The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set

by Ernest Dempsey

  The others followed suit and chugged their drinks until the bottles were empty. They rolled them to the officer and then stood defiantly, waiting to see what he would do next.

  Andy swallowed and nodded. "Rifle," he said, his voice only half-full of resolve. "You fellas step away from it. Nice and slow."

  Tyler's eyebrows descended, feigning offense. "Now, Andy, you afraid I'm going to do something with that rifle? I wouldn't think of it."

  "Just step away, Tyler. All of you."

  Tyler licked his lips. This cop had no idea who he was dealing with. He'd seen the deputy alter his stance, which meant he was prepared to draw that pistol if the need arose. What Andy didn't know was that he'd cornered a venomous snake, fully coiled and capable of flipping that rifle over and blowing his head clean off before the deputy's pistol was above his waist.

  That wouldn't do, though, and Tyler knew it. Murdering a police officer would be difficult even for him to cover up. This deputy, however, was a thorn in his side. He'd have to think of another way to get rid of him. An accident, perhaps.

  Tyler put up his hands and eased to the right. "Step aside, boys," he ordered. "Let this lawman do his job. We were breaking the rules, after all."

  "Thank you," Andy said, though suspicion still filled his veins.

  When the four men were a good fifteen feet from the weapon, Andy shuffled over to it and lifted it off the ground.

  "You can come get this at the office later," he said. He removed the magazine and checked the weapon to make sure there were no more rounds chambered.

  Satisfied, he backed over to the patrol car and laid the rifle in the trunk.

  "That it, deputy?" Tripp asked. "Or are you going to arrest us?"

  Andy knew he couldn't do that. Tripp was the sheriff's son. He should have taken the keys to their jeep, called in for backup to arrest all of them. But none of that could happen.

  "Let's call it a warning," Andy offered.

  "That what this is? You warning me?"

  Andy opened his door and put one foot inside. He locked eyes with Tripp for a long breath, then exhaled. "Yeah. It is."

  The four men watched as the deputy drove away, not taking their eyes off the vehicle until it disappeared around the bend, behind a patch of spruce trees.

  Tyler sighed, his breath coming out of his mouth in a chilly cloud.

  "He's got a lot of nerve," Steve said. "Sometimes I think he forgets his place."

  "My dad will make sure he remembers," Tripp threatened.

  "No harm, boys," Tyler said, his voice as cold as the snow on the ground. "Like he said, I can get the rifle back later. Let's finish these beers and head to the bar. Might be a few early snow bunnies in town from the city."

  Three

  Cuchara

  Dak peered around at the surrounding forest, full of aspens and Piñon pines. The silent serenity overwhelmed him and for a moment, he felt at total peace.

  The unfamiliar, strange feeling unnerved him in a way. He could ill-afford to let down his guard at any time, especially when on the hunt—and he was certainly hunting.

  He climbed the wooden steps to the cabin and crossed the creaky porch planks to the door. Stopping, he entered the prescribed code on a keypad next to the doorknob.

  An electronic beep, followed by a mechanical whir, unlocked the deadbolt. He stepped inside and closed the door behind, keeping his rucksack snug against his shoulder.

  Dak surveyed the cabin from the narrow foyer. An open door led into a bedroom to the left. To his right, key hooks hung from the wall next to a coat hanger made out of faux antlers. At least he thought they were fake.

  He continued farther into the kitchen on the right that merged with the living room. Deep, brown leather couches surrounded a thick rug topped with a rustic, wooden coffee table. The gas fireplace beyond was framed with mountain stone and a timber mantle that matched the beams supporting the cathedral ceiling overhead.

  "This'll do," Dak muttered.

  It was way more than he needed in terms of space and amenities—though the hot tub on the front porch overlooking the valley beckoned to his sore muscles. Travel had taken a toll on him and he yearned to relax.

  Perhaps he could take a soak after doing a little recon in town.

  He didn't dare to hope. In fact, Dak couldn't recall the last time he—yes, he could. That annoying tug at his heart jerked painfully at his chest. Before he went away to join the army, Dak and Nicole took a ski trip up to Snowshoe, West Virginia. Their chalet was much smaller than this one, and far more modest, but it had a hot tub—as seemed standard with all cabins.

  That was the last time he'd been in one.

  He sighed at the memory and let his gear bag slump onto the couch. He patted the concealed subcompact pistol on his hip—an old habit he'd forged long ago. With his outer shell jacket over a hoodie, no one would notice the weapon. And as long as he didn't run face to face into Billy—or Tyler—no one in the little mountain town would know who he was. To them, Dak would be just another traveler coming through in search of adventure or some peace and quiet.

  Dak wandered over to the island in the kitchen and found a welcome basket with a couple of bottles of water, some candy, chips, and tips on some of the local things to do. He looked through the list and found a couple of places he knew he'd need to visit. One was the general store. He would pick up some additional supplies in case his stay would last more than a few days. Dak was certain it would.

  The only bar in the town looked like an interesting place on the list. In the summer, people were welcome to bring their dogs there to hang out on the patio. Dak had seen a place like that in St. Pete Beach, Florida, once, though it was late at night and only one person was sober enough to bring their dog out at that hour. Or maybe they were drunk enough. He figured the local bartender would have at least a little information that might prove helpful, though he knew he'd have to play it cool.

  Small towns like this one could have allies or enemies mere inches away, and it was always difficult to tell which was which.

  Dak walked around the rest of the cabin, inspecting the upstairs bedroom, the loft, and the deck out front. He rested his hands on the newly fallen snow along the rail, letting the cold stab into his fingers. He looked down into the valley, his gaze sweeping over the slopes. To the average observer, they may have believed he was simply enjoying the view. He was, but more than that, Dak's mind ran through potential approach points in case somehow Billy brought the fight to him.

  It was unlikely, but Dak always prepared for any contingency.

  He turned, sweeping the powdery snow from the rail, and returned inside.

  After locking the doors and securing his rucksack in the upstairs bedroom closet, he went back out to the Isuzu Trooper he'd purchased in Denver, and headed back down the mountain.

  He had to drive slowly along the twisting, winding road. Though the snow was still thin in most spots, it could still be slick. After ten minutes, he was back on the main road. The clear asphalt was a welcome relief to a guy from the southeast who'd grown up almost never having to drive on snow of any kind—save for that once-a-year winter storm that sprinkled two or three meager inches of accumulation.

  From the mountain road, the drive into the little town of Cuchara only took another seven minutes.

  Dak slowed down as he passed a welcome sign where one of the local police cars sat partially hidden behind it. A speed trap.

  He rolled his eyes and continued into the little town.

  Calling it a town was generous. It looked more like a village with only a few buildings on the left and right, most appearing like structures that were built during the times of the Wild West when outlaws roamed the land. A liquor store, gift shop, general store, and a few other wooden buildings stood on the right. Up ahead, he noted the bar and grill he'd spotted on the list at the cabin and steered into the parking lot off to the left in front of a wooden rail.

  Five other vehicles occupied spots outside
the bar. It was getting late in the afternoon, and Dak expected more people to show up in the next hour or so. The more the merrier as far as he was concerned, so long as none of them was Billy.

  He walked up the clean-swept wooden steps to the wraparound deck and pulled open the door. Inside, the bar looked pretty much exactly as he'd expected. Rough-hewn, dark-stained panels covered the walls. A litany of various beer-brand neon lights hung sporadically around the room. The U-shaped bar occupied the center, directly across from the entrance. A female bartender and a male bar back worked next to each other, one pouring drinks, the other wiping down the counter and carrying beverages to the patrons scattered across the room.

  The bartender tipped her head up at him the way she must have greeted every person who walked through the door.

  "Seating's open," she said. "If you want a table, Merrick will take care of you."

  "Thanks," Dak said. He spotted a table in the back corner of the room that would give him a full view of everything and ambled over to it.

  Merrick, who was apparently both a server and the bar back, hustled over to him with a glass of water and a laminated one-page menu. The young man was skinny with a thin, black mustache under his nose that matched the dense clump of hair on his head.

  The bartender—probably in her mid-twenties—was an attractive, outdoorsy type with a black tank top that revealed a collection of tattoos that adorned her arms and one at the top of her chest just below the neck. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail that whipped around as she worked feverishly to keep the drinks coming.

  Dak didn't know what her hurry was with so few patrons in the building. He guessed she was trying to stay ahead before the afternoon rush, if there was one.

  "Can I get you anything stronger than water?" Merrick asked.

  "A local lager would be good," Dak said.

  "We have a few of those as well as some good IPAs if that's your thing," the young man offered.

  "Nah, the lager is fine," Dak said. "If I wanted to taste a pine tree, I'd go outside and lick one."

  The server snorted a laugh at the unexpected comment. "Haven't heard it put like that before. And now I don't know if I can ever drink another IPA." He laughed as he started to turn away. "Oh, did you want something to eat?"

  "How are the burgers here?" Dak asked, perusing the menu with analytical eyes.

  "They're really good, though we have an excellent bison burger."

  "Let's do that with fries," Dak said.

  "You got it. I'll be right back with your drink." Merrick didn't even bother writing down the order as he scurried over to a computer panel affixed to the bar and began tapping on the screen.

  Dak leaned back against the seat and scanned the room, taking note of each of the customers. Most of them were unremarkable. There were at least two sets of visitors, men and women probably in their forties. One of the couples had a kid with them, a little boy in an orange coat. The bar was toasty warm and seeing the kid unnecessarily clad in the outerwear reminded Dak that he still had his on. He slipped out of it and hung the coat on the back of the chair, watching as the bartender filled up a glass from one of the beer taps.

  A female server burst out of a light blue kitchen door to Dak's immediate left. She carried a food-laden tray in her right hand—the plates cradling burgers, fries, onion rings, and a grilled chicken breast.

  Dak watched the woman carry the food over to the table with the small family of three and expertly unload the burden onto the table before giving them a pleasant smile and asking if they needed anything else.

  The people declined and the waitress spun on her heels and returned through the blue door with a whoosh.

  Dak managed to catch sigh of her name tag as she passed. "Tanya," he said unemotionally under his breath.

  Merrick returned a minute later with the lager and set the brimming pint glass down on the table atop a coaster he slid across the surface at the last second.

  "That burger should be out in a couple of minutes," the waiter said.

  "Thanks." Dak pulled the glass a little closer.

  "Can I get you anything else while you're waiting?"

  "Actually," Dak said. "I was curious. I'm from out of town."

  Merrick chuckled. "Most people who come through here are. Not sure if you noticed, but this isn't a big town."

  Dak allowed a grin to part his lips. "Yeah, but I like it. It's quiet here, not too many people around. And this valley is breathtaking."

  Merrick looked around at the walls as if he could see through them at the natural beauty surrounding the building. "Yeah," he said proudly, "it's the reason I live here. Not many people to bother you if you know how to keep your head down."

  That last addition caused Dak's ears to prick.

  "What do you mean?"

  The server backtracked, twitching his nose as he shook his head. "Oh, nothing."

  "Ah. Well," Dak shrugged it off. "I'm actually curious about a couple of the abandoned ski resorts around here. I heard about them when I was in Denver and thought it might be fun to take a look around—if that sort of thing is permitted."

  Merrick nodded. "Yeah, I mean, you can visit one of them. If you're wanting to hit the slopes you'd have to get permission from the organization that bought it, but the other one was purchased several months back."

  "Purchased?" Dak feigned being impressed. "That had to be an expensive buy." He drew a sip of beer from his glass, keeping his eyes on the server's reaction.

  "You'd be right to assume that. I don't recall the amount, but it wasn't cheap." He shifted uncomfortably.

  "Local person or someone from out of the area?"

  The young man's face blushed, and he looked around over his shoulders, growing more uneasy by the second. "Out-of-town guy." He lowered his voice. "His name is Tyler Mumford. Just… forget about that place. If you want to see the old abandoned resort, it's just up the road. You can't miss it. The runs are still there, big trails through the trees you can see for miles."

  "Thanks for the tip," Dak said, his own cheeks burning—for an entirely different reason.

  "Sure thing. I'll go check on that bison burger for you."

  Merrick turned to leave, and Dak stopped him.

  "Just out of curiosity," he said, holding the beer close to his lips again. "What was the name of the place the stranger bought?"

  Merrick glanced over at the bartender. She busily poured a whiskey into a tumbler on the other side of the counter, well outside of earshot. Merrick leaned subtly and spoke with uncertainty. "It's called Purgatory Peak."

  Four

  Cuchara

  Tyler shoved the door open and stepped into the county police department building. He ignored the receptionist to his left and kept walking, leaving the woman licking her lips as she wondered what she should do.

  "Um, Mr. Mumford?"

  "The sheriff knows I'm coming, Amy," Tyler said without so much as a backward glance over his shoulder.

  Amy pressed her lips together and nodded before returning to her computer work.

  Tyler passed a couple of offices and a corridor leading into the holding tank, then stopped at a wooden door with a reinforced glass window in the center. A placard just below the window was imprinted with the name Sheriff Craig Sanders. The door was cracked open. Tyler took that as an invitation to enter.

  He eased the door forward and tilted his head inside.

  Sheriff Sanders was hunched over his desk, writing something with a black ink pen on what looked like an official form.

  "You're not exactly making things easy for me, Tyler," he said without looking up from the desk.

  He finished scribbling on the page and slid it to the side. Tyler stepped into the room and closed the door shut with a click. He shifted sideways to one of the twenty-five-year-old vinyl chairs opposite the cop and plopped into it.

  "We weren't doing anything wrong, Sheriff," Tyler defended. "Just having a few beers, killing some bottles."

&nb
sp; "With a rifle that some people would deem an assault weapon."

  Tyler snorted and rolled his eyes. "You and I know better than that. It's a hunting rifle, Sheriff. Plain and simple."

  Sanders leaned back and laced his fingers together atop the desk. "Sure it is, Tyler. But perception counts for a lot these days. Always has, but more now than ever. You know that."

  "I do." Tyler slouched in the chair with his hands folded in his lap. Back in his military days, he never would have considered sitting that way. But these people didn't know his past. No one in Cuchara did. The best they knew, he was some rich guy who hit it big with an online business and decided he wanted to buy a mountain for himself.

  Along with not knowing his real identity, the townsfolk also had no clue about what he'd been up to for the last eight months—accruing a vast amount of wealth with some well-played investments in the stock market. He doubted any of his other Delta Force teammates fared so well with their share, not that they needed to. The amount of money they made from the German's purchase of the Iraqi loot was more than enough to sustain someone for life. Billy, however, had always known that if he really wanted to be safe, he'd have to grow that initial cash pile into something more substantial.

  When he arrived in Cuchara under the alias of Tyler Mumford, his net worth was a whopping thirty million, far more than any individual in the entire county as far as he knew. With such a hefty collection of assets behind him, Tyler set things in motion to get the cops on his side, along with a new set of friends he could ply for everything from information to enforcers.

  He'd been surprised at how easily they all caved. Though, to be fair, he'd never been rich before.

  Billy grew up in a small town with poor parents. The military had been the best chance for him to do anything with his life. Now that he had more than he could have ever imagined, he found it odd how people simply fell in line around his desires—even law enforcement.