Blood Bought: Book Four in The Locker Nine Series

by Franklin Horton

  Seeing that the church was not providing safety for his people, the congressman was torn. Should he save his family or save himself? How could he save his own family without having to save all of the other families in there? He knew he couldn’t do that. He’d been unable to so far and nothing had changed. He was a failure. His mission was a failure. It was time to cut his losses.

  He had to hide. He had to retreat into the woods. He could come see what remained in the morning. He could make up a story about having been taken prisoner and escaped. He could say he’d been knocked out and left for dead. He could come up with something, he could always find the words when he needed them.

  Congressman Honaker took one last look at the carnage, at those shattered dreams years in the making. He backed toward the woods, seeing strangers in the RVs taking everything his people had brought to get through this winter, many of the people to whom he’d promised a future lying dead on the ground around him.

  Why did this this have to happen?

  It was the congressman’s last thought before a .300 WinMag round entered his head just below the right eye–below a single tear of loss and grief–and cratered the back of his skull.

  35

  Early the next morning Grace and Robert headed out in the ATV. In the back, besides their normal gear, was a Styrofoam cooler with ice and a six-pack of beer. Robert had a good bit of alcohol stored in his supplies. Besides being a good barter item, it could be gifted to build good will or show appreciation.

  Donnie was happy as a clam. When he opened the cooler, Robert wasn’t certain if he was more excited about the beer or the ice it sat in. “Lord, won’t you look at that? Pretty as a picture.”

  “Have I changed your opinion about writers, Donnie?” Robert teased.

  Donnie cracked open a can, sucked the foam off it, and let out a contented sigh. “Just because you weren’t lying about this particular thing doesn’t mean you’re not a liar. Unless, of course, you’re going to change professions and become something more honorable, like a farmer or a dentist or something.”

  “I don’t think there’s any profession that will prosper under current conditions,” Grace said.

  Donnie shook his head. “Undertaker. I watched a lot of Westerns. Undertakers always prosper, no matter how violent the town. They’re always whipping out those little tape measures for measuring caskets.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement,” Robert said.

  “Reckon you better.”

  They didn’t stay long, explaining they wanted to make a quick trip down the road to check for Brandon. They found him about four miles from Donnie’s house. He was scratched, dirty, and exhausted, but he strode in their direction like a man out for a morning walk . Maybe not just any man but a man on a morning walk with tactical gear and a sniper rifle.

  Robert slowed the ATV. “Need a ride, buddy?”

  Brandon nodded and leaned against the machine. “I’m running on fumes. Haven’t slept.”

  Grace handed a bottle of fresh water to Brandon. He took it eagerly, swallowed it in one long drink, and tossed the empty into the back.

  “The congressman is dead, and so are most of his men. Their camp is in ruins,” Brandon said.

  Robert turned the ATV off, got out, and walked around the front to stand at Brandon’s side. “Excuse me?”

  Brandon nodded. “The hikers at the camp in town went after the congressman for some reason. I don’t know why. I didn’t have anything to do with it. I met them on the road last night and followed them. They killed a lot of the congressman’s people and looted the camp, stole all his supplies.”

  “You know for certain that Congressman Honaker is dead?” Grace asked.

  “I do,” Brandon said. “He caught a stray round to the face. I personally witnessed it.”

  “A .300 WinMag round?” Robert asked, cocking an eyebrow at Brandon.

  “Affirmative.”

  “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. I appreciate that, Brandon.” Robert extended a hand and shook the younger man’s hand.

  “Just doing my job, Mr. Hardwick. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Get in,” Robert said. “We’re going to take you home and feed you, then you can grab some rest.”

  Brandon hopped in the back and was asleep in minutes.

  “I don’t know how he can sleep through this ride,” Grace said.

  “It’s a military thing,” Robert said.

  “Is the kid okay?” Brandon asked, digging into the hearty breakfast Theresa had thrown together for him.

  “Yes,” Grace answered. “He’s in there playing video games with Blake. We know he’s seen some horrible things but he’ll talk about them when, and if, he’s ever ready.”

  “All he’s said so far is that his granny is dead and his mother killed her,” Theresa added.

  Brandon took a deep breath and let it out in a huff. “That’s a lot for a kid to deal with.”

  “Did you see the congressman’s camp in daylight?” Robert asked.

  “I watched it all night. Most of the families fled into the church. The attackers didn’t go in after them, although anyone running around outside was fair game. Several women who tried to shoot back were killed. There were a lot of bodies.”

  “Did you go down there?” Theresa asked.

  Brandon shook his head. “I watched from a distance. I didn’t want to have to answer any questions about who I was and why I was there.”

  “Makes sense,” Grace said. “They might have expected you to rescue them.”

  “Exactly,” Brandon said.

  “And you’re certain the congressman is dead?” Robert confirmed.

  “I saw his body again in the daylight right where I…where the stray round caught him,” Brandon said. “I didn’t see any men alive at all.”

  “This is exactly what Arthur was trying to avoid at the compound,” Robert said. “He didn’t want those families stuck out here with no one to take care of them.”

  “That’s not our fault,” Grace said. “None of that is on us. You can blame the congressman, you can blame the husbands that brought their families here, you can blame the hikers. You can’t blame us.”

  “I guess I need to go ahead and let you know that I’ll be leaving tomorrow,” Brandon said. “I need a day to rest and repack my gear, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

  “You know you don’t have to rush off,” Robert said seriously. “You’re welcome here as long as you want to stay.”

  “I appreciate that but I have obligations at the compound.”

  “I understand. I can’t thank you enough, Brandon. I can’t thank Arthur and Kevin enough for their help either. Please relay that when you see them.”

  “I will. I appreciate the hospitality,” Brandon said. “You guys have treated me like family and I’m glad I was able to see this through to the end.”

  “We can outfit and resupply you,” Grace said. “Anything you need for the trip back to the compound, just let us know. Anything you need us to store for you, we’ll take care of. It will be here waiting on you.”

  “I might take you up on that. I’m not sure I need to carry multiple rifles.”

  “How are you going?” Robert asked. “Have you planned a route?”

  “Actually, I’m going to start out on the Appalachian Trail,” Brandon said. “I’ve always wanted to see it.”

  Everyone looked at him, waiting for a smile, but the serious young man didn’t falter.

  Robert groaned. “You’re serious?”

  “Yep.”

  “You haven’t had enough of hikers and trail towns?” Tom asked.

  “That’s the most direct route,” Brandon said. “That’s how I’m doing it.”

  “If Dad’s cool with it, I can get you to the trail on the ATV tomorrow,” Grace said. “If I can save you a few miles that will put you farther down the road.”

  “That would be appreciated but isn’t necessary,” Brandon said. “I don’t want an
yone putting themselves at risk.”

  “It’s manageable,” Robert said. “No bother at all.”

  Brandon turned in his chair to glance at Tom, sitting in the wheelchair they’d traded from Donnie. “What about you, brother? You and your mom sticking around here?”

  Tom nodded. “As long as they’ll have us. Depends on how fast the world rights itself.”

  “Could be a while,” Brandon said, returning to his eggs.

  “Well, I need to get back to the bottom of the driveway,” Tom said. “I don’t want to leave it unattended for too long. Just wanted to hear the news.”

  “I’ll head out with you,” Grace said. “I’ve got animals to take care of.”

  When Grace and Tom were out the door, Robert gave his wife a look. “There’s something brewing between those two, isn’t there?”

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re just now noticing?”

  Robert shook his head. “Why is that the dad is always the last one to know everything?”

  “I need to check on the boys,” Theresa said. “They’re probably ready for lunch.”

  It was only Brandon and Robert in the kitchen. Brandon focused on eating. Robert was certain that Brandon was intentionally restraining himself or the meal would have been finished minutes ago.

  “Anything else you need to tell me before you go?” Robert asked.

  “Not sure what you mean, sir?” Brandon asked, not looking up from his plate.

  “Nothing in particular. Just wanted to give you the opportunity to clear your slate if you had anything you wanted to mention or needed to get off your chest.”

  Brandon looked up and shrugged. “Nothing I haven’t mentioned already, Mr. Hardwick. It was just another mission. A successful mission.”

  Robert stood and patted the younger man on the shoulder. “Grab some sleep when you’re done. Sleep well, my friend. I know we’ll sleep better tonight because of you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Robert stepped out onto the front porch. He looked at the rolling pastures and the wooded hills surrounding his home. For the first time since the terror attacks, he didn’t feel anxious. He didn’t feel like he was being slowly strangled by fear. Grace was home. He was home. The threat that had followed him had been eradicated.

  Hard times and suffering were not over. It was likely they would fight again, and it was likely they would kill. Yet today was a new beginning. Each of them was headed into a new life and he would do everything he could to make it as safe, as comfortable, and as fulfilling as he could.

  Bonus Content

  Please enjoy this sample chapter from The Mad Mick, the first book in The Mad Mick Series

  Meet The Mad Mick

  Conor Maguire felt the approach of colder weather in the morning air. He wore short sleeves but caught a slight chill on his front porch until the sunlight hit him and warmed his skin. He sipped coffee from a large mug, his favorite, embossed with Coffee Makes Me Poop. It had been a Father’s Day present from his daughter Barb, who really knew how to pick a gift.

  There had been no frost yet, but that would come soon. The previous night had probably gone as low as the upper forties, but if the recent weather pattern held they should see upper sixties to lower seventies by the end of the day. It kind of sucked to not have a goofy weatherman updating them each evening on what to expect. It sucked not having an app on his phone that would allow him to see a current weather radar. All that technology had disappeared with the nationwide collapse.

  Goats and hair sheep wandered the fenced compound nibbling at clusters of grass poking through crumbling fissures in the asphalt, dry leaves crackling beneath their hooves. Chickens trailed the goats, searching for bugs, worms, or anything unfamiliar to eat. Crows cawed in the distance, making their plans for the day. Conor dreaded the winter. He dreaded the cold and the inevitable discomfort winter brought. He dreaded the misery and suffering. Not so much for himself, as he was well-provisioned and had wood heat, but studies both public and private had shown that the first winter with no power would result in a massive loss of life.

  As a statistic, those lives meant little to him. He was a solitary person. But when you zoomed in on them, those lives were neighbors, they were kids he saw playing in the yards of homes he used to drive by; and elderly folks who waved to him from the porches of humble houses with white aluminum siding and cast iron eagles over the garage door. When spring came, when the crocuses pushed through the cool, damp earth, the world would be a changed place. Conor could not help but be very concerned about what stood between the world he looked at now and that future world he could not even imagine. Between those two bookends lay volumes of death, sickness, suffering, and unthinkable pain.

  Conor's friends called him “the Mad Mick,” and if you knew him long enough you would understand why. He walked to the beat of his own deranged and drunken drummer. He had his own code of morality with zero fucks given as to what others thought of it. He lived with his daughter Barb in what he referred to as a homey cottage on top of a mountain in Jewell Ridge, Virginia. His cottage had once been the headquarters of a now-defunct coal company. It was a massive, sprawling facility where there had once been both underground and longwall mines. Numerous buildings scattered around the property held repair shops and offices.

  When Conor first looked at the property he thought it was absolutely ridiculous that a man might be so fortunate as to live there. It reminded him of the lair of some evil genius in an old James Bond movie. It was surrounded by an eight-foot high chain-link fence and topped with barbed wire. There was a helipad and more space than he could ever use. There was even an elevator that would take him to an underground shop the coal company had used to repair their mining equipment.

  The ridiculous part was that the facility, which had cost the coal company millions of dollars to build out, was selling for just a fraction of that because it was in such a remote location no one wanted it. In the end Conor came to own the facility and it did not even cost him a penny. His grateful employer had purchased the property for him. It was not an entirely charitable gesture, though. Conor was a very specialized type of contractor and his employer would do nearly anything to keep him at their beck and call.

  In an effort to make the place more like a home, Conor had taken one of the steel-skinned office buildings and built a long wooden porch on it, then added a wooden screen door in front of the heavy steel door. Going in and out now produced a satisfying thwack as the wooden door smacked shut.

  Conor placed his coffee cup on a table made from an old cable spool and sat in a creaking wicker chair. Barb backed out the door with two plates.

  “I hope you’ve been to the fecking Bojangles,” Conor said. “I could use a biscuit and a big honking cup of sweet tea.”

  Barb frowned at him. “You’re an Irishman, born in the old country no less, and you call that syrupy crap tea?”

  “Bo knows biscuits. Bo knows sweet tea.”

  “Bo is why you had to take to wearing sweatpants all the time too,” Barb said. “You couldn’t squeeze that big old biscuit of yours into a pair of jeans anymore.” She handed her dad a plate of onions and canned ham scrambled into a couple of fresh eggs.

  Conor frowned at the insinuation but the frown turned to a smile as his eyes took in the sprinkling of goat cheese that topped off the breakfast. “Damn, that smells delicious.”

  “Barb knows eggs,” his daughter quipped.

  “Barb does know eggs,” Conor agreed, shoveling a forkful into his mouth.

  Conor was born in Ireland and came to the U.S. with his mom as a young man. Back in Ireland, the family business was bomb-making and the family business led to a lot of family enemies, especially among the police and the military. After his father and grandfather were arrested in the troubles, Conor’s mom decided that changing countries might be the only way to keep what was left of her family alive. She didn’t realize Conor had already learned the rud
iments of the trade while watching the men of his family build bombs. Assuming Conor would one day be engaged to carry on the fight, the men of the family maintained a running narrative, explaining each detail of what they were doing. Conor learned later, in a dramatic and deadly fashion, that he was able to retain a surprising amount of those early childhood lessons.

  He and his mother settled first in Boston, then in North Carolina where Conor attended school. In high school, Conor chose vocational school and went on to a technical school after graduation. He loved working with his hands to create precise mechanisms from raw materials, which led him to becoming a skilled machinist and fabricator.

  Conor was well-behaved for most of his life, flying under the radar and avoiding any legal entanglements. Then he was married, and the highest and lowest points of his life quickly showed up at his doorstep. He and his wife had a baby girl. A year later a drunk driver killed his wife and nearly killed Barb too. Something snapped in Conor and the affable Irishman became weaponized. He combined his childhood bomb-making lessons with the machinist skills he’d obtained in technical school and sought vengeance.

  How could he not? Justice had not been served. There was also something deep within Conor that told him you didn’t just accept such things. You continued the fight. There was the law of books and there was the law of man. The law of man required Conor seek true justice for his dead wife.

  When the drunk driver was released from jail in what the Mad Mick felt was a laughably short amount of time, the reformed drunk was given special court permission to drive to work. Conor took matters into his own hands. He obtained a duplicate of the headrest in the man’s truck from a junkyard and built a bomb inside it. While the man was at his job, Conor switched out the headrest. A proximity switch in the bomb was triggered by a transmitter hidden along his route home. One moment he was singing along to Journey on the radio and enjoying his new freedom. The next, his head was vaporized to an aerosol mist by the exploding headrest.