After dinner that evening, Blake and Dylan settled down to watch a movie while Leslie washed the dishes. Teresa had eaten with them at the dinner table that afternoon, which Leslie took as a sign that she was feeling a little better. After Leslie had her chores done, she went to the porch with a cup of coffee. It had been her ritual at her own home, to have a nice quiet cup after the dinner dishes were done. While she had access to coffee, power, and a nice back porch she would continue to enjoy the practice.
Teresa had gone to her room to rest. Leslie sat on the back porch and enjoyed the view of the dense green forest, soaking in the quiet of the mountains. She thought she heard an engine at one point, which struck her as unusual since there weren’t many vehicles moving. Still, there must be some. The Hardwicks had running cars and she assumed there would be others around too. It was a farming community and many of the people stored fuel at home for tractors, mowers, and ATVs. The way sound traveled in the mountains, unable to find a clear path of travel, made it difficult to pinpoint where sound originated from.
She assumed it was somebody passing on the road, on a four-wheeler, dirt bike, or maybe even a lawnmower. People had been seen riding all manner of vehicles on the road as the fuel supply dried up. A gallon of gas took you a lot farther in an ATV than in a car. Eventually, it became clear that the sound was getting louder. Whatever it was indeed getting closer. She stood and went to the porch railing, watching the gravel road that came toward the house.
She felt a pang of fear, of concern for the safety of the children and Teresa. She assumed the responsibility for this home as a favor but these were also people she cared about. She patted her back pocket and felt the reassuring heft of the revolver. She was afraid to leave it in the house anywhere, afraid that one of the children might get it, so it was safest to carry it in her pocket.
Soon a motorcycle came into view. It was a brightly-colored dirt bike with two riders, a man and woman, neither wearing a helmet. She reached for a pair of binoculars that sat in a window ledge. Raising them to her eyes, she let out a curse. It was her daughter on the back of the motorcycle driven by none other than that lowlife Paul.
Had they followed her? How had they figured out where she was? And what were they doing here? Nothing good could come of this.
Leslie pushed her way through the back door and into the living room. She turned off the movie the children were watching and they made sounds of protest.
“I need you two to go to Blake’s room,” Leslie said urgently. “I need you to play back there until I come get you.”
“Why?” Dylan asked. “We were watching something.”
“I said now,” she snapped.
Scared by her tone, the children ran to Blake’s room. Leslie wanted this over with before Teresa heard anything. The Hardwicks had promised her food and she didn’t want to blow that. She had promised them discretion and it was a promise she intended to keep. She stomped through the kitchen and out the back door. She stopped on the porch and watched the motorcycle park in the gravel driveway.
Her eyes landed on Paul and he grinned at her.
“So you are here,” he said. “I didn’t think the kid knew what he was talking about.”
Dylan, Leslie thought. All that whispering on the couch. His mother had plied him for the information. The thought made Leslie sick, that Debbie would use her son like that. She shouldn’t be surprised though. Debbie had failed to meet Leslie’s expectations over and over again. When had she ever exceeded them? When had she ever even met them? Yet another failure should not have been a surprise.
“You all can’t stay here. You’ve got to go. Now.”
Debbie wouldn’t meet her mother’s eye but Paul continued to smile at her.
“Now, that’s not a very hospitable attitude. You come around waving Debbie’s son in front of her and it made her miss him. She only wanted to stop in for a little visit with her boy. You can’t begrudge that.”
Leslie lost her temper and stomped off the porch. She approached the motorcycle and shoved the disgusting man. “Get out of here now!”
Paul lashed out with his fist before Leslie even had time to know it was coming. She had not expected the scrawny little druggie to have the strength or speed to get the jump on her. She had assumed that if he tried anything she could step back, draw her pistol, and finish things.
She couldn’t have been more wrong.
She fell to the ground, stunned and reeling. She tried to push herself into an upright position, tried to get back to her feet. Paul wasn’t having that. He jumped off the bike. It turned over behind him, taking Debbie down with it.
Paul lashed out with a kick and caught Leslie in the side of the head. She cried out, trying to block her face. Paul’s boot met her face, her ribs, and her stomach. He stomped her head and she lost consciousness. The last thing she saw was the dispassionate gaze of her daughter, not crying, not protesting, not intervening.
Chapter Four
Arthur Bridges’ Compound - Mountains of North Georgia
Grace jolted awake with a start, her hand fumbling for the reassurance of her Glock 19. So used to sleeping in her clothes and being at the ready, her hand first dropped to her hip, expecting to find the weapon in its holster. When she didn't find it there, she patted the bed around her and sat bolt upright. Seeing where she was, that she was safe, she took a deep breath and took in the room around her.
"It's okay," she whispered. "It's okay."
It was a strange room but Grace knew where she was. She was at Arthur Bridges’ compound. She was under the same roof as her dad for the first time in months. It was the best night of sleep she’d had since the world fell apart around her.
After reorienting herself she saw her familiar Glock sitting on the nightstand. With Arthur's extensive security measures and his full complement of guards, she had felt comfortable enough to sleep without her pistol on her side, although she kept it within reach. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and memories flooded back to her. All the things she had gone through—the terror attack, having to flee Oxford, and all the experiences on the road. A good night’s sleep could only push the world back so far. It would inevitably come crashing down on her like a truck load of bricks.
She’d never have made it this far without her dad and the measures he took. The storage locker he had left her, the supplies he provided, had made things easier, but the most valuable tools she had had were inside her. It was the things he had taught her from the moment she was a little girl. How to survive, how to be resourceful, and how to figure things out. Most importantly, how to be brave when you were scared inside.
On second thought, maybe she could have made it without the gear he left her, but she was glad she hadn’t been forced to find out.
She threw back the covers and got out of the bed sheets fully clothed. Her dad had brought her clean clothes but she'd been too tired to put them on. After dinner last night, after relaxing for the first time in a week, a wave of exhaustion swept over her and she'd been unable to stay awake any longer.
Across the room was the bag her dad brought her with the clean clothes and fresh gear. There was another bag beside it, one she hadn’t opened. It was fresh clothes for her friend Zoe. The sight of that bag made Grace sick. Zoe hadn’t made it. A man they’d encountered at Sonyea Brady's farm had killed her, and they had buried her on the farm. At some point, Grace expected she’d be relaying that news to Zoe’s parents. It would be the hardest thing she’d ever had to do in her life.
She put on her belt, slipped the paddle holster with the Glock into the waistband of her cargo pants, put on her ankle holster with the North American Arms .22 caliber mini revolver, then strapped on her knives. Armed up, she gathered all her gear and set it on the bed, making sure she had everything. She caught sight of a mirror and stopped to look at herself.
She was not the same girl that had undertaken this journey a week ago. All of the things that had happened to her, all of the things she experienced
, she now wore like a cloak. Her experiences sat on her skin like a layer of dust that could not be shaken off, like tattoos that told a story. The deaths, the killing, the horrors she had seen. A week ago she'd been going into class like any other student. Today, she stood here dressed like she was going into battle.
A week ago, her day was rigidly structured around a schedule of classes and work. Today there was no structure at all. She may have to fight, she may have to kill, she may even be killed or injured herself. She didn't know what she would face, but she was ready.
Whatever was coming her way, she was ready.
An unfamiliar sound drew her attention, heard and felt at the same time; a low rumble that became an enormous thwapping sound she recognized as chopper blades. Her heart clenched with fear. It was hard not to react to the unknown with a slight degree of paranoia after the thing she'd experienced. She shouldered her pack, gathered her other gear, and left the room.
She didn't see anybody in the house so she walked straight through to the front porch where she found her father and Arthur Bridges watching a chopper set down in the main yard of the compound. Grace had never seen anything like it before close up. It was some type of military-looking helicopter, black with no insignia and no markings.
"Friend of yours?" Robert asked, looking at Arthur.
Arthur didn't take his eyes off the chopper landing on his property. "A stockholder," he replied.
Grace knew from her father that Arthur operated his survival compound as a corporation. On the books it was a survival school with hundreds of mountaintop acres of deep forest. Arthur allowed various people who met his specialized criteria to maintain a presence on the property. They did so by buying stock in the company. By purchasing a certain amount of stock one might buy the privilege of placing a shipping container of survival gear on the property. For a larger stock purchase, a person could build a cabin or a small house on the property.
Everyone had been vetted by Arthur to assure they were of a like mindset. Arthur maintained majority stock ownership and control. He also reminded everyone that this was not a democracy. You were welcome to own stock and you were welcome at the compound based on your level of ownership, however, the final decision on any matter rested in Arthur's hands. He was the dictator here. His party, his rules.
“His name is Kevin Cole," Arthur said.
"Kevin Cole?" Robert repeated. "Doesn't ring a bell."
"He's a Beltway guy," Arthur said. "Former Special Ops. Runs a top-end security firm in DC now. They do a little of everything—executive protection, executive security training, family security training for Foreign Service families that are preparing to be sent overseas, stuff like that. He even does executive recovery if you have a kidnapped businessperson in a foreign country."
Robert nodded. "That's an interesting resume."
"He's an interesting guy," Arthur said. "We met at a trade show years ago. We know a few people in common. He heard about my school here and wanted in."
Arthur often referred to the compound as a school because it sounded less threatening to anyone unfamiliar with the place. Prior to moving to this compound, Arthur had also done a lot of work within the DC Beltway. Generally, to identify someone in the DC area as a private contractor implied that they were paid by the government to so some particular kind of work, either on or off the books.
Arthur really had been a contractor though – a building contractor. His specialty was building secure residential vaults. Whether your vault was intended to be a safe room for your family, for gun storage, or for secure document storage, Arthur was the guy. He made a lot of money in the paranoid DC community as a contractor for the person with a very specific set of needs and requiring the utmost discretion.
He worked for the ultra-rich and the ultra-paranoid, for people with top-level security clearances. Because a lot of these folks maintained secure documents in their home for work, construction of the vault was often paid for by the government. Those contracts were extremely lucrative.
"He still lived in the DC area?" Robert asked.
Arthur nodded. "Yes, but this was always his bug out plan. He has a cabin here. He’s an old country boy from Tennessee originally."
"And he obviously has the resources to procure special helicopters for private jaunts," Robert quipped.
“Obviously.”
After the helicopter had settled onto the ground, the pilot cut the engine. Arthur pulled a radio from his belt and thumbed the mic switch. "Joe, can you bring an ATV and a trailer to the landing pad, please? We have an arrival." Arthur released the mic button but kept the radio raised, listening for response
"Roger that," came the reply.
The engines wound down and the rotors slowed. A door popped open and a man emerged. He wore a battered ball cap and aviator shades, tan cargo pants and a white T-shirt, over top of which he had a load-bearing vest covered in magazine pouches and other gear. He wore a drop-leg holster with a pistol, an AK-47 hanging casually at his side. He scanned his surroundings, and when he spotted the group on the porch he recognized Arthur and threw up a hand in greeting.
Arthur waved back. "Let's go meet the new guest."
Chapter Five
Arthur Bridges’ Compound
There were plenty of hands available to help offload the chopper. In about twenty minutes they had a stack of hard plastic Pelican cases, military duffel bags, soft-sided canvas luggage, and various hard storage totes. Grace recognized several of the Pelican cases as being rifle cases or multi-pistol cases, but others were unfamiliar to her. They could have contained anything from a high-end thermal scope to spare underwear.
Arthur had introduced Grace and Robert to Kevin Cole as friends of ours. Arthur employed a trick of the Mafia in his introduction, a technique familiar to all in his circle. If you introduced someone as a friend of mine, it implied that they were not part of the circle. If you introduced someone as a friend of ours, it meant they were in the circle. Robert and Grace were introduced as friends of ours. To be part of that particular circle meant they had a preparedness mindset. They were switched on as the expression went.
When Kevin asked if they lived at the property, Robert told him they were only visiting.
After two trips in a side-by-side ATV with a trailer, all of Kevin's gear was stashed at his cabin. Arthur invited him to join Robert, Grace, and himself on the porch for a cup of coffee and a debriefing. Arthur wanted to hear about his trip and Robert was anxious to hear any news from the rest of the country. He assumed that anyone coming from the DC area certainly had more information on the state of the nation than folks isolated in the recesses of the Appalachian Mountains.
Soon they were gathered on Arthur's porch sitting in plastic chairs. The pilot joined them on the porch also. He was dressed similar to Kevin in tactical clothing. He was also wearing a tactical vest with a pistol mounted in a cross-draw holster.
"This is Chuck," Kevin said, introducing the pilot. His slight hesitation at the name led Grace to believe that it was not the pilot's real name.
She understood why real names might not be used. A trip like the one Kevin had just undertaken could not possibly be a sanctioned use of such an expensive helicopter. It had to be an off-the-books trip, a plugged-in individual taking advantage of his connections.
Chuck nodded a greeting to everyone. Arthur pointed him and Kevin in the direction of the kitchen. They went and grabbed a bite of cold breakfast, both men returning with ham and sausage biscuits. It was the kind of food a lot of people might have turned their nose up at a month ago, but now a cold biscuit was a hell of a lot better than no biscuit.
"Do you mind me asking what's going on in DC?" Robert asked.
"Pure craziness," Kevin said. "People are going absolutely bonkers. Everyone is even more paranoid than they were a month ago, and that’s saying a lot. Top government officials have been dispatched to command bunkers. That's left all the middle echelon people fighting over what's left. There are a lot of
turf issues going on as you can imagine. It's hard to get answers to questions with the command chain so broken. People are doing what they want, despite whose toes they might be stepping on."
Arthur was shaking his head. “I can only imagine," he said. "Like a bunch of damn vipers crawling all over each other."
"We’re not hearing anything down this way," Robert said. "Nothing. Everything we get is second or third hand, most of it coming from ham operators passing on gossip or rumors."
"The Beltway is like Beirut right now," Kevin said. "The infrastructure has fallen there just as it has in other places. The majority of folks don't have any resources, so they're beginning to turn on each other. You don't have a lot of prepper-types up there, and what preppers you do have are afraid to go out of the house now. A lot of them feel like they stayed on too long and now it's not even safe to leave the city. Those with any work connection to the military or inner circles of the government have moved into their offices. Any place that can offer any security, and that might have a few cases of water and MREs."
"That's awful," Grace said.
Kevin nodded. "It is awful. There are some people, like me, who had a plan and had the resources to put their plan into action. That's why I'm here. I know I'm not the only one bugging out, either—choppers are shuttling in and out of the city like Uber cars when the bars close."
"That leaves a lot of folks trapped in the city,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “That’s an awful way to die."
"It's part of the deal in working inside the Beltway," Kevin said. "It’s like selling your soul. If you work in that city you understand that the emergency planning is only for the upper echelon. If you truly understand the risk of living and working there, then you better have your own safety plan and it better be a darn good one."
Grace Under Fire Page 3