Bunker: Boxed Set (Books 4 and 5)

by Jay J. Falconer

Dustin’s voice cracked when he spoke. “Albert, maybe we should do what the man says.”

  Albert held up a hand to shut Dustin up, never taking his eyes from Bunker. “Why don’t you get Dicky and that Buckley kid to do it? They look like a couple of eager beavers. Dustin and I are taking a break. Been a long day, if you know what I mean.”

  Bunker looked at Dustin, then back at Albert. “Now, I’ve asked you nicely. More than once.”

  Albert wasn’t worried. “Like I care. You really need to get over yourself, dude.”

  “Albert? Come on. Let’s just do this,” Dustin said.

  Albert grinned, feeling emboldened. He wasn’t sure why, but something inside was driving him to confront this man. It felt primal, almost as if he was being compelled to expose the man’s temper.

  “At this point, Bunker, it’s all about mind over matter. Right now, I don’t mind and you don’t matter. So run along now and go impose your will on someone else. Dustin and I are busy.”

  Bunker flew forward, grabbing Albert by the shirt collar. His powerful arms swung Albert around and pushed him back a good ten feet, until something hard smacked into his back.

  Albert put his hands up. “So now what? You gonna hit me?”

  “Thinking about it.”

  “Well then, take your best shot. But I should warn you, you might just regret it.”

  Dustin voice was more agitated now. “Albert, please. Let’s just go outside. It’s not a big deal, really.”

  Bunker shook his head in disgust, his deadpan eyes burning a hole into Albert’s face. “You know what, Albert? I’ve decided that I don’t like you. Or your attitude.”

  “The feeling’s mutual, bub. Now let go of me and back the fuck up.”

  Burt walked into the barn with a partially eaten apple in his hand, his teeth in chew mode. “Well, well. What do we have here?”

  Dustin ran to Burt. “You gotta do something. Bunker’s gonna kill him.”

  Burt chuckled. “Let me guess, jumbo opened his big mouth again.”

  “You could say that,” Bunker answered, his eyes still locked on Albert. His grip tightened, lifting Albert to his toes.

  Burt stopped his approach, then leaned against a crate with his elbow on top. He crossed his feet, his teeth tearing into the fruit for another crisp bite. “Go on boys, don’t let me interrupt,” he said with his mouth full.

  “So what’s it gonna be?” Bunker said, his words warming Albert’s cheeks.

  Dustin ran back to Bunker. “I’ll dig the graves,” he said, his tone frantic. “Just let Albert go. We’re all friends here.”

  Albert took a deep breath, keeping his fear in check. Something in Bunker’s eyes wasn’t legit. He could sense it. The man wasn’t going to turn physical. “See there, now we have a real solution. One that didn’t involve me bowing to your one-sided demands.”

  Bunker paused for a few moments, then let go of Albert’s shirt. He backed away a second before Rusty and Dicky came into the barn.

  “Seriously? That’s it? Well, that wasn’t worth the price of admission,” Burt said, turning and walking toward the exit.

  Sheriff Apollo appeared at the door, meeting Burt just beyond the doorway. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing, unfortunately,” Burt said, stopping for a moment to relay the answer as the Sheriff cruised past him.

  Albert waited for the Sheriff to arrive, then motioned at Bunker. “Your guard dog here just physically assaulted me.”

  “Why?”

  Albert huffed, making sure his tone drove the point home. “Because I told him no and he didn’t like it.”

  “Maybe you should do what Jack says. I did put him charge for a reason.”

  Albert turned to Apollo, eyes squinting. “So you’re going to go with him over your own deputy?”

  “Thanks for reminding me,” Apollo said, his hand snatching the star from Albert’s chest. He did the same with Dustin’s badge. “Been meaning to repo these for a while now.”

  “So that’s it? We’re fired?” Albert snapped.

  “I warned you up front. This duty was only temporary.”

  “See, I told you this would happen, Albert,” Dustin said after the Sheriff walked away.

  “Yeah, it sucks. So what?” Albert said, flipping his head to the side when he spoke.

  An instant later, Bunker took a step forward. He leaned in close, his heated breath filling Albert’s nostrils. “Like I said before, we all need to pull together. No exceptions. So I’d suggest that both of you embrace the suck and get those graves done before you and I have another problem. Am I clear?”

  “Crystal,” Dustin said, tugging at Albert’s arm. “We’ll get it done.”

  Albert didn’t respond. Nor did he move, tearing Dustin’s fingers from his arm.

  Bunker turned and followed the Sheriff’s path out of the barn. Rusty and Dicky followed him.

  Bunker’s odd choice of words about embracing the suck echoed in Albert’s mind. He was certain he’d heard that phrase before. Even the tone of the man’s voice rang true, anger and all.

  It took a few more seconds before a visual appeared in his mind, linking Bunker’s face to a name from his past. “That’s it! That’s where I know him from!”

  Dustin’s eyes lit up. “Where?”

  “From LA. The Kindred biker gang. Bunch of skin heads.”

  “The Kindred, huh? I’m pretty sure I’ve heard of those guys.”

  “The entire West Coast has, unless you’re living under a rock,” Albert said, letting the memory play out in his mind. “I told you I recognized him. Though I never knew the man had hair.”

  “I can’t imagine him bald.”

  “Oh, he was. Completely. Like the others. I know it was their trademark, but still. It completely changes his look.”

  “Those nasty scars on his neck are pretty noticeable. I’m surprised it took you so long to place him.”

  “He didn’t have them the last time I saw him.”

  “Must be burn scars. I wonder what happened?”

  “He didn’t like the ink, that’s what happened. Swastikas don’t exactly get you the red-carpet treatment. Not unless you’re running in the proper circles. And I’m not talking about with Wall Street types, either.”

  “He must have really wanted them off to put himself through that.”

  “Or someone did it to him.”

  “You mean, like against his will?”

  “Yep.”

  “I can’t even imagine what that felt like.”

  “Oh, and by the way, his name wasn’t Bunker back then either. It was Bulldog.”

  “Was he a slinger?”

  “Nah. Just muscle. Damn good at it from what I heard. The man had a seriously nice hog and one of the hottest girlfriends on the planet. Can’t remember her name though, but she could stop traffic. We’re talking USDA Prime Choice. Fake tits and all.”

  “Figures.”

  “If I remember right, he used to ride with a mouth-breather named Grinder. If those two apes showed up for a collection, someone was going down. Big time.”

  “What the hell is he doing here?”

  “The only thing I can think of is he went rogue. Otherwise, I can’t see him running without his colors, or his bike.”

  “Or the girl.”

  “Her, too. Must have had to change his name and appearance when he left.”

  “I’m sure he had to.”

  Albert nodded. “Because once you’re in the brotherhood, it’s damn near impossible to get out. They’ll bury you first.”

  “You think he recognizes you?”

  Albert shrugged, pondering the ramifications if Bunker had. “I never spent a lot of time with him one on one. He might remember my street name as Tin Man, but not my face.”

  “Tin Man?”

  “Yeah, the legendary meth cook without a heart.”

  “That fits, I guess.”

  “He was always busy providing perimeter security when my crew met
with his boss, Connor Watts. Now that guy had a seriously bad temper. It seemed like every time we had an encounter with Watts, it almost ended in a shootout. Talk about stressful.”

  “Now I see why you want Burt involved.”

  Albert patted Dustin on the back. “I’m glad you agree, because you can never be too paranoid in this business. When you step balls-deep into that world, muscle and guns are the only things that keep guys like us safe.”

  “It’s too bad you just pissed him off. Otherwise, he might have wanted to join our little business. If I had to choose, I’d take Bunker over Burt.”

  Dustin was right on both counts, but Albert wasn’t going to admit it. There wasn’t any point. “Nah, I doubt it. He’s obviously not the same man. Something’s changed.”

  As it stood now, their future business prospects looked bleak with the Russians moving in. Access to the demand in town had been cut off, and transportation of the drugs to other cities and states would be difficult with checkpoints and roving patrols everywhere.

  However, there was one alternative. If he could figure out a way to sell the crystals to the occupying force, then he could trade one set of addicts for another. It would also make him useful in the eyes of the Russians. And necessary. Both would keep him alive.

  Albert had read somewhere that young, inexperienced troops are beyond anxious when in-country and living under the ever-present threat of snipers, IEDs, ambushes, and uprisings.

  The unending pressure of being one of the hated occupiers takes its toll, resulting in drugs, alcohol, and women being a constant problem for their commanders. Especially since some of those same troublemakers were down on their luck outcasts, signing up to escape their past.

  Our lives on this rock are a collective sum of our decisions over time, some good, others not. Those with weak moral fiber are doomed to repeat themselves, their relentless black cloud following them into service.

  Let’s face it, everyone needs a diversion from their own flawed existence now and then, usually when the pressure gets to be too much. That’s how Albert made his living, tapping into that primal need to escape.

  Sure, the article he’d read was focused on US troops overseas, but there was a chance it applied to the mighty Russian Army as well.

  It’s just human nature, he thought to himself.

  Maybe his plans for Clearwater Red weren’t dead after all.

  CHAPTER 8

  Several hours later . . .

  Allison Rainey put a fresh towel on the floor in front of the fridge in her mother’s kitchen. The defrost cycle had begun in earnest shortly after the customized backup generator Tuttle had sold her mom ran out of fuel.

  Allison was certain the crotchety old fart had jacked up the price when Martha bought it from him the year prior, but the machine survived the EMP just like Tuttle claimed it would.

  Yet the generator couldn’t overcome the lack of fuel, despite its enhanced capabilities. That may have been the reason why Tuttle decided to sell his only generator—a move some might find strange. Then again, Tuttle was the pinnacle of strange.

  At least the drip had slowed considerably since it first started, though the leak was still active, mocking her as if to say it was never going to stop. Only two dry rags remained in the laundry cabinet. Hopefully they’d be enough.

  She turned her focus to the remaining dishes in the sink, resuming her casual hum to cover up what she was feeling inside. The impromptu funeral for Cowie and Franklin Atwater was finally over, and nobody was more relieved than she was.

  Allison didn’t know either of them well, but most of those in attendance did. Mainly Megan and Misty, their grief on full display, filling Allison’s eyes with tears.

  You don’t have to be close with the deceased to be affected by their loved ones’ anguish. It’s natural to be sucked into the torment of a loss like that—unless of course, you had a heart of stone.

  The new guy, Bunker, seemed to have that trait, his jaw stiff and shoulders broad. The man was a rock during the service, never leaving Megan’s side the entire time.

  Megan had held up fairly well during the emotional burial, but Misty was another story. The woman was a total wreck, kneeling before the grave of her dead fiancé, bawling her eyes out for what seemed like an hour. It was a tough scene to witness. For everyone.

  Often times watching someone else’s pain is worse than dealing with your own. Even the strongest person can break down when they see misery consuming someone they know, especially in the eyes of little ones.

  The compassionate Sheriff eventually had no choice but to carry Misty across the road from Tuttle’s, then haul her upstairs to Martha’s bedroom. Misty fell asleep quickly, thank God, buried under a mound of covers and Kleenex.

  The dishwater in the sink was no longer clean but the soap bubbles stood strong, caressing Allison’s hands. The scrub rag in her hand was as dirty as the water, both symbolic of the world around them. The coldness of death had soiled a once-beautiful countryside, its relentless hunt for prey ongoing. The citizens of Clearwater were the primary targets, some more than others.

  Everything was normal a few days ago, and now this—chaos and death swirling outside. However, just like her need for more water from the riser spigot outside, more funerals would be needed to cleanse the heartbreak she feared was headed to the town of Clearwater. In droves.

  Megan appeared stable on the outside, but Allison could sense the child’s pain. It was obvious: the girl’s lingering stares at nothing. But that wasn’t the only indicator. Megan’s delay when answering questions was another clue. So were her occasional, random sniffs.

  Megan was trying to show strength, but Allison knew it was only a matter of time before the child broke down, again.

  Whenever it arrived, she prayed someone was there for her. Bunker or otherwise, it didn’t matter. Megan would need a shoulder to cry on from one of the adults.

  Allison might need a good cry herself, assuming the men failed in their duties to secure the area, or failed to run power from Tuttle’s solar array to her mother’s house, as they promised. Otherwise, the well pump would forever be useless, leaving her to fetch water the old-fashioned way.

  When you’ve been spoiled by indoor plumbing all your life, it’s difficult to go without. The same could be said for overhead lights and hot water. Oh, and a working fridge. All of it essential to feeling human.

  She shook her head while her humming continued. What she wouldn’t give for a hot soak in the tub right about now. Maybe a few scented candles, too, plus some classical music and a tall glass of Cabernet Sauvignon.

  “Heaven in a ten-by-ten room,” she mumbled.

  “Thanks for the P, B and J, Mrs. Rainey,” Megan said after Allison put another dish in the plastic tray on the counter. “It was good.”

  “Did you get enough, sweetheart?” she asked, wondering how long the ebony darling would hold it together.

  “Yeah. But I’m not sure your son liked it very much. Or the new boy, Dallas.”

  Allison knew it couldn’t have been easy for Megan when Dicky and Burt lowered the body of her father into the shallow grave behind Tuttle’s barn. That type of finality really hit home, reminding Allison of her own father’s funeral.

  It was a little over six years ago—the entire congregation standing as one outside of the church. Once the coffin was in the hearse and it pulled away, a collective cry erupted. Watching the vehicle slowly make its way around the parking lot to the street was one of the hardest moments in her life. It was the end of her father, his remains heading down the street for cremation.

  Allison broke out of her daydream and whirled around, realizing she hadn’t heard the boys in the last few minutes. The two hellions were no longer in the kitchen, their chairs empty and pushed back at an angle from the table.

  Their porcelain plates held partially eaten sandwiches, the peanut butter leaking out and mixing with the grape jelly in long smears. They must have snuck out while she was humming
. She never heard a sound.

  “Where’d they go?” she asked Megan, the girl’s knee brace holding her leg straight along the side of the chair.

  “I think they went to help Jeffrey get some eggs.”

  Allison smirked. “Oh, really now.”

  Her son Victor was many things, but he wasn’t anything close to being helpful. Not unless he was getting paid to do so, like the last time he donned an apron and slung hash browns with her on the wood-fired grill in front of Billy Jack’s Café.

  It was the very same morning when Apollo snuck a twenty-dollar bill into her tip jar after the power went out. She had planned to return the money to the kindly Sheriff, but it was her only tip of the day. Everyone else seemed content to skip that part of the process, leaving her short on cash to pay for the ride home by the smelly mechanic, Burt.

  Deputy Daisy walked into the kitchen with Allison’s mother, Martha. Neither of them appeared gloomy or depressed, acting as if the dual funeral hadn’t just happened—or a last-second shot by Bunker hadn’t killed three masked men.

  Allison figured the women were putting on a strong front for Megan. That, too, was human nature after a funeral, everyone preferring to move on and not dwell on the pain. No matter how traumatic the deaths, friends and family always rally around those suffering the most.

  “What’s wrong, Ally?” Mom asked, obviously sensing her frustration.

  Allison didn’t want Martha to sense her grief, so she wiped the concern from her face in an instant. She pointed at the table to change their focus. “The boys.”

  “I wondered how long they’d actually sit still. Looks like they hardly touched their food.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Boys will be boys.”

  Daisy stood next to Allison in front of the wet dishes. “Can I help?”

  Allison gave her a dishtowel to start drying. “Those two better not have gone far, or I’ll have their heads.”

  “I’m sure they haven’t,” Daisy said, her tone confident and to the point. “Probably out helping Bunker and my boss.”

  “You know, just once it would be nice if a member of the male species did what they were supposed to do. That’s all I ask. Just once. Is that so hard?”