Dissolution: The Wyoming Chronicles: Book One

by W. Michael Gear

  “Where’s your friends?” one of the men called.

  “Just me. I wanted to get, like, elemental with nature. Like you guys, camping up here in the wilds.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “You know, El le men tal! Whoo!” she shrieked and whooped, then skipped a step. “Got the wild in me.”

  Breeze pulled up her binoculars, scanning the men’s expressions. Even from where he watched, Sam could see them grin, nudge each other behind the wooden wall of their fortress.

  “So, where’s the hand grenade?” Sam asked, eyes to the gap in the branches. What did Amber do? Stuff it down the front of her pants?

  “Got me. But you get ready, Sam. She’s almost there. Ease your way over to the side but stay down. Just like Amber said, when she tosses that grenade, we run faster than we’ve ever run before.”

  And my priority target will be the first guy to climb up on that Polaris and reach for the big fifty. He checked to be sure the safety was off on the Marlin. All he had to do was thumb the hammer back and shoot.

  Sam belly-crawled after Breeze, his heart beginning to hammer with that unnerving sense of dread.

  It looked like Amber was really going to pull this off.

  What the hell? When Amber reached the breastwork, she didn’t stop, but climbed up and jumped lightly over. She was laughing, almost maniacal as the men pressed around her.

  Across the distance, Sam barely heard one of them say, “Sweet Jesus, where’d you get all those scars?”

  Amber almost squealed as she announced, “Wait till you see what I’ve got in my pants, you big stud.”

  Sam couldn’t see, but from the look of Amber’s shoulders, she was undoing her fly. As she reached out with her right hand, offering something to the men, she threw her head back, shouting, “Abu al Palmyri, this is for you, you piece of shit!”

  Breeze hissed, “Sam! Now!”

  Sam stumbled to his feet, vaulted the last of the branches, and pounded for the breastworks; the grenade exploded with a muffled bang.

  He saw Amber’s red hair blow out straight, head punched back. The men standing in front of her were blasted back like rag dolls, guns flying, heads jerking forward and back.

  Beside him, Breeze was running for all she was worth. The Polaris rocked on its suspension as men and shrapnel thudded into it.

  And then everything went oddly still. The only sound came from Breeze and Sam’s boots slapping into the trail, the air rasping in and out of their lungs.

  Side by side, they reached the breastworks, literally ran up the logs and vaulted, coming down to one side of where Amber Sagan’s body lay against the rough logs, her face tilted back, eyes wide like blue glass. Her mouth gaped wide, her hair in a spray.

  Her gut...

  Sam glanced away, turning his attention to the men.

  Breeze dropped beside him, stunned as she stared at the woman’s torn remains.

  The guy to Breeze’s right, wearing a shredded Tee-shirt, his arms a maze of tattoos, jerked, sucking for air where he lay propped against the Polaris. Blood ran red from punctures up and down his torso.

  The two men who’d been tossed to the side lay in a tangle of limbs and torn flesh. Neither moved.

  The fourth—a Levi jacket partially blown from his body—lay on his back. His lungs were spasming, one eye wide, the other a bloody mass of tissue where shrapnel had torn its way into his brain. Another piece of shrapnel had broken his arm, which lay askance and crooked.

  “Amber?” Sam wheezed, dropping next to the eviscerated corpse with its bits and ropes of bloody intestines. His breath caught, mouth working, as he took in the carnage. The blood. The ruined meat.

  Peppered with jagged holes torn by metal fragments, the Polaris leaned, both the tires on the left now flat.

  Breeze bent down, checking the tattooed dude. He kept blinking, trying to suck a full breath. Blood had begun to bubble on his lips.

  At the tangle of corpses, she did the eye test, tapping her finger to a fixed eyeball on each one. Neither so much as flinched.

  Even as she turned to number four, his limbs twitched and jerked, and what was left of the air rattled from his lungs.

  The soft crackle of the radio on her belt brought her back. She lifted it, saying, “Yes?”

  “We’re in position,” Brandon’s almost whispered voice told her. “We can see Willy across the way. All set. Status?”

  “The way’s clear all the way in. They hear the grenade go off down there at the ranch?”

  “Is that what that was? No. Just a muffled bang. The guys down here just looked up the canyon, then went back to what they were doing. Only counted four guys so far. Two at the stable. Two down by the house. No telling how many might be inside at breakfast.”

  “Got it. We’re clear all the way in.”

  She holstered the radio, getting to her feet. “Let’s go, Sam.”

  But Sam just crouched there, appalled gaze fixed on what remained of Amber Sagan’s ripped and scarred body. The world seemed to fade, as though he was seeing it from an ever greater distance...

  The Hero

  The ultimate hero is the one who sacrifices himself or herself to save others. That’s what made the Jesus myth so powerful. Think Congressional Medal of Honor recipients. From Katniss Everdeen to Harry Potter, those heroes are the most powerful. Even Spiderman gave up what he wanted most: the girl of his dreams. They all served a higher calling than themselves.

  Did Amber Sagan?

  — Excerpt from Breeze Tappan’s Journal.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  “Sam? Sam!” He heard the words, faint. Coming from across eternity.

  A keening seemed to grow, to encompass him, enfolding him in a blanket that wrapped tighter and tighter, crushing the breath from his lungs.

  He tried to comprehend what he was seeing: Amber’s pale arms, lined and blotched with patterns of white scar tissue, hands missing, lower arms ending in bloody and shattered bone. Her face, untouched by the blast. The eyes stared vacantly at the sky, her gaping mouth, dentures hanging loose to expose pink gums.

  Dear God, they broke out her teeth!

  Only smooth scar tissue remained on her breasts where the nipples should have been. He couldn’t breathe. Felt his heart straining in his chest.

  In that instant, Nynymbi appeared, seemed to hang in the air. Sam stared into the creature’s eyes, the dark rings like an infinity of midnight time and space.

  “Sam!” Breeze barked. “Snap out of it!”

  He realized he was panting, throat catching at the sickening smell clogging his nostrils.

  “Sam, we’ve got to go.” Breeze continued to glare. “Get it together.”

  “Yeah.” He swallowed, fought the urge to throw up.

  She pulled him to his feet, where he wavered unsteadily. Somehow, he clung to the Marlin rifle, but every nerve in his body had gone rubbery.

  “Sam?” Breeze was back, her face thrust into his. “You with me? You gonna make it?”

  He jerked a nod. Ground his teeth. “Yeah. I... I’m just... Got the shakes.”

  “If you’re going to fold on me at the last minute, I’m better off going without you. You can cover my rear, here.”

  An image of Shyla—of what they would have done to her—made him close his eyes. The thought of what men had done to Amber, lent him the rage and energy. “No. Let’s go.”

  He followed on unsteady feet as she led the way past the listing ATV with its canted machine gun.

  Only as he walked did he grow aware of the valley again, of the now-gouged-out trail where logs had been dragged. His brain continued to stumble; his soul might have come loose from the rest of his body.

  Sam tried to comprehend, failed. “What kind of shit are we living?”

  Breeze turned, leveling a finger. “We’re stopping Edgewater. That’s what Amber bought us...a free shot to kill that motherfucker and get those hostages out.”

  Shyla’s face hung in his memory. He kept catching flickering gli
mpses of Nynymbi as the spirit helper darted ahead. “I want the bastard dead.”

  “When we get down there, Sam, there’s no time for second guessing. No mercy. We’re there to kill and do whatever it takes to get those prisoners out. And then we’ll do anything it takes to buy them enough time to get away.”

  Filling his lungs with the fresh morning air, it came home that—horror aside—he really hadn’t planned to get out of this alive. “Just get me close enough that I can put a bullet through that piece of shit’s heart.”

  “With an attitude like that, you’ll do, Sam Delgado.”

  Breeze kept them to the trees as they emerged from the canyon. She led the way, hopping over the creek and crouching down in the willows that overlooked the barn. She lifted her radio. “We’re in position, bro. Maybe fifty yards from the northeast corner of the stables. I don’t see anyone.”

  “The two guards went inside maybe three minutes ago. Yard’s clear. You want to chance it?”

  “No. Leaving two guys behind us is a death sentence. We’re going for the barn. Cover us.” Breeze slipped the radio back in its holster, saying, “Safety off on your rifle, Sam. Anyone gets in your way, shoot him.”

  She watched him click the Marlin’s safety button into the receiver, adding, “Just walk. Like we’re out for a morning stroll. Anyone sees us running, it’ll be a dead giveaway.”

  Sam’s heart began to pound as he followed her out of the willows and got a good look at Clark Ranch. “What the hell?”

  The camp filled the lawn area behind the big house: a tall, fenced enclosure maybe ten feet high, topped with a roll of concertina wire. The center of the square was filled with wall tents. Through the wire, Sam could see five, six, no an even dozen men and women. They stood at the far end, some with hands extended to a smoking fire.

  “Looks like a prison,” Breeze muttered. “Shit. It’s like a fucking little mini concentration camp.”

  It hit him like a dash of cold water. “Split up. You get the guys in the stable. I’m taking out the fence.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  On the left, the stable building was a beautiful thing made of cedar with a red-tin roof. Off at an angle sat a sizeable barn-like arena. The creek ran down out of the canyon, under an ornate bridge, and skirted a wide lawn that sloped down to a multimillion-dollar mansion.

  A huge, sprawling thing built of logs, with soaring river-rock fireplaces, and low-hung eaves, the great house was a masterpiece of design. From this angle an artistic, stone-paved patio with a fire ring, barbecue, and glass patio tables abutted huge floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Behind them, Sam could make out what looked like a sunken bar and lounge. The distance coupled with the angle of sunlight on the windows was such that he couldn’t really discern the room’s contents, but it looked like plush sofas, a pool table, and designer woodwork.

  “Holy shit,” he murmured before glancing north to take in the long garage with no less than eight large doors. A yellow D8 caterpillar was parked at the side, and a raised fuel tank could be seen above the far end.

  Beyond the house, lush, green alfalfa pastures sloped gently down to the South Fork of the Shoshone River. A paved driveway led down, crossed a bridge, and met the county road that ran along the west side of the valley. The whole place looked remarkably peaceful, hardly threatening at all.

  A shot rang out, carrying down from the slope above the garage. Sam heard the meaty pock of the bullet and just caught sight of the man on the patio as he collapsed. The only sound beyond the echo of the shot was the man’s gun clattering on the stone paving.

  The people inside the wire, started, looking around. Others began to emerge from the lines of wall tents.

  “Hey!” an armed man called out, stepping into view on the far side of the wire compound. “Don’t none of you fuckers get any ideas! First person to get close to the wire gets shot!”

  The prisoners were now milling, the knot of them growing larger where they gathered around the fire.

  “Okay, Sam. Armed guard on the concentration camp.” How was he going to get the wire down? He looked around. Breeze had reached the barn door; she didn’t even hesitate, but threw it open, M4 leveled, and charged in.

  A second later, two shots could be heard from inside the barn.

  Don’t think. Just act.

  Sam beat feet to the garage, slipped behind the Cat and opened the side door.

  The line of automobiles glistened in the diffused morning light coming through translucent panels in the roof. Closest to him, a 57 Chevy two-door, turquoise with a white roof, gleamed. Next to it, something Italian, like a flying wedge, maybe a Ferrari or Lamborghini? A couple of 60s muscle cars. No help there.

  And on the back wall, sitting atop a steel stand, rested a barrel-shaped fuel tank, complete with filler hose, marked LEADED GASOLINE ONLY.

  The popping of gunfire could be heard outside.

  Sam hustled to the fuel tank, unhooked the hose, and used a WD-40 can to prop the filler handle wide. Gasoline spewed as Sam dropped it to the floor, stepped back, and found the lighter in his pocket. Flipping the flame on, he tossed it.

  The spreading pool of gas went up with a whoosh. Liquid fire ran under the bright red Italian job. As it did, a bullet whacked into the garage with metallic clang.

  Sam ducked back out the door. Shot a glance at the stable. The door gaped, but he couldn’t see Breeze. Bullets, however, were cracking into the walls.

  Sam ducked behind the Cat. Shot a glance around the side. Across the cleated tracks he could see the prisoners behind the wire; most were ducked down. Some were screaming, calling for help. Others shrieked. There were maybe forty of them visible now, some scuttling this way and that. One woman ran for the wire, only to be shot down by some unseen gunman.

  How the hell was he going to get that wire down? There was no gate in the back. No lock he could shoot. He’d have to somehow make his way around the front, open the gate in full view of the big house.

  With a runny feeling in his guts, he tightened his grip on the Marlin, charged out. Made two steps before something tore the air just to his side.

  Fuck me! That was a bullet!

  Skidding to a stop, he almost fell in his rush to get back behind the safety of the Cat. From there, he peered past the wire camp, could see the shooters now. A line of men who’d advanced to the end of the stone patio. Shots were banging out, echoing off the mountain behind, followed by a periodic rifle report from up on the slope.

  Inside the garage, something let loose with whump that shook the building. The roar inside was getting louder. Across the way, Breeze leaped out of the stable, her M4 rattling as a line of young women raced out.

  Sam watched the last of them fleeing pell-mell for the canyon, flinched as a bullet tore past his ear with a crack.

  He dropped to his knee, taking a sight on the house. Even as he picked out the shooter, a shot rang out from Willy’s ridge, and the guy dropped.

  “Bless you, buddy.”

  The line of women was running for all they were worth, Breeze still shouting orders.

  Another rifle shot came from Brandon’s location.

  “Sam,” Breeze shouted. “Get back. We’ve done all we can.”

  He stared at the panicked people in the fenced yard. How could he get that damn fence...?

  Breeze slid to a stop behind him.

  With a ping, a jacketed high-velocity round whined off the Cat’s side.

  “Think there’s a key in this?” Breeze asked, her eyes on where the last of the women were vanishing into the canyon. One, not so fortunate, a blonde, lay face-down in the grass beside the willows.

  “You can drive a Cat?”

  “Never had the chance, you?”

  “In Hempstead? Get real.”

  At the sound of feet, Sam raised his rifle, leaned out, and saw the guy in a red tee-shirt and Dockers who rounded the garage. One instant, the man was lifting his rifle. Sam triggered th
e Marlin. And then the gunman was flat on the ground. Lost in the recoil Sam didn’t even see him fall.

  He glanced past the track, down to where the house now swarmed with men, he could see them behind the huge picture windows.

  “Breeze?” he called to where she was crouched behind the cat. “Think we could drive this down through those windows?”

  “Are you out of your...” Her brow lined. “Cover me.”

  Breeze made a leap to the track, made four steps, and Sam saw her wrench the cab door open. As she dove inside, a bullet blasted a star-patterned hole in the window where her head had been but an instant before.

  “Breeze? Talk to me.”

  “Give me a second, will you?”

  He could hear banging inside the cab.

  The .44 Marlin at the ready, Sam tried to control his breathing and watched the corner of the garage lest another guy appear from there. The man he’d shot through the chest had ceased gasping for breath; frothy blood continued leaking from his mouth and the hole in his blood-soaked shirt.

  To Sam’s surprise, the starter ground, and with a clattering of diesel, the Cat rumbled to life. White smoke puffed from the stack.

  “Breeze, what are you doing?” Sam shouted over the rumble of the exhaust.

  He heard the pock of glass breaking as a bullet found the windshield.

  “I don’t know the gears!” She called over the engine’s rumbling.

  “Whatever you’re doing, do it fast!” Men were starting forward.

  The engine raced. The Cat lurched forward, transmission howling.

  Even as it gathered speed, Breeze leaped out, fell, and scrambled to her feet. Staggered sideways as the supersonic crack of bullets filled the air. She was running full out, hair flying behind her.

  Sam barely heard the popping of shots from Willy’s and Brandon’s positions as he slid behind the garage’s bulk. Breeze threw herself behind the garage’s protection as something inside exploded, blowing a hole in the back wall no more than thirty feet from them.

  “I gotta see this,” Sam said, pressing against Breeze so he could look past the corner.