The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set

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The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set Page 21

by Ernest Dempsey


  "Does this mean I'm forgiven?"

  "No," Dak said. "You still have a beating coming."

  "That's fair," Luis nodded.

  "You ready?"

  "Yeah."

  Dak readied the AR-15 again, gripping it firmly in his hands. "One. Two." He stole one last glance at Luis. "Three."

  The two popped up from behind their cover and opened fire. Luis stood with both pistols extended, reminiscent of outlaws from the Old West, guns firing, ready to go out in a blaze of glory.

  Dak fired two strategic shots through the first window, then two more through the next before he bent down, using the table as a brace for the shot that mattered. He looked through the scope with Luis hovering over him, still unloading his magazines. Dak lined up the red dot on the pilot flame inside the fireplace, then lowered it by a couple of inches until he found the metal hose where it connected to the valve.

  He heard one of the magazines eject from the pistol in Luis' right hand, and it clattered on the desk to Dak's left. Dak didn't budge, didn't flinch. His breath came slow, deliberate, as he tensed his trigger finger and squeezed.

  The silenced weapon let out a muted pop. The bullet zipped through the air and clipped the valve. The pilot went out instantly, its supply of fuel cut off. The damaged valve housing, however, spilled natural gas out into the room.

  "Get down," Dak ordered as his friend fired the last round of his magazine.

  Another reply came from the gunmen outside. As Luis ducked back down, a bullet caught him in the chest. Another caught him in the gut. A third struck his right arm.

  He fell to the floor with his back to the desk drawers. His chest rose and fell rapidly, desperate to fill his lungs with air. The heavy breaths, though, also brought blood with them.

  Dak looked to his friend and saw the wounds.

  "Luis?" Dak said.

  "I'm fine, Dak," Luis replied. "I'll be okay."

  Dak's face tightened against the flood of emotion. He came here to kill this man, to right the wrong done to him. Now, all he could feel was sadness and regret.

  "Don't look at me like that," Luis said. "It's okay. I'm getting what I deserve."

  "We can get you to a hospital," Dak said, trying to convince himself as much as the man next to him.

  Luis coughed a laugh and turned his head. "You always were stubborn, Dak. It's one of the things I liked about you." He swallowed hard and his eyes started to roll back, but he fought off the darkness for a few more breaths. "Find Billy and Nathaniel. You get them for what they did to you. Okay? One of them might know where Bo is." The words came stammering out as the mortal wounds continued to do their deadly work.

  "Billy is in… Colorado."

  "You told me," Dak said.

  Luis coughed again. "Get to the… to the escape tunnel. You… you can make it."

  "We can make it," Dak insisted.

  The dying man shook his head. "Tell me what your… crazy plan was."

  Dak looked down at the grenade on his vest and plucked it from its nest.

  "I shot out the gas valve on the fireplace," he answered.

  Realization glimmered in his friend's dark eyes. "That's a good plan." His eyes lingered on the grenade. "Let me do it."

  "No," Dak said. "I can't—"

  "Shut up, Dak. We both know I'm a goner. I'd rather go out fighting than lying here like a coward."

  Dak hadn't been prepared for this. Again, the plan ran through his mind of coming here to avenge the wrong Luis helped perpetrate. Now, he wished he could save the man's life. That wish could never come to fruition.

  He nodded and placed the grenade into his friend's palm.

  "Thank you," Dak said.

  Luis offered a feeble smile and coughed. "Does that mean you forgive me?"

  Dak snorted weakly. "Yeah, amigo. You're forgiven."

  "Cool." Luis pulled the pin and gripped the explosive device to prevent it from detonating too soon. He struggled to turn around and then gave one last look at Dak. "See you on the other side, amigo."

  Dak nodded. "See you on the other side."

  Luis struggled to stand. Using a chair off to the side as both a brace and a shield, he turned and started toward the door. The gunmen outside fired again, dumping hot metal into the study. Bullets sailed by, whizzing past Luis' ears. Several struck the back of the chair. A few made it through and struck him in the torso. He shuddered at the impact but kept going, sliding the chair forward as he made for the door.

  Dak slid under the desk and stayed as low as he could, knowing what was coming. He jerked one of the drawers out and used it to cover his head. Then… he waited.

  The gunfire slowed as the shooters changed out their empty magazines for full ones. Another bullet struck Luis in the leg and he yelped. The new wound slowed him, but Luis wouldn't be denied this last effort at salvation. He tasted iron in his mouth from the blood he coughed up.

  When he was fifteen feet from the door, another shot echoed through the study. The round hit him in the shin, shattering the bone. He fell forward, his leg screaming in agonizing pain. The world around him moved in dizzying slow motion. He was so close. As he toppled forward, Luis summoned every scrap of energy he had left and shoved his left hand forward, shuffling the grenade toward the door.

  He slumped down onto the seat, watching the explosive hit the floor and tumble toward the doorway. It rolled to a stop mere feet from the threshold. Luis exhaled one last time and smiled in satisfaction.

  The hard shell of the grenade erupted in fire and shrapnel, blasting the doors to shreds and seriously injuring two guards beyond. That was just the appetizer. The blast shook the entire mansion as it ignited the gas that now filled the room and flowed out of the tattered windows.

  A ball of fire seared through the open doorway, scorching two more guards who'd been standing by the wall in ambush. The flames leaped out of the windows and blinded several more guards. Shards of glass and chunks of debris smashed into the gunmen, injuring some, killing two with blunt force trauma to the head.

  Dak huddled under the desk as the explosion rocked the study. He pressed his forearms against his ears with the drawer pinched tight in his fingers. Flames coursed over the desk and climbed to the ceiling for all of two seconds. The searing heat licked at the drawer over his head, but didn't touch his skin. The front side of the desk absorbed the concussion from the blast as well as the deadly debris it flung across the room.

  Then everything went eerily still.

  Strips of torn paper and ash fluttered to the floor. Dak dropped the drawer and scrambled to his feet. He peered through the smoke and dust. Much of the outer wall was gone, reduced to rubble. Half of the ceiling had collapsed. The doors to the left, leading back into the mansion, looked little more than chunks of charred, splintered wood somehow still clinging to their hinges.

  Dak's eyes fell to a pile near the door. Huge pieces of ceiling covered the chair Luis had used, but Dak could see the man's legs protruding from under the debris. The rest of his body was covered. Dak actually appreciated that. He came here to kill Luis, one of the five who'd betrayed him. Now that Luis was dead, Dak felt conflicted.

  That emotion would have to be sorted at another time.

  Sixteen

  Uruapan

  Dak detected movement through one of the wide openings in the exterior wall created by the explosion. Turning, he hurried over the piles of hulking pieces of the demolished study. He paused at the doorway, drew one of his pistols, and looked out into the next room.

  Four dead guards lay strewn on the floor.

  A man shouted from the top of a staircase dead ahead. The guard was only able to raise his weapon a few inches before a charging Dak unleashed three rapid shots, two striking the man in the chest. The guard lurched forward and tipped over the railing. He hit the floor with a smack and didn't move.

  Dak rushed around the next corner, heading for the stairs that led down to the basement; his escape route. Headlights shone into the room th
rough the front doors, and Dak knew that Marco and his men had arrived.

  Slowing to a stop, Dak waited at the corner, knowing that the thirty feet to the stairs would give the cartel thugs an easy line of sight. He peeked around and noted the two alcoves along the right-hand wall. The stairs were along the left wall, halfway to the foyer. It wasn’t much, but they would give him a chance to take cover as he advanced.

  The front door opened, and footfalls followed by the dozens.

  Colorado, Dak thought. I have to get to Colorado.

  He waited until the last second, drawing one of the two remaining pistols strapped to his left side, and stepped out.

  The charging men didn't have time to stop. They unwittingly sprinted into a death funnel with Dak Harper at the nozzle.

  He unloaded on them at a deadly close range. His fingers twitched. The suppressor barrels puffed bursts of smoke. Bullets tore through flesh and skull as Dak took no prisoners, going for headshots to every one of the cartel soldiers. Few missed the target, even fewer missed at least a part of a henchman.

  The bodies hit the floor all around him and none of the attackers even reacted until the fourth wave. Even they were too slow as Dak finished the contents of one magazine and drew the last loaded pistol. Ten more men fell as they ran ahead into the deadly hail.

  By the sixth wave, the cartel soldiers realized they were being cut down, and they retreated to the foyer to take cover behind the walls on either side. Thirty men lay in several heaps on the floor, leaving a trail of death to the entrance.

  Dak felt no remorse, no emotion at the grisly sight. These men had killed innocent people, killed others like them, all without regard. They'd tortured and maimed, helped run deadly drugs to untold thousands, perhaps more.

  Their lives, in his mind, were forfeit.

  He looked out through the open doorway at a man in a black shirt and matching cargo pants. He stood like a king among pawns, and Dak knew it had to be Marco. He could see the confusion on Marco's face, the lack of recognition at this stranger who had killed so many of his men with such ruthless efficiency.

  Dak dropped the empty pistol in his right hand and moved it to support the left, which held his remaining handgun. The AR-15 still had some rounds in the magazine, and he had spares for that, along with more rounds for the pistol.

  Marco was barely within range, and Dak knew hitting a target precisely from that far away would be difficult.

  The stairs were ten feet away to his left. He could rush to them, but Marco would send his men after him. And because he worked for Mendoza, it was likely Marco could go around and cut him off.

  Dak made a quick decision. He fired the pistol at Marco, who abruptly lost the stupid grin on his face and dove to the side of the entrance. Marco's men popped out from cover and opened fire. Dak leaped into the alcove to his right, knocking over a vase in the process. The expensive blue and white pottery shattered on the floor at his feet.

  "Oops," he muttered.

  He shoved his empty pistol back into its holster and grabbed the flash-bang from his vest. He pulled the pin and waited for the gunfire to cease. When it did, he whipped his arm around the corner and tossed the device down the corridor.

  It slid to a stop just a few feet into the foyer and then exploded.

  The searing white light flashed through the hallway. It blinded every gunman in the entryway. Dak stepped out into the open and saw the henchmen staggering around, rubbing their eyes. Marco stumbled through the doorway and tripped on the threshold. He fell clumsily to the floor and clawed at the tiles to get up.

  Dak plucked the last grenade from his vest and pulled the pin as he stepped over the bodies and headed toward the stairs. Sirens echoed from the valley beyond the open doorway, and he knew the fire department was on their way, along with a few curious—and probably corrupt—cops.

  Dak lobbed the grenade down the hallway and rushed into the stairwell. He didn't see the explosive as it rolled to a stop in front of Marco just as the man's eyes began to clear from the blinding light. Dak only heard a split-second "Ah" before the blast killed the cartel enforcer and sent deadly shrapnel through the bodies of the remaining forces.

  When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Dak looked in both directions, keeping his AR-15 ahead of him, and searched the corridor until he found the boardroom Luis had described.

  Dak ran around to the head of the conference table where he assumed Mendoza usually sat and ran his fingers under the heavy wood. He found the button exactly where he would put it if he were a drug lord in need of a quick exit. He pressed the button and the wall behind him slid open, rotating away from the table and into a dark tunnel. Lights flickered on along the cinderblock walls.

  He stepped inside and found another button on the wall near the doorway. When he pressed it, the secret door swung closed again.

  Dak took a deep breath and swallowed hard. More heavy breaths followed as the series of events caught up to his body. His legs felt like lead and his balance wavered.

  After ten seconds, he steeled his nerves again and started running down the tunnel. He could rest when he was out of Uruapan.

  Seventeen

  Guadalajara

  Dak looked down the sidewalk to his right, then to his left, before pushing open the cantina door.

  He took a step in and glanced over to the booth on the left where he'd sat the first time he came here to meet Carina. The young bartender immediately recognized him, offering a curt nod in welcome.

  "Tequila, amigo?" the man asked as he finished wiping down the counter. His right hand reached for a glass before Dak could say yes.

  "Gracias," Dak offered as the man poured a generous dose of the hazy liquid.

  The barkeep slid the glass across the counter to Dak, who raised it, then made his way over to the corner booth.

  He sipped on the drink for several minutes before the stunning Mexican woman emerged from the office.

  Her eyes fell to him immediately, ignoring the other patrons hunched over the counter or sitting in the other booths.

  She sauntered over to him, her navy blue blouse fluttering. The cream-colored slacks flapped over black high-heels. Carina stopped at the table and motioned to the seat opposite Dak.

  "This one taken?" she asked.

  His lips cracked a smile. "One of the most cliché pickup lines of all time, and this is the first instance it's ever been used on me."

  She offered a flirtatious grin. Her dark hair, nearly black, draped down one side, pulled around to expose the left side of her face, her neck, and a hint of her shoulder.

  He lost himself in her deep brown eyes, the red lips accented by a maraschino cherry lipstick.

  "That's a shame," she said. "Maybe American girls don't know a good thing when they see it."

  Dak chuckled and nodded, then took another sip. "Maybe. Or maybe I was always too busy."

  She said nothing, but her quiet gaze told him she understood. She'd lived that life, the path led by a government agency always telling her where to be, what to do, and often putting her in dangerous scenarios. That life wasn't conducive to dating or relationships. The danger aspect made it almost necessary not to get close to anyone.

  He felt like she still clung to that paranoia, that concern over an assassin hiding in the shadows, the sounds in the night that kept decent sleep at bay. He certainly held onto the same worries.

  His mind wandered to Istanbul. He hoped Nicole was safe, that the colonel hadn't learned about her, about their connection. He doubted he would. They'd never been married, and the colonel didn't know much about his personal life. He could find Dak's parents, sure, but Nicole was about as off the map as a person could be in regards to the depths of his reach.

  He missed her.

  For much of the last few years, he'd forced that emotion away, stuffing those feelings down deep in his gut where they were constantly squashed by the high-alert nature of war.

  Carina stared back at him, her eyes unquestionably
longing. Part of him wished he could move on, to let go of the past. This woman wanted him. If he was honest, he felt the same way.

  Was it just a physical attraction, the need for physical touch and companionship after so many nights alone?

  He couldn't bring himself to go there. Not yet. Despite the things she'd said, the way Nicole had acted toward him, Dak didn't feel that chapter had yet reached its end. He needed closure before he could turn the page.

  "I came here to say thank you," Dak spoke, his voice devoid of emotion. "You didn't have to help me, but you did. And I appreciate it."

  "Happy to do it," she said, tossing her head to the side as though she'd just tossed a coin to a child. "Mendoza and all of his lieutenants are dead. Most of his men, too."

  "Esperanza is still out there."

  "True." She shrugged. "There will always be another."

  He felt those words for a different reason.

  "Esperanza is weak, though. He won't survive another two months, I'll make certain of that. If Uruapan can be liberated from the cartels' grasp, perhaps other cities can as well. In time, we may be able to push them out completely."

  He knew it was an unrealistic dream and he could tell she knew it, too. Far be it for him, though, to tell her not to hope.

  "So, you're leaving?" she asked, emotion cracking her voice for the first time since they met.

  "Yeah." He let his eyes fall to the table where the tequila glass rested. "I have a few more stops to make on my journey."

  She nodded her understanding. "Well, Dak Harper. It's been a pleasure. I hope our paths cross again." A feeble smile parted her lips.

  "Me, too," he said. Then he tossed back the tequila and watched her get up. She strolled back to the office too quickly, and he knew it was because if she remained any longer, she would demand he stay.

  When she was gone, he looked down at the empty glass and sighed.

  "What are you doing, Harper?" he asked himself.

  He shook off the question, dropped double what he owed for the drink on the table, and walked out of the cantina.

 

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