A Powerless World | Book 1 | Escape The Breakdown

by Hunt, Jack

  “Does it look like it?” Daisy said, sarcastically referring to her neighbors and the thin walls that allowed them to hear conversations as they walked by. The building was clean, tidy, as many would be for a while.

  “Why aren’t they leaving the city?”

  “Hardly anyone knows what’s going on. What you’ve seen outside is a mixture of those who do and protesters who were already amped up and ready to loot and fight. The rest are taking advantage of the moment. Others will stay, hoping the authorities will tell them what to do.”

  Alicia nodded. “But by then it will be too late.”

  “You’re catching on,” she said.

  They stopped outside her door and Daisy got out a key and stuck it in the lock.

  Alicia lifted her cuffed hands in front of her. “Do you think you can take these off?”

  “No.”

  “Come on. I’m not gonna run. You’d shoot me.”

  “No.”

  “Please. They’re so tight.”

  Daisy ignored her and turned the key and gave the door a hard shove, then pulled her in.

  Inside it smelled musty. There was a short, narrow corridor that led into an open concept kitchen and a living room. They’d only made it a few steps when Daisy was blindsided by a fist to the face.

  It was too dark to see the attacker.

  The blur came bursting out of the bathroom that was off the corridor, knocking Daisy into the wall with one punch. Her head bounced, and she collapsed. Alicia turned and grabbed the door handle and managed to open it before she felt a hand clasp the back of her jacket.

  She sailed backward as if she was as light as a feather.

  Her body slid across the hardwood floor like a bowling ball, only stopping when she collided with the wall. She let out a scream as her attacker thundered toward her like some monstrosity from a horror flick. She kicked him in the shin, but that only pissed him off more. He lifted her with both hands, her feet dangling, and tossed her into the living room. Her back landed on a glass coffee table, smashing it.

  With the wind knocked out of her, gasping for air, she rolled onto her belly, her hands clasping a shard of glass just as he grabbed her by the hair. He hoisted her up and wrapped one thick arm around her neck and began to squeeze like an anaconda.

  He would have snapped her neck like a twig or choked her to death if she hadn’t lashed out and stabbed him in the face with the shard. Her arms went over his with no idea of where his face was, only that when the glass connected, the man wailed, released her, and staggered back. “You bitch.” His thick Russian accent brought home the reality of who it was, or at least who had sent him.

  Alicia darted for a window that led out to a fire escape, but before she reached it, he clotheslined her with his forearm, knocking her down so hard she thought she would pass out.

  As she stared up, vision blurring, trying to catch her breath, the man withdrew a handgun from the front of his jeans, his arm extended.

  This was it.

  The moment she would die.

  A gun echoed, but it wasn’t his.

  He wailed, stumbling back, another round followed, his features twisting in anger. He returned fire, the muzzle flashed.

  Alicia rolled to see.

  It was Daisy.

  She was leaning against the dividing wall, injured, arm extended. She fired, the round hit the wrist, and the handgun dropped, disappearing into darkness.

  The hulk of a man charged Daisy, knocking her several feet back and rained blow after blow down on her before grabbing her ears and smashing her skull against the floor like he was trying to crack open a coconut.

  Every sickening thud sounded worst than the next.

  Alicia scanned the dark room for the gun. Where is it? There was no time to search. She staggered to her feet, stumbled into the kitchen, and withdrew a large kitchen knife from a wooden block.

  The Russian was in full mount position, his knees straddling either side of Daisy’s chest as he pummeled her face.

  Alicia plunged the blade deep into his neck, then hopped on his back, looping her handcuffed wrists over his head.

  He let out an agonizing cry, his back arched as he clambered to his feet.

  Still on his back, he drove himself back into the wall, attempting to crush her against it. Each shot of pain only angered her more. Doing the only thing she could think of, Alicia pulled back, wrapping her legs around his waist and holding on for dear life as he flailed like a bucking bronco.

  It took every ounce of strength she had to stay on.

  She knew if she came off he’d kill her.

  Hold. Hold. Hold on!

  Her fingernails dug into his skin. His scream grew louder. How much more he could he take?

  Eventually, his cries weakened.

  In no more than thirty seconds, the brute fell to his knees, curling over, his forehead striking the hardwood.

  EIGHTEEN

  DAN WILDER

  Humboldt County

  Thousands of no-knock raids occurred every year, often at pre-dawn, but this was set for the late evening. Hours earlier, Dan had collected the warrant issued by the judge to allow him and seven heavily armed SWAT team guys to enter the mountain property without any notification. Warrants were issued to avoid the destruction of evidence that often occurred when police were identifying themselves. Going in without knocking was always risky, even more so when there was a perceived threat.

  Had it been anyone else’s home, he might not have batted an eye but the Rikers were a different breed, they had a reputation of shooting first, asking questions later. Of course, many law enforcement officers didn’t know that as locals didn’t name names. Their transgressions were hidden in the hills, buried in shallow graves, as were the Stricklands’.

  He’d second-guessed his decision to go through with it as he had far bigger fish to contend with, but he figured it was a way to instill confidence in his leadership, and demonstrate to the public the continuation of law and order.

  The truth was it was done to get Hank off his back.

  He knew no medicine or goods would be found there. They were smarter than that. But he had little choice. Although the country was in darkness and there was a chance no one would believe Hank, he couldn’t afford to have him flapping his gums.

  He would sow seeds of doubt and bring into question his integrity.

  And as a lawman, that was all he had to keep the community trusting him.

  Whether it was the Rikers or the Stricklands, breaking the law was breaking the law, and regardless of who his family was, he had to uphold that. Letting the law fall by the wayside would wreak havoc and all manner of hell would take hold of the county. He couldn’t have that. He wouldn’t. It wasn’t a matter of control, it was a matter of duty. And until he saw different, he would continue to serve and support the county.

  Besides, if it got out that he’d let a group loot, that kind of information would destroy his career.

  As a way to inject himself into the narrative and show his support for Dan agreeing, Hank had provided him and the deputies with a slew of working utility ATVs. Ones that he’d had stored inside an area that doubled as a huge Faraday cage. It might have seemed unusual had it not been for the business that he ran or his avid interest in off-the-grid living.

  Even though the Stricklands operated a few legal marijuana farms in the mountains, they also owned a successful cycle and power equipment store in town called Strickland’s Cycle. They rented and sold cruisers, sportbikes, dirt bikes, ATVs, generators, even water pumps, and garden power equipment. The company had been in the family for decades. Some said it was a cover for laundering money that came from black market cannabis distribution, but that was yet to be proven or even challenged. Most just steered clear of the family unless they had a need to go into their store.

  Still, despite his willingness to go along with Hank’s asinine request, he drew the line on allowing the Stricklands to join them that evening. They weren’t la
w enforcement and the sight of Stricklands could incite a gunfight.

  It was unusually warm that evening as they prepared to ride in.

  Clothed in tactical gear, helmets, ballistic vests, and sporting M4 rifles, the eight rode two to a quad bike. He knew the family would hear them long before they arrived, especially with headlights filtering through the heavily forested hills. He’d banked on that. That’s why he’d chosen the evening and not dawn. He didn’t want to get shot any more than he wanted the Rikers dead. This wasn’t about finding stolen property, it was about saving face and preventing the Stricklands from confronting the Rikers themselves.

  As they followed a twenty-mile winding dirt road under a canopy of redwoods to reach the remote and hilly property, they passed by locked gates and private roads. Dan thought back to what had driven him into law enforcement in the first place. He’d witnessed things no kid should see by the age of eight — people shot, beaten, kidnapped, and having guns jammed into their mouth. His mind was tainted long before he’d even reached an age of when it really could be.

  His mother, Patricia, was Hank’s father’s sister, and that meant they saw one another frequently at family get-togethers, Christmas, the Fourth of July, or whenever Hank’s kin needed her for their criminal activities.

  For many years he’d stared down the possibility that his future would mirror those who came before him, but somewhere in his later teens, he’d wondered if he couldn’t change the situation from the other side of the line. It was a ballsy move and one that had garnered a fair amount of hate and rejection. He could still recall traveling to his uncle’s property on the mountain only to be denied access when he discovered she’d brought him along.

  The hatred for the law ran deep, far deeper than their generation. He knew he was biting off more than he could chew becoming a young officer. People didn’t change around these parts, they simply looked the other way and kept their mouth shut. It was safer that way.

  The ATV rumbled between his legs as they rolled over uneven patches of land. The cost was too much to get it paved and those who chose to live up here did so for good reason — fewer eyes meant less intrusion.

  Upon reaching the locked steel gate, he wasn’t surprised to see the Riker family already there, flashlights bouncing off tree roots, hunting rifles at the ready. He’d already instructed the other seven to play it cool, keep their fingers off their triggers and allow him to handle it.

  He brought his ATV to a stop and shut off the engine.

  Dan adjusted his sheriff’s ball cap, placed a hand on his service weapon, and strolled up to the gate. He would have been lying to say he felt no fear. Fear was a valuable asset; so was sound judgment and confidence, and he felt as if he was walking a tightrope between the two. “Evening, Martha.” He gave a nod, his eyes scanning the others. “Jessie.”

  Jessie piped up. “Dan.”

  “What do you want, Dan?” Martha asked.

  He told them what he had before showing it, as he knew any sudden movement could lead to a standoff and he had no intentions of that. “I’ve got a warrant to search this property for the theft of goods from the local grocery store.”

  “By whose order?”

  “The judge.”

  He removed the paperwork and held it out. Martha shone a light on it and told him to step closer. She took a pair of glasses and set them on the end of her nose, but kept behind the gate. Her sons and daughters remained stoic. He knew them all. Not just by name but from the small things, even Colby. Now that was a kid who had broken the mold, shown that things didn’t have to be the way they were, the way they had been.

  “What a crock of shit. Hank sent you, didn’t he?”

  He put away the paperwork but didn’t confirm or deny that.

  “People talk, Martha.”

  “Bullshit. The only ones with loose lips are the Stricklands, and we all know why they would point you in our direction. I figured this day would come. You’re not coming in.”

  “Martha, I’m not here to fight. We’re searching and that’s it.” He waved to the others to enter. Guns were raised and for a brief moment, there was tension. Dan quickly waved to the deputies to lower their weapons.

  “This is private property.”

  “Do you want to go to jail?”

  “We have rights.”

  “Look, we can do this in an organized, calm fashion and you can go back to doing whatever you were doing before we came, but we’re coming in. Now whether you believe me or not, the Stricklands have nothing to do with this.”

  “I beg to differ,” Jessie said.

  “It’s a matter of law and order. Whether it’s you, the Stricklands, or your neighbors. Right now we are dealing with an unprecedented event and if anyone is found breaking the law they will be arrested, it’s as simple as that. Family or not. Now, I’m fairly certain that I won’t find anything on your property but you and I both know this has to be done.”

  He stared intently at Martha, hoping she would get the message, the heart of what he was saying. Seconds passed, then she told her family to stand down. Jessie opened the gate.

  “Thank you.”

  With a gesture the ATVs rolled in, heading up to the house.

  As they began the search, flashlight beams bounced, men spread out going from one cabin to the next, Dan stood outside scanning the area where they grew crops legally.

  Fall was harvest season and so there wasn’t much to see. He knew they had other areas, buried deep in the redwoods, hidden away, out of sight. The geography of the area was one in which you could hide practically anything.

  His mother had told him about the ’70s and ’80s, and the war on drugs. So much had changed since the ’90s. Hippie growers, ranches, the timber business, and the fishing industry had been the heart of the county but that had changed.

  Today it was a different matter. Less money was being allocated to stop the marijuana trade, as it had now become a very gray area with legalization. The black market still existed, farmers looking to avoid the high taxes, but they were far and few. Those that operated that way took every measure to not be detected. The hills were marred with violence and the two best at it were the Stricklands and Rikers.

  “I’m sorry to hear about Bruce,” he said to Martha.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Look, whatever feud there is between you and Hank, I’m not a part of that.”

  “What, because you wear that uniform? Who are you fooling?”

  He shook his head. “I want you to know that we will do everything in our power to find out who was behind his death.”

  She laughed. “You already know. Everyone knows. And yet nothing is being done about it nor will there be.”

  “Well I guess the same could be said about Ryland Strickland,” he shot back. “You must have known there would be retribution for something like that.”

  Arms folded, she blew out her cheeks, acting all nonchalant. “I wouldn’t know. We had nothing to do with his death.”

  Dan scoffed. “Right.”

  That was the problem with enforcing the law on the mountain. Up here they ran to the beat of their own drum, dealt with their own matters, and evidence was destroyed. That was clear by the slew of burned-out vehicles found piled up, scattered, and in ditches on the mountain around Bell Springs. All the serial numbers were blasted off. No one would ever know who they were. Tourists, cannabis trimmers, thieves trying to make off with someone else’s crops? It was an outlaw community up here and they had their own way of doing things.

  “When is the funeral?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow. That’s why I really appreciate this intrusion, Dan.”

  He nodded, feeling the sting of her words. It was just one more reason why he wished Hank hadn’t shown up. The awkwardness of the moment only got worse the longer they were there. Eventually, his guys came out, after a good hour of searching, and Deputy Johnson shook his head. “Okay, well, I appreciate the civility this evening. I’m sorry t
o have bothered you,” Dan said.

  With a jerk of his head, they all got on their ATVs to leave.

  “Oh, one last thing, Dan,” Martha said while ambling over to him. “Give this to Hank.”

  He opened his hand and she placed a ring in it. “What is it?”

  “A ring of course. It belongs to Ryland. One of my boys found it a few miles away. I remembered he wore it. Figured his family would want it back.”

  He looked at her wondering what game she was playing. Was this an admission of involvement, a means of trying to start a war between the two families? If she’d wanted that, it had already begun. Bruce’s death was the return message. But this, this was being done to incite a reaction. He pocketed it and thanked her and then peeled away under their watchful eye.

  As he expected, Hank and his boys were waiting for him on the Alderpoint Bridge, an infamous steel stringer structure that spanned the Eel River and divided the mountain from the tiny community. He brought the ATV to a stop and got off and told Johnson to wait for the others at the far side while he talked with him. He and Hank walked to the edge and looked out into the darkness. Far below, the flowing river swirled around rocks and splashed against the banks.

  “So? What was the outcome?”

  “You already know the outcome, Hank. There was no stolen medicine or groceries.”

  “I knew it. You should have let me go with you.”

  “And start a fight like the way you handled Bruce?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “No, neither did Martha when I asked about Ryland.” He placed a hand on Hank’s shoulder. “You’re a smart man, Hank. We could use your help but I can’t be getting involved in disputes between you and the Rikers. So word of advice. Stay away.”

  “Is that what she told you to say?”