by Chris Pike
Well, shit.
Holly looked at him for a thoughtful second. “If you had asked me a week ago, I would have said winning a case makes me happy. Shopping at Nordstrom’s or eating lunch at a nice restaurant would have made me happy. Now? After all that’s happened, I don’t know. Maybe I'd be on my ranch with my husband and kids. We’d have a couple of dogs. It would be a working ranch with cows, and maybe some crops. I’d get involved with the county rodeo. Maybe even tinker in breeding. There’s money in that.
“I’d grow a garden and have fruit and nut trees. I’d live a simpler life, away from the big city, and the noise and the pollution. Maybe the EMP is what I needed to kick me in the butt so that I could reassess my life. As of now, I’m not sure when and if this EMP problem ever goes away that I’d move back to the city.”
“You and I are in agreement on that.”
“How so?” Holly asked.
“Amy and I had decided to move out of Houston to someplace where we would have purchased a tract of land.”
“You still could.”
“I suppose so,” Dillon said. “The dream life wouldn’t be the same without someone to share it with.”
“It wouldn’t.”
The personal revelations and amount they had in common made Dillon feel uncomfortable now. He was getting to know Holly more than he anticipated. He had planned to get her to her ranch, make sure she had something to eat, was safe, then the next day he’d be on his way, probably never seeing her again. He hadn’t planned on caring.
“Getting back to the problem at hand. What exactly does Hector do?”
“Looks after the house. Makes repairs, paints, mows the grass, looks after the livestock. There isn’t much livestock left, only a few cows and the horses. Maybe some chickens if the bobcats haven’t gotten them all.”
“Egg layers?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll make you scrambled eggs for breakfast tomorrow. I could use a hot meal.”
“You’re a man of many talents.”
“I have many talents you don’t know about,” Dillon said with a wink.
Holly smiled demurely.
“Got any goats?”
“No. Why?”
“Fresh cabrito makes a fine meal.”
Holly laughed. “In that case, I wish we did have some!”
“It’s good to hear you laugh,” Dillon said.
When he met her eyes, Dillon thought he saw a flickering of something he didn’t know the venerable Holly Hudson was capable of. Maybe it was admiration for a fellow colleague even if they had been on the opposite sides of the courtroom. Maybe it was the fact she was tired and her reflexes were sluggish. Whatever it was, he was starting to like it.
He quickly cleaned the makeshift camp, making sure they didn’t leave any trash behind. While he worked he ate another granola bar, along with a can of sardines which packed a good punch of protein. He washed his breakfast down with half bottle of water. Buster had already eaten his morning share and done his business, which Dillon covered with dirt and branches.
Holly had already packed and was straddling the bike. “I’m ready to go when you are.”
Several hours later after a silent bike ride on blacktop roads, they turned onto a caliche road heading to the entrance of Holly’s ranch. It was a good thing Dillon hadn’t tried to find this by himself because it was definitely off the beaten path. A half hour of peddling on the bumpy road left the ragged crew of three covered with a thin layer of white dust. It stuck to their arms, hair, backpacks, clogged their nostrils, and when Dillon checked on Buster, he was suffering too.
Coming to the entrance, Dillon stopped and took out a bowl from his pack, poured water in it, and gave it to Buster. After his thirst was satiated, Buster found a soft spot in the weeds and sat down on his haunches, panting. Their two day bike ride had finally come to an end.
It was noon and the sun shone in the brilliant October sky. A lone buzzard floated on a silent updraft, while a breath of wind rustled the trees.
Dillon took a sip of water and let his eyes roam over the property. Several types of oaks, towering pines, and uncleared brush lined each side of the winding caliche road leading to Holly’s house, which was partially hidden by the thick canopy of trees.
Without the steady hum of spinning tires upon rock, it was quiet. Only the sounds of the country filled the air. The chirping of a field sparrow broke the silence, followed by more. A flock of redwing blackbirds flew overhead. A breath of wind rustled the tall grass.
“It looks like Hector has been falling down on the job judging from how high the grass is,” Dillon said.
“Maybe the mower isn’t working,” Holly replied.
Dillon and Holly had stopped at the metal gate where a chain with thick links was looped through the gate. It was secured with a heavy lock.
“You always lock the place, even way out here?” Dillon asked.
Holly rubbed her eyes and splashed water on her face. “It shouldn’t be locked because it’s too much trouble to unlock it every time. It only looks locked. Thieves are opportunists and if they see a lock while driving by, they don’t bother.”
“Makes sense,” Dillon said. “I’ll do the honors and open it. I don’t want you to hurt your arm any more than it already is.”
“My arm is bothering me,” Holly acknowledged. She gingerly touched the bandage covering her arm.
“I’ll take a look at that when we get inside.” When Holly was about to protest, Dillon cut her off, his tone firm. “It’s not a question this time. I need to look at it.”
“If you insist.”
Dillon dropped his bike’s kickstand then made sure his bike was stationary. He went to the gate and bent over to undo the chain. “This is odd,” he said.
“What is?” Holly asked.
“I thought you said the gate wasn’t locked.”
“It shouldn’t be. Hector never locks the gate. Let me try it.” Going over to the gate, she tugged on the lock using her good arm.
“What’dya know. It is locked. That’s really strange.” Holly tried to straighten her injured arm and when she did she let out a grunt of pain.
“I’ll do that,” Dillon said. “What’s the combo?”
“1600. As in 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. It’s hard to forget. Can you imagine what Washington must be like now?”
“They never get anything useful done anyway,” Dillon said. “Good riddance to all of them.”
Holly was taken aback by that. “We still need government.”
Dillon patted his AK slung over his shoulder. “This is all the government I need.”
“Oh really? You some kind of anti-government guy?”
“I’m a practical guy. Government has nothing to do with it. Like I told you,” he said pointedly, moving closer to her, crossing that personal threshold again, and taking ownership of a small bit of it, “we’re on our own. Seen any government vehicles? Police cars? Or anybody in uniform for that matter?”
Holly, acutely aware of how close he was, held her ground, and said nothing.
“They are helping their families. I’m the only one going to be able to help mine.”
Dillon fiddled with the dial until the shackle popped open. Unwrapping the chain, he pushed open the gate only wide enough for them to squeeze through, not wanting to call attention any more than he had to. He motioned for Holly to go through and as she was about to peddle in, Buster popped in front of her. He loped through in three long strides, sniffing the ground as he went.
“I guess your dog doesn’t know about ladies first.”
“He only speaks dog,” Dillon said, still holding open the gate, “and a few words of English, especially when it comes to food.”
A smile broke across Holly’s face.
When Buster crossed over onto Holly’s land, he stopped and lowered his head, letting his eyes roam over the countryside. A strange scent caught his attention. The ruff on his back prickled and he growled low
in his throat.
“What’s wrong with Buster?” Holly asked. She was straddling her bike with her feet planted on the hard-packed caliche.
“I’m not sure. I’ve never seen him like this.” Dillon went over to his dog. “Buster, you okay, boy?”
Dillon reached down to comfort his dog, and without warning or indication, a bullet whizzed by Dillon a fraction of a second after his brain registered the crack of a rifle shot. The bullet slammed into the tree behind him. Splinters of bark flew like missiles in every direction, and before Dillon could process what had happened, another bullet struck the dirt in front of him.
Chapter 24
“Get down!” Dillon shouted. “Get off your bike!” He fell into the tall grass and belly-crawled to a tree.
Buster took off running into the brush.
Holly scrambled off her bike, letting it fall down. She clambered into the culvert and pressed her body into the grass and weeds.
“Buster. Buster! Come back here!” Holly yelled. She poked her head above the culvert.
“Keep your head down and stay quiet!” Dillon ordered.
She shot him a terrified look then melted into the grass. Her thumping heart beat at breakneck speed. She was yards from any real cover, and lying in the culvert without any real protection made her feel vulnerable. Holly Hudson didn’t like being a sitting duck.
Breathless, she said, “I don’t want to stay here. There’s no protection.”
“Stay there.”
“No. I’m coming to where you are.”
“Damn it, stay there!”
“I’m coming.”
“Shit.” Holly popped her head above the grass line. “For God’s sake get on your stomach, and don’t raise your head again. And take your backpack off!” Dillon craned his neck trying to find her. “I think you can wiggle under the barbed wire fence. Use your elbows and toes to come over here. Stay to the natural contours of the ground and keep your butt down. Wouldn’t want that nice ass of yours to get shot.”
Several bullets whizzed by and smacked into the surrounding trees, splintering the bark.
Kneeling behind the tree, Dillon flinched and waited.
The sound was different than the first volley, lighter, probably a smaller caliber rifle. Dillon speculated there was only one shooter who was changing his weapons trying to fool them into thinking there were two shooters or worse, panic them, hoping they’d run out in the open.
Staying close to the ground, Holly wiggled over to Dillon. Fortunately, they had taken cover behind a centuries old oak tree with a trunk circumference large enough to hide two full grown men.
“Don’t you think you need to return fire?” Holly asked.
“Not now. They don’t know we are armed, and I want to keep it that way. Besides, we need to always conserve ammo. I doubt any guns shops will be open in town.”
Dillon took off his backpack and dug around in it, searching for his Les Baer 1911 Thunder Ranch Special 45 ACP. The 1911 hailed as one of the most successful pistol designs of the 20th century, being fielded in both World Wars. Weighing in at 2.4 pounds sans the 8 round magazine, the 3.5 pound trigger pull combined with excellent sights made this a gun that could turn even a novice into a force to be reckoned with.
Dillon considered the Thunder Ranch Special to be the scalpel of pistols while the Glock was more like a reliable machete. Dillon could make excellent hits at 50 yards with the Glock, but the Thunder Ranch Special could do the same at 100 yards. In situations where accuracy was paramount and the environment lacked desert sand, he would normally choose the Thunder Ranch Special for himself.
The Glock was still Dillon’s first pick when he did not know the environment in which he would be operating. Clean or dirty, he knew without doubt that the Glock would still bark when he called on it.
“Here, take this,” Dillon said. “You right handed?”
Holly nodded.
He placed the large steel pistol into Holly’s right hand. “You’ll need this to protect yourself. You know how to use this?”
“I don’t like guns.”
“Perfect.” Dillon’s tone couldn’t have been any more sarcastic. “It’s one of the most reliable guns I have, and now’s not the time to get in a debate about guns,” he said gruffly. “First rule: Don’t point it at anything you don’t want to kill. Got that?”
Holly didn’t answer.
“Got it?” His tone was gruffer.
“Yes.”
“I’m going to give you a quick lesson in how to handle guns, so listen closely. Since you’ve got small hands, hold it tight like your life depends on it. A limp wrist hold could cause it to jam. Hold it in your right hand like you’re trying to impress a big burly client with a firm handshake. Wrap your left hand around the grip until skin is touching all sides of the grip. Push the safety down with your right thumb. Keep your trigger finger straight until you’re on target and ready to pull the trigger.”
When Dillon took her left hand, she winced in pain at the rough movement. He positioned her hands around the 1911 to his satisfaction, glad that she wasn’t fighting him.
“How’s that arm holding up?”
“Good enough.”
“Since this kicks like a mother, you’ll need to lock your wrists when shooting. You’ll be able to absorb the recoil better that way since you’re not muscled up. If you have to shoot, your adrenaline will probably kick in and you probably won’t even feel your hurt arm. Here are a few extra loaded magazines. Keep them ready in your back pocket.”
She took the magazines, stuffed them in her pocket, and defiantly looked him straight in the eyes. “I’m stronger than I look.”
Holly let out a long breath she had been holding and sat back, Indian-style with her legs crisscrossed. Dillon was on one knee, the AK at an angle. Using the tree as cover, he checked the surrounding countryside for an escape route. While they had good cover, there wasn’t another viable tree in the near vicinity to completely hide them. There was a straight line of sight from the house to the tree, and too much brush had been cleared. The small oaks and pines that dotted the land were useless to them.
They were trapped. On the other hand, the shooter might be trapped also.
“What’s behind the house?” Dillon asked.
“A garden.”
“Any fruit trees?”
“A peach tree, but it’s not very big. There’s a pump house about fifty yards away.”
Dillon thought about that for a moment. The shooter might be able to make a run for it, out the back door, and they’d never know who it was. As long as it was light, they couldn’t move.
“Any idea who might be in the house? Anyone who wanted your property?” Dillon asked. While he talked he checked each magazine making sure they were fully loaded.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Maybe who?”
“I don’t know. I hate to badmouth anyone.”
“Holly!” Dillon said in a low voice, his jaw tight. “We’ve got someone trying to kill us. Who could be in the house?”
“There’s a jerk who owns neighboring property.” Holly motioned with her head. “Clyde Higgins, on the other side of the fence line. Ever since he started a brush fire that almost burned down my parents’ house, my parents and him didn’t get along.”
“How’d the fire start?”
“He was stupid enough to burn brush on a windy day in November. The land was dry and the fire got out of control really quickly and it came to within yards of our house. Thankfully, a fire truck got here in time to put out the fire. To top it off, he offered to buy the land after my parents died, even had the gall to draft a contract and give it to me during their funeral.”
“He sure didn’t waste any time, did he?”
“No, he didn’t,” Holly said.
“Does he have any military training?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Married or kids?”
“Wife left him a few years ago. He�
�s got grown kids but I’ve never met them. What are you going to do?”
“Make whoever it is in the house leave.”
Chapter 25
While Dillon was formulating a plan, what sounded like a slamming screen door got his attention. He tapped Holly on the leg and put his index finger to his lips, swung his AK up, pressed the butt to his shoulder, and flipped the safety down to the fire position.
A 123 grain hollow point was already in the chamber so charging the rifle wasn’t necessary. Thirty more rounds waited in the magazine as backup.
He pivoted around the side of the tree, sighting on the front door of the stately house. A wide porch wrapped around the front and sides of the house. There were long windows suitable for taking advantage of cross breezes, and a crawl space under the first floor was camouflaged with white lattice work. A gorgeous country house by any standards. Not all that good from a tactical standpoint with all the windows and doors, but the second story provided an advantage by looking out over the land. It had a 360 degree view.
Dillon rested his finger beside the 4.5 pound trigger, his heart racing from the surge of adrenaline. He preferred the lighter trigger pull over a heavier one because the lighter one didn’t jerk the rifle off target on distance shots.
Prior to leaving his house, Dillon had installed an Aimpoint sight on his AK using his bore sighting tool. In the past, he was never more than two inches off at one hundred yards when he checked his bore sighting. Fortunately, the Aimpoint survived the EMP because it was stored in his metal gun safe.
He kept his eye on the Aimpoint’s red dot, a piece of equipment that gave him a speed advantage over an opponent without a red dot sight. Sighting a target using one focal point instead of lining up the standard front sight and rear sights shaved off a few tenths of a second. In most gunfights the person who got the first accurate shot off was usually the winner.
He scanned the house and the surrounding acreage looking for movement or another door.
Without taking his eyes away from the sight, Dillon asked, “Is the backyard fenced in?”