersfield on CA-99, the CB radio crackled. Cooper adjusted the squelch—he thought he heard a voice. He keyed the mic. “Breaker. Breaker. Anyone out there?”

  Saving the channel, he waited a few seconds and keyed the mic again. “Breaker. Anyone there?”

  CHAPTER 8

  May 6 – outskirts of Bakersfield

  “Can you hear me?” Kevin Moore had been trying to figure out how to get out of the predicament he found himself in. Maybe he could hitch a ride from the guy on the radio.

  “I can hear you. How’s everything looking in Bakersfield? I’m trying to head east.”

  “Not great. I’ve been talking to some folks in town over the radio. They’re hunkered down. Martial law was declared a few hours ago, and no one’s supposed to be on the roads.”

  “I figured that was coming,” the man said.

  The voice sounded friendly enough. “I heard that some sort of nasty flu is going around. The army is in town rounding up people for evacuation. They’re shooting anyone who refuses to leave, so you might want to rethink going through there—if that’s your plan.”

  “What do you know about the Highway 58 area?”

  “Good luck with that, man. 58 and I-395 outside of Edwards Air Force Base are closed. The military is all over those roads. You’ll need to use the back roads.”

  “Why are you still in the area?”

  “I can’t drive—my leg’s broken. Even if I could drive, my car’s gone.” He paused for a moment. “If you give me a ride out of here, I can show you the best back roads to take. I need to get to Arizona if you’re going in that direction. I know this hot Senorita in Douglas and have some friends in Bisbee who’ll let me stay with them. What do you say? Can you help me out?”

  “I don’t think you’re going to want to ride with us. I’m not exactly sure who they are, but soldiers in black uniforms are on the roads. One of the vehicles had Homeland Security painted on it, but after what I saw, I have serious doubts that they’re the same Homeland Security that we know about. We’d be dead now if they had caught us.”

  “I saw the black uniforms—thought the dudes were army. Do you have GPS, or do I need to give you directions to my place?”

  No answer. He pushed too hard too soon. “I haven’t been around any sick people. Other than my leg, I’m fine. I know you don’t know me from Adam, but I need to get out of here. All I can offer is my word that the only thing I want from you is a ride. I don’t want any trouble. You sound like a smart dude so I know you’re armed. So am I. You really should be off the highway if you’re trying not to be seen. And I can feed you if you’re hungry. I’m Kevin, by the way.”

  * * *

  That morning, Kevin woke up in an empty cabin. His leg hurt like hell. No Mike, David, or Darrell. The note taped to a bottle of Sailor Jerry’s on the coffee table was not a good sign. He ripped it off and started reading.

  Kevin,

  After watching the news and seeing the soldiers in town, we decided to leave before things got worse. We took your car. Juan and Sebastian and the rest of the migrants left in the van before we could stop them. We’ll park your ride inside the storage facility in LA as soon as we can get back into the city.

  Dave fixed you up after you passed out. You’re lucky the bullet went clean through. The antibiotics we found in the medicine cabinet are still good. Take them. We left you plenty of bandages and ibuprofen. We know it’s not your thing, but there’s plenty of weed if the pain gets bad. None of us had anything stronger.

  Check the stash box—five thousand is your cut for the last job. The duffle bag in your bedroom has one pound of NAS Bud and four pounds of Baked Bud that you might be able to trade for a ride.

  The power went out, so I turned the generator on. There’s food in the fridge and a twelve pack in a cooler next to the couch. After we loaded the car, there was no room in the back for anything else.

  Sorry dude. Hope you understand.

  Mike

  Four days earlier, Kevin had driven his 1970 Plymouth Barracuda to Seattle for business. The black and red hot rod elicited stares everywhere he went, and he fed off the attention it brought.

  He pulled into the half-empty parking lot of an IHOP, crawled out of the driver’s side window, and made his way to the trunk. Three twenty-somethings stood five feet away from him. They looked from him to the Cuda. Then they looked back at him.

  “Is something wrong? Is my fly open or something?”

  “You’re not what we expected,” said a heavy-set hipster wearing a knit cap, a flannel shirt, and skinny jeans. His two wiry companions were dressed similarly. “You’re Kevin, right?”

  He nodded and checked his reflection in the rear window. It took him two years to get his look right. He was proud of it—the hair, the beard, the clothes, and even the walk. “Let’s get down to business.” He opened the trunk and pulled out two sealed boxes labeled with their contents and weight.

  One of the boxes ha
d High Alert printed above the label. “Here’s your five pounds of Bakersfield Bud at a hundred and twenty an ounce and two pounds of NAS Bud at one hundred and forty an ounce. You’ll be the only ones in Seattle with NAS Bud.”

  “Are you selling any Baked Bud to that new place—The Pot Shop?” asked the heavy-set knit cap.

  “Ha! I like that—Baked Bud. We gotta start using that. Why do you ask?”

  “We’d like to be the main supplier in the Seattle area using our three stores. I’ve been authorized to purchase three more pounds if you have it with you. We also want to put in an order for five more pounds of NAS Bud as soon as we can get it."

  From a third box, Kevin pulled out several vacuumed sealed Mylar packets. “Three pounds of Baked Bud. I’ll let my partners know about the NAS Bud.”

  One of the wiry knit caps handed him a large envelope. “Here’s your money, plus more to cover the three extra pounds. We’ll wait while you count it.”

  He threw the envelope into the trunk and closed it. “We’re good.”

  The following day, he headed south to Portland to make his final deliveries. He called his partners to let them know that sales were better than expected. David, the group’s expert, answered the phone. He held a Master of Science in horticulture, specializing in cross-pollination and cloning, and had developed both the Bakersfield Bud and NAS Bud varieties that were gaining popularity with their clients.

  “I told you—NAS Bud is hot. High Alert bought the two pounds I brought for Seattle so The Pot Shop wouldn’t have any. They want five more. And they doubled their Bakersfield Bud order.”

  “Don’t over sell it, man. Darrell said the soil won’t be ready until next season so we only have so much. You took all of the NAS Bud we had ready and sent out too many freebies.”

  The irritation in David’s voice was obvious, but he didn’t care. “That’s how it’s done, dude. High Alert had customers lined up wanting NAS Bud before I got to Seattle. Shit, they didn’t even haggle over the price.”

  “I’m just saying. We’re gonna be lucky if we get five more pounds of NAS Bud out of what’s ready to go in the field. Mike has two pounds packaged and ready to go, along with the California orders when you get back.”

  “Package up some extra Bakersfield Bud. I can sell it. They were calling it Baked Bud in Seattle. I think we should use that. It’s catchy.”

  “You’ll need to pick up another load if you want any extra. We sold everything that’s already been cleaned and packaged.”

  “Okay. I’ll do that tonight. Call Mike and let him know I’ll pick him up at the shack. I should get there around 3 a.m.”

  At 1:30 a.m., Kevin turned down the dirt road to the shack which was actually a small building where Darrell tested soil and Mike ran a crew of five migrant workers.

  Mike stepped out with one of the workers to greet him. “Hey, man. I heard you did an awesome job.”

  Kevin climbed out of the Cuda and handed Mike the envelope. “Yeah it was cool. They didn’t even blink at the price. I could have asked for more. Maybe they’ll up the price for us to keep their competition from being able to sell any of our products.”

  “If you’d asked me ten years ago that I’d be growing pot legally for medical marijuana, I would have said no fucking way,” Mike said.

  A small flash of light further up into the hills of the Sequoia National Forest caught Kevin’s attention. “What’s going on up there?”

  “Nothing that I know of. That land is fed protected. But Sebastian said they all saw a military truck go by earlier today. I thought they were being paranoid.”

  “How long is it going to take you to load up the Cuda?”

  “You’re early. We’re giving the harvest a quick clean so we can get more usable product back to the house. Maybe an hour or an hour and a half.”

  “I’m going to take a look up there. We don’t need an illegal operation going on near us. If we get caught up in a fed raid, we’re done. Technically, we’re only licensed for one workable acre. We might get in a little trouble.”

  “Dude, didn’t you tell Dave we were licensed for the second acre?”

  “The application is in. I bet we’re already approved. It’ll be cool. Anyway, I better head up there in case we have to cut down the extra acre.” He took out his binoculars to get a better look up the hill but couldn’t see anything. “Is there a free quad?”

  “Yeah. Mine. Take it but be careful.”

  After disconnecting the small trailer hooked to the back, Kevin took the quad out on the gravel road that led into the hills where he saw the lights. It was slow going. He wanted to turn on the headlamps but was already making enough noise to wake the dead driving on the gravel.

  After a few miles, he saw the lights just up ahead, over the crest of a hill. He got off the quad and trekked down on foot. When he got close enough to pick out individual voices, he stopped to listen. It didn’t sound like a grow operation. Visions of DEA agents and local sheriffs preparing for a raid raced through his head. He had to get out of there. After ten yards, he stopped again.

  If they were cops, they already knew who he was. The land was his—he signed for the permits. Why were they way up here if they weren’t going to raid their operation? Who were they?

  He crept around the perimeter but still couldn’t see much. They didn’t look or act like cops setting up for a raid. Creeping through the bushes next to the dirt road, he got his first glimpse of what was going on. The workers were right. The gear, the vehicles, and the interactions seemed like Army, but they wore black uniforms like SWAT. What the hell?

  A large truck whooshed past him and stopped fifty yards away. The soldiers off-loaded a large piece of equipment that looked like some kind of communication set up but more high-tech than he’d ever seen. Most of the soldiers worked in the dark without any lights.

  Not far behind them were several stacks of boxes and two large tents. Others worked on an array of antennas that looked like a miniature version of a HAARP array. He’d seen images of the real thing in documentary or some conspiracy show—he couldn’t remember which.

  The sound of rifle fire registered with him. He was up and running in the dark, plowing through bushes and running over rocks. He chose the most direct path to get back to quad. He could barely feel the ground or keep his balance as he clambered up the hill. In his mind’s eye, they were right behind him.

  He pushed himself to go faster and started to feel like he was in the clear until his left foot connected with a large rock. Landing on his stomach, his arms took the brunt of the fall. He didn’t mind the taste of dirt as much as the excruciating pain in his left leg. He thought it might be broken and touched the outside of his thigh. His jeans were wet and sticky. There was a hole in the denim and in his leg. The fuckers shot him!

  When he got back on his feet, he realized running was not going to be as easy as it was before. Every step was worse than the one before, and he could feel the blood trickling down his leg and pooling in his boot. He was in trouble—life and death trouble—and started to panic.

  Adrenaline pushed him up the hill until he reached the top. He could still run, but it was hard to see in the dark. He hit the quad so hard the impact knocked him onto his back. They were coming. He heard them between gasps of air. Shit! He pulled himself into the quad and smashed the accelerator to the floor and drove that way until he reached the shack.

  He hit the brakes, but the quad slid across the dirt and into the side of the shack. He tumbled out onto the dirt, hands red and blood soaked through his jeans.

  Mike ran outside. “What the fuck are you doing, dude? I’ve only had this quad for a couple of months. It’s practically brand—shit! Is that fucking blood? Did this just happen?”

  “We have to get the hell out of here! Now! They were behind me.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? The cops? We’re being raided?”

  “No, it’s not the cops. A fucking soldier shot me.”

 
“A soldier? You’re fucking shot? This is bad, man. They’re sending solders in to kill us and burn our weed. It’s just like what they do in South America. We gotta get the fuck out of here!”

  Two of the workers came out to see what was happening. Mike told them that soldiers were headed their way, but before Mike could help him off the ground, they were gone. With Mike’s assistance, he pulled himself through the window and into the passenger seat of the Cuda. Mike got behind the wheel.

  “Easy man, this is not your piece of shit van. She’s faster than you can imagine and stops on a fucking dime. Do everything gently.”

  Mike managed to get them home in one piece, barely. Kevin used his cell phone to call David and Darrell. They were both waiting to help when he and Mike arrived at the cabin.

  The pain was getting worse. They stripped off his bloody clothes, and David wrapped a clean t-shirt around both the entrance and exit wounds to staunch the bleeding. Darrell and Mike helped him into the bathtub as they debated what to do next.

  The bleeding started to taper off, but he felt dizzy and sick to his stomach as he laid back and closed his eyes.

  “We can’t take you to the hospital, dude. They call the cops on all bullet wounds. We’re going to have to clean you up ourselves. How’re you feeling?” Darrell asked.

  He gave him a half-assed smile. “Like shit.”

  Darrell held up the first aid kit, and Mike held up a bottle of vodka. David tightened a belt above the bullet hole to stop the bleeding. Before Mike could dump Vodka on the wound, Kevin asked for the bottle and drained a quarter of it before handing it back. Mike poured the remainder on the wound as Kevin gripped the sides of tub. His face felt clammy and cold as David started digging around in his leg. He jumped and fought for several seconds before he passed out from the pain.

  CHAPTER 9

  Cooper drove north past Bakersfield. Kevin, if that was his real name, said he would give him the final directions to his cabin when he got closer.