The Breeders Series: The Complete Box Set

by Katie French

  He pops up, his gun ready, but there’s no target. As he’s dipping back down, he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. A small, curly-haired figure jumps out of the Breeders’ open van door. Hannah, with her hands bound in front of her, runs toward Clay.

  Oh God, Hannah. He pops up, ready to shoot if the Breeders so much as stick an eyelash over their cover. Would they kill a little girl? Clay has no idea. Sure, she’s worth something, but not if they can’t get ahold of her. Clay watches her run, the fear tight around his throat. Her little legs are pumping, and her round cheeks are red. Sunlight turns her curls a warm amber color.

  One of the guards hears the commotion and sticks his head up above the van’s cover. He aims his gun at Hannah.

  Clay fires. The shot smashes into the guard’s skull, sending a spray of blood out the back of his head. The guard falls back behind the van.

  Hannah, scared by the gunshot, stumbles to a stop in the road between the two vehicles. Her head whips around as she tries to decide what to do.

  Heart pounding, Clay launches himself around the Armadillo and runs to Hannah.

  The guard sees him almost immediately. As Clay runs, he sees the barrel of the gun poke out over the van’s nose. He dips sideways, kicking up dirt and rocks. The blast is loud, and the bullet parts the air beside him. Scrambling upright, he sprints to Hannah. She’s ten yards away, hair in her face, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  The guard aims his gun at her.

  “No!” Clay reaches out, but she’s too far away. He sees everything in slow motion—her tears, one hand reaching for him, the glint of light off the gun barrel as it takes aim on her head.

  Clay dives.

  The gun goes off.

  His arms circle a body as the crack of the pistol rolls over the sandy valley. He pulls her into him. His body cushions her fall as they land on their backs in the dirt, rolling, sand and grit flying into his face, but all he wants to do is keep her safe. Did the bullet get to her before he did? He can’t breathe. He can’t look.

  He lies on the ground, panting and holding the child in his arms. She doesn’t move. His heart is crumbling into a million pieces.

  “Clay?” a little voice says. “You okay?”

  He looks down and sees her round, trusting eyes.

  He saved her. Not Cole, but Hannah.

  He couldn’t stand to lose them both.

  Chapter 6

  A Few Days Ago

  “Think Martha’ll have apple pie for dessert?” Cole asks. He turns his mud-caked face to Clay. His gray-blue eyes sparkle.

  “Probably.” With one hand on the steering wheel, Clay reaches across the bench seat of his pa’s Jeep and wipes the mud off Cole’s cheek.

  Cole bats at Clay’s hands. “Stop it!”

  “Come here,” Clay playfully says. “You look as dirty as a pig in shit.”

  Cole smirks. “You said ‘shit.’”

  Clay lifts an eyebrow. The road is clear, the day is bright, and he’s feeling all right. “You gonna tell pa?”

  Cole shrugs small shoulders, his shirt making a scratching noise on the truck’s ratty leather seat. “We’ll see.” He smiles, but his eyes are drawn to the road.

  Clay sees it, too. All joking fades away as a vehicle comes into view.

  “What is it?” Cole tucks down small in the truck seat.

  Clay puts both hands on the steering wheel and squints out over the dash. “Don’t know. Strap in.”

  Cole obliges and pulls the tattered safety belt across his chest. The click eases Clay’s nerves just a notch. A car on the road is usually bad news. Pa’s had teams clearing cars in this area for years. The old junkers and burned-out husks are pushed to the road’s sand-covered shoulders. Any moving car means trouble.

  Clay looks at Cole nervously. They’ve come out here on a joyride. Without Pa’s permission. Just blowing off steam while their pa was nursing one hell of a hangover. But they don’t have guns. Clay has a knife in his pants’ pocket, but little good that’ll do him if these folks have high caliber.

  “We could turn around,” Cole says. His voice is small in the cab.

  Clay flexes his hands on the steering wheel. “How’ll we get home? There ain’t no other clear road for miles. We’ll run outta fuel.”

  Cole’s eyes grow wet, but he doesn’t cry. “We could blast on by.”

  Clay nods. He’s thought of this. If he goes fast enough, maybe they’ll get away unscathed. He can only hope these men are as useless with a rifle as most of the road gangs.

  The noon sun shines off the car’s bright yellow hood. How would a car still be that shiny? Every other truck he’s seen runs the gamut of browns—rust, dust, dirt, mud, sand. Before he realizes it, he’s lifting his foot off the gas.

  “Clay?” Cole puts his small hand on Clay’s arm.

  It’s a sports car, the kind men used to lose their minds over, all sleek curves and shiny hubcaps, a sloping hood hugging close to the ground. Camaro, Ferrari, Lamborghini? He knows these names, heard men whisper about them like unicorns or fairies. They don’t exist anymore, but they’ve heard tales, seen signs.

  He slows down.

  “Clay?” Cole shakes Clay’s sleeve.

  “Don’t worry,” Clay says. Now he can see it’s topless. What do they call it? Convertible? Only a fool would drive around with his head bare to every danger. Or someone so sure of himself that safety never crossed his mind.

  They’re close now. Clay flexes his sweaty hands on the steering wheel. He can’t blow past. Every atom is humming see, see, see.

  “Clay?”

  He steps on the brake as they pull up. Someone is in the driver’s seat.

  Long hair blows in ribbons over the headrest, blond as a high-noon sun. Her lips are red, rogued up that way to attract attention, and boy, do they work. Clay feels a throbbing in his chest. A woman. A real, flesh-and-blood woman is sitting in the driver’s seat of the sports car.

  “A girl,” Cole breathes. “Is she real, Clay?”

  Clay blinks, rubs his eyes. “I don’t know.”

  Cole’s door yawns open, screeching on rusty hinges. Clay has enough time to turn and see the man pull out the knife before his own door is yanked open.

  “Cole!” he screams.

  When the blade plunges into Clay’s side, it is cold and unforgiving.

  Chapter 7

  Now

  Clay sits up, still holding onto Hannah. He looks down at her. “You okay?”

  She smiles, tiny, white teeth showing.

  Jess appears, holding one of the guard’s handguns. Her face has begun to bruise, and there’s a split on her lip, but she looks okay.

  “What happened?” he asks her.

  Jess glances back toward the Breeders. Two bodies lay beside the van’s tires. Two guards bleed into the dirt. “I got his pistol.” She holds it up. “Daddy taught us how to shoot before we could speak.” She walks over and kneels before Hannah. “You okay, bug?”

  Hannah nods. “Clay saved me.”

  Jess looks up at Clay as if she’s seeing him for the first time. He tries not to blush. Finally, she nods. “He did. Good job, Clay.”

  He clears his throat and tries to sound nonchalant. “Weren’t nothing.”

  A smile plays at the corner of her mouth. “It was something. Now, let’s get out of the road.” Jess holds out a hand. Taking it, he lets her pull him to his feet.

  They drive both vehicles off the road and pull them behind the remains of a mom-and-pop diner with no roof and walls that tilt in toward each other like tired soldiers. The parking lot is empty save for a picked-over car shell and a rusted dumpster full of trash so old it doesn’t smell. Jess and Hannah open up the back of the Breeders’ van and invite Clay in without hesitation. The van is similar to the Armadillo, with seating up front and a sectioned-off back with no windows. But the Breeders’ van has carpet—industrial-strength weave that feels like it’s made out of plastic—and benches. There are handcuffs welded at
intervals along the sides that shout, “Get real comfortable, prisoner. You’ll be here a while.”

  Clay feels awkward in the cramped space so close to the girls. He tucks his knees to his chest and hugs them. Under the watch of those big, brown eyes, he feels tentative, nervous.

  Jess takes the van keys and opens the storage containers where she finds protein packs and skins of a gooey, yellow gel that claim to quench your thirst faster than water. All three squeeze the packs into their mouths. The taste is something like lemon rinds and cleaning products, but Clay feels less thirsty. Jess also holds up packs of first aid kits with gauze, antibiotic cream, and foreign-looking things he can’t name. He always suspected the Breeders were holding out on Pa, giving him the second-rate shit, but now he can tell him for sure.

  Pa. He can’t tell Pa anything. Clay has killed Pa’s partners. If Clay goes home, it’ll be to his own funeral.

  Jess nudges him, offers a pack of antibiotic gel, and points to his elbow. “You scratched yourself up pretty good.”

  She’s right. His elbow is a tattered mess of bloody skin and frayed fabric. He starts to roll up his sleeve, but it’s awkward with one hand. She places her hand on his and rolls the sleeve up herself. He watches, feeling the pads of her fingertips brush his skin as she finds his elbow and begins rubbing on the cool gel. Her body is close. He smells her scent again, looking at the curve of her neck as it dips into her shirt, at the curl of dark hair under her earlobe.

  “There,” she says, sitting back. “Done.”

  He swallows and tries to think of anything but her soft, female body. “Thanks.”

  Hannah bounds through the van, shaking it as she goes, and begins digging through the supply lockers. She holds up a silver package that looks to be a heat-reflecting blanket. “Where’d they get all this stuff, Jess?”

  Clay takes the package from her and turns it over in his hands. “They make it. Or trade for what they can’t make.” Clay hands the blanket back to Hannah. “That’s quite a lot of loot. Worth a ton.” He looks at Jess. “What’re you gonna do?”

  Jess looks over at Hannah and back to Clay. “Stay here, bug. Clay and I gotta get something from the other van, okay?”

  Hannah nods, opening up the blanket and making herself a crinkly silver tent.

  Jess walks to the back of the van and jumps out. She leads him to the Armadillo and leans against the side panel, dented now with bullet scars. Clay stands awkwardly beside her, rubbing the scruff of his neck.

  When she turns toward him, his heartbeat picks up. A light wind toys at the hair at the back of her neck and a strand over her forehead. Her lips look impossibly soft, like satin. He realizes he’s staring at them. She does, too. He leans forward, closing his eyes.

  She presses her hand against his chest, pushing him away. “I can’t. Not after…”

  He’s such an idiot. After all she’s been through. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

  “Don’t be sorry,” she says. “You saved us. I thought you were as bad as those men, but I was wrong. There is light in you.”

  He looks at her lips, trying to stop himself from surging forward and kissing them. “I can go with you,” he blurts. “You’ll need a man. Two girls can’t be alone.”

  Her smile fades. Clay watches it with a sinking feeling in his chest.

  “I really appreciate what you done,” she says with her eyes on the ground. “But me and Hannah are going on alone.”

  Clay tenderly grabs her wrist. “That’s suicide and you know it. How can you trade or get goods in town? What’ll you do if the Breeders come lookin’?”

  Jess looks away. “My daddy trained me for this from the moment I was born. He knew someone would take him. He knew I needed to be ready. I can drive, shoot, and deliver piglets. I might not be as good on the draw as you, but I ain’t half-bad.” She lets her hand curl around his, fingers intertwining until he’s not sure which are his. “Your people are gonna come looking for you and that fancy van you got. Hannah and me don’t need no more people looking for us.”

  Clay feels his heart shrivel like fruit left in the sun. “Where will you go?”

  Jess rubs her thumb around the back of his hand. He loves every touch. “My pa has a brother in Flagstaff. Or did. He said if we were ever separated to head west. I’ve looked that Breeders’ vehicle over, and it runs on fuel and solar. I figure it might make it to Flagstaff.”

  Clay squints over at the white van and nods. “Maybe.” He watches her fingers rub over the contours of his hands and tries to think of the words. “I like you, Jess.”

  She smiles. “I like you, too. I wish this goddammed world were different.”

  Clay sighs. “Don’t we all.”

  As she pulls away, he watches the rooster tail of dust churn up the road. West. He starts thinking of reasons to go to Flagstaff.

  Soon enough, he forces himself back in the Armadillo and back on the road. He doesn’t want to go home, back to Pa and whatever waits there, but he has nowhere else to go. And who would protect Martha on those nights when Pa got too drunk? And Lulu and her girls. Who will watch out for them when the dirt farmers get too handsy? Sure as hell not Pa.

  When he sees the town wall, a lump of dread twists his stomach. He approaches slowly, letting the Armadillo crawl toward the gate. The vehicle will be recognizable, but they’ll want to know who’s driving it. Then they’ll want to know what happened to Johnson, Bear, Darby, and Vance. Clay swallows hard, rolls down the window, and sticks his head out, hoping to God the gate guard won’t shoot it off.

  “It’s me, Clay!” he hollers up. “Open the gate.”

  The guard nods. “Sheriff’s expecting you.”

  Clay pulls his head back in. Pa’s expecting him? Why?

  The gate draws open, creaking on its huge hinges. He pulls up and parks the Armadillo in its spot near the front, next to Pa’s other vehicles. When he gets out and stretches his legs, he sees Pa across the dusty parking lot. He’s waiting, arms across his barrel chest, bare head browning in the sun. He gestures Clay forward. Clay takes a deep breath, straightens his shoulders, and walks toward Pa.

  Pa regards him. “Whose gun belts you got?”

  Clay looks down, forgetting he’s wearing them. “Vance’s. This here gun’s Darby’s.” He fingers the stocky revolver.

  Pa chews one side of his lip and snorts. “I see.” He gives a long, loaded pause, turns, and waves Clay after him. “This way. Let’s go.”

  Clay’s eyebrows go up when Pa leads him into the brothel. Inside, Johnson, pale and bandaged, sits in one of Lulu’s old armchairs.

  “Jesus Christ!” Clay says, one hand dropping down to his gun. Pa’s big mitt clamps over Clay’s hand.

  “Not so fast,” Pa says in his ear from behind him. “No guns in Lulu’s, ‘member?”

  Clay freezes. Pa reaches around and undoes Clay’s gun belt. He feels naked when it’s gone.

  Johnson, looking shrunken, shoots eye daggers at Clay. His clothes are still blood splattered in patterns of crusty brown. His right arm is in a clean sling—he’s been to the doc, and he’ll probably live.

  Shit! Clay thinks. I should’ve finished the bastard off when I had the chance.

  “Johnson had a tale to tell when he got back,” Pa says, walking around Clay and leaning casually on a barstool at the side of the room. “He says you shot him. Shot Bear, too. Says you went and got your panties in a bunch about a cooz we was supposed to sell to the Breeders. Where’s that girl now, Clay?” Pa looks at him, his eyes cold and calculating. Clay can feel the old tremble start in his legs. No matter how old he is, no matter what kind of man he becomes, he will always be afraid of his father.

  Clay lifts his chin and lies. “The girl’s on her way to the Breeders.”

  “Ha!” Johnson laughs dryly. “Lies.”

  Pa lazily chews a toothpick he’s picked up from the bar. “They radioed in. Their boys never made it back to Albuquerque. Musta found themselves some trouble.”

  “Sure
did!” Johnson yells, jabbing a finger at Clay. “Him! Tell ’em if they want to pick up the man who attacked them, he’ll be right here.” Spittle flecks the corners of Johnson’s cheeks. His face is almost entirely white except for two feverish spots of red on his cheeks.

  Clay stands stock-still, waiting for Pa.

  Pa lets the toothpick circle around and around in his mouth for a while. Pushing up from the barstool, he walks over to stand between Johnson and Clay. “You think we should call the Breeders, huh?” he asks Johnson, cocking his head to the side.

  Johnson nods, his thin, wispy hair trailing. “I do.”

  Pa nods. “And you think we should tell ’em my only living son killed their men?”

  Johnson’s answer is slower in coming this time. “Well… yes, Sheriff.”

  “And what do you think the Breeders will do when we tell them that?” Pa takes a couple of slow steps toward Johnson, his boots reverberating on the floorboards. He stands over Johnson and puts his hands on his hips. “Explain that to me. I’m kinda slow on the uptake.”

  Johnson opens his mouth, stammers a little, and shakes his head. “Th-they’ll take care of him for us.”

  Pa looks over at Clay and points at him. “Take care of my son?”

  Johnson shakes his head quickly. “I didn’t…”

  Pa takes another step until he towers over the sitting man. He leans down, putting one hand on Johnson’s injured shoulder. Clay watches as his father takes his thumb and begins pressing it into Johnson’s bullet wound.

  “We got our payment, yes?” Pa asks Johnson.

  Johnson, eyes wide and face drained of color, nods. “Yes.”

  “We did a successful handoff, yes?

  Johnson winces in pain and nods. “Yes.”