Dissolution: The Wyoming Chronicles: Book One

by W. Michael Gear

  “Is every bone in my body broken?” Sam rasped.

  “Not quite,” the nurse said with a smile. “The ribs took most of it. The crack in your hip will heal just fine. You should be over the worst of the concussion. The rest is pulled muscles and some pretty awesome bruising.

  “Go left!” the doctor called. “That driveway.”

  Sam felt the van lurch. The nurse grabbed for the strap holding his gurney as she was flung sideways. Sam whimpered as the vehicle was slammed to a stop.

  “Did they see us?” the doctor asked, sounding half panicked.

  “Guess we’ll know in a second, Doc.” Sam heard the driver shift in his seat, then a clunk. The bolt worked on a rifle. “If it gets hairy, Doc, I’ll bail and shoot. You switch to the driver’s seat, slam it in gear, and drive like hell.”

  “Dear God,” the nurse was whispering. “Please, don’t let them catch us.”

  Sam tried to muster some semblance of worry, but his thoughts had all the acuity of mush. He couldn’t even remember how he’d come to be here, let alone where here was.

  Lights grew brighter in the front of the cab, the doctor and driver crouching low and out of sight. Sam could see the shine passing through, the angle changing as a vehicle passed behind them. The sound slowly diminished and dwindled into complete darkness.

  “Damn,” the doctor hissed, righting himself in the passenger seat. “That was close.”

  “Good thing I thought to pull the bulbs out of the brake lights, huh?” the driver asked. “You owe me for this one, Doc.”

  “Wasn’t curing you of cancer good enough?”

  “Close, Doc. Close.” The driver was chuckling. “But you know damned well what they’ll do if they catch us with this guy.”

  “People are going to die either way,” the doctor said. “As if we didn’t have enough problems.”

  “Catch who?” Sam asked in his hoarse voice.

  “You, Mr. Delgado.” The doctor looked back as the van’s engine started; the truck backed out into what was apparently a street.

  “What did I do?”

  The nurse was taking his pulse again.

  The van shifted into drive, and Sam winced as it accelerated. Damn it, what he’d give for just a few minutes without the agony.

  “If you’re to be believed, you raided the director’s compound. Freed political prisoners and mysterious women who were being raped and abused. Flattened his house and burned his garage, not to mention killed about fifteen men and left another ten in the hospital.”

  “Good,” Sam said, trying not to breathe since it hurt his chest to do so. “Just wish...we’d gotten him, too.”

  He longed to take a deep breath but could only wince and try and suck shallowly as the pain built.

  “That makes you the most wanted man in Wyoming,” the nurse told him. “By both sides.”

  Sam’s mind was clearing. “Where are we?”

  “Headed someplace safe,” the doctor told him. “Senator Briarson’s.”

  “Who’s he?” Sam worked his lips, trying to conjure enough saliva to swallow.

  “Served three terms in the Senate back in the day. One of the most respected men in the state. Has a place on the outskirts of town.” The doctor made a gesture. “As long as we don’t run into another one of Edgewater’s patrols, you’ll live to meet the man.”

  The van hit a pothole. Sam heard himself cry out. And that hurt his lungs even worse. When he could even out his desperate breath, he said, “Hey, just make this pain go away, and I’m yours for whatever.”

  “Sorry, Sam,” the doctor told him. “But you’re going to need your wits here real soon.” To the driver the doctor said, “There, that’s the drive. Head back behind the house, and a garage door should open. Drive inside and we’re home free.”

  The van bumped over something.

  Sam thought his body was breaking up.

  He would have gritted his teeth, but that made his head hurt too much.

  “Just put a bullet in my brain, will you?” he whispered as the van bumped again, slowed, and came to a stop. The driver put it in park and killed the engine.

  “Yeah, well,” the doctor said, opening his door, “that’s exactly what Edgewater would love to do. But only after he tortured you for a couple of centuries. The guy’s actually talking about crucifixion, starting with you.”

  The rear doors opened, and a light was switched on that sent white pain through Sam’s eyes and into his skull. He whimpered as the straps were loosened and the gurney was rolled out the cargo van’s back.

  “Easy with him, easy,” the nurse warned as she climbed out beside Sam. Two men in casual clothes had his gurney, one at either end.

  Sam was being wheeled through a large garage that housed a sleek and gleaming GMC Denali and a BMW 7 series sedan. Four-drawer file cabinets, a work bench, and assorted tools were the only furnishings.

  At the door, he was carefully lifted, wheeled into a mud room with hanging coats and hats, and then through a door and into a hallway. Sam caught a glimpse of photos and paintings on the walls, passed a couple of dark bedrooms, and was wheeled into a very nice den.

  Bookshelves covered two of the walls, another was packed with photos of men and women in suits, citations, framed parchment-like awards complete with ribbons, and shelves with glass, bronze, and silver statuary, the type of which awards were composed.

  Sam’s gurney was rotated so he could see the two men who stood by the desk. He recognized Sully Richardson of course. The officer gave him a slight nod. The highway patrolman might have been in a light cotton shirt and Dockers, but he still looked like a no-bullshit cop.

  The tall and elderly bald man beside him wore a powder-blue button-down shirt open at the collar, belted chinos, and loafers. He’d been stately for so long it was part of his aquiline face and prominent nose. Age had taken its toll on the flesh, but nothing had slowed in those knowing eyes.

  “So, this is the man of the hour?” the tall elder said, stepping forward and offering his hand. “I’m Sandy Briarson.”

  Sam managed to extend his hand and shake Briarson’s. It left him panting, with spears in his chest, and sweat popping from his brow.

  Sully Richardson said, “You know Doctor Simpson here, and Delgado’s nurse is Dorothy Malone.”

  “Hey, Hal,” Briarson shook the doctor’s hand. “Ms. Malone, my pleasure.”

  “Pleasure’s all mine, Senator,” Malone told him.

  Briarson turned to Sam, “Anything I can get you, Mr. Delgado?”

  “New ribs?”

  Briarson chuckled. “The good doctor, here, tells me your old ones will heal just fine. Now, Hal, what’s the situation back at the hospital?”

  Sam watched Dr. Simpson check his watch. “About now they’re figuring out that Sam’s guard is passed out in Sam’s hospital bed. As soon as they do, the shit’s gonna hit the fan. Expect Edgewater to turn this town upside down looking for Sam, me, and Dorothy. It was the middle of the night, and I don’t think anyone saw us wheel him out. But they’ll know it was Dorothy and me. We’ve relocated our families to safe houses.”

  “My watcher thinks I’m asleep at home,” Sully Richardson added. “For the time being, no one has any clue about where Delgado would have been taken.”

  Briarson smiled again. “Well, well, so, Mr. Delgado, would you mind telling me who’s behind sending you and your people to tear up Clark Ranch?”

  “I’m Sam. Mr. Delgado was my father, and when it’s all said and done, probably twice the man I’ll ever be. But to get to your point, no one sent us. Me, I’m in it because Edgewater killed my wife. Breeze and Brandon, they’re in it because Edgewater’s men raided their home, shot their mother. Amber was in it because she couldn’t stand the thought of all those women and girls being raped like she was.”

  “How many women and girls?” Briarson asked.

  “I think seven made it up the canyon. I hope, anyway. I was sort of busy.”

  “Doing w
hat?” Richardson asked.

  Sam frowned, trying to pull the memory from his aching head. “The Jeep was coming. Two big guns. Breeze had to get the last of the hostages across the open spot to the safety of the big boulder.” His dry throat made him cough.

  Which sent a whole new level of agony through him. What seemed like an eternity later, he blinked tears from his eyes, and tried to breathe without moving his lungs. Call that the trick of the century.

  Nurse Malone placed a straw to his lips and let him suck cool water into his jangled system.

  “Go on,” Briarson said when Sam was almost back to normal.

  “I thought about shooting, but the only cover I had was under the Polaris. I needed them to get closer. So I couldn’t miss. But they drove right up to the back of the Polaris and let loose with those big machine guns.

  “I heard a guy order Breeze and the girls to stop, so I figured it was only warning shots. I crawled back under the Jeep, pulled the pin from the grenade, and stuffed it between the frame and gas tank. I was already squirming my way back under the Polaris when the grenade went off.”

  Sam swallowed hard, trying to pull the truth from fractured images in his imagination. “It was sort of like the whole world went away. And then this giant fist smashed down...”

  Richardson crossed his arms, leaning against the desk. “How many people attacked that place? Edgewater’s men claim it was at least a full company.”

  “Me, Breeze, and Amber went in. Brandon and Shanteel provided cover from one ridge, Willy Star from the other. Then Amber blew herself up along with the guys behind the breastwork to get us in.”

  “What do you mean, blew herself up?” Briarson asked.

  “She took one of Breeze’s hand grenades, hid it in her pants, and surrendered herself to the goons. They were so intrigued they crowded close. She...”

  He tried to still his pounding heart. Damn, why did it still hurt so much? “She unsnapped her pants, pulled the pin, and handed them the grenade.”

  “Like a suicide bomber?” Dr. Simpson.

  “Amber Sagan died to free those people.” Sam closed his eyes. “But for being armed, my Shyla would have ended up in that stable. Servicing those men.” A beat. “What’s her life, or mine, compared to getting those girls out? And those other people? In that fenced compound. It was something the Nazis would have done.”

  The room was silent, and for the first time Sam realized that a clock was ticking somewhere off to his left.

  “Okay,” Briarson said. “I’m convinced.”

  “Six of you did this?” Richardson asked. “How?”

  “Three of us came down the canyon. Amber got Breeze and me in, I got Breeze and the freed hostages out. But not all. Most ran the wrong way.”

  “Fifteen men died up there,” Dr. Simpson said. “Ten more wounded, some critically. Not to mention the house is destroyed and the garage burned.”

  “You didn’t see what they were doing to those people,” Sam tried to keep his voice calm. “I wish I could have killed them all. If Edgewater got out alive, that’s my biggest regret.”

  “We need those people who escaped,” Briarson said. He looked at Sully Richardson. “Any sign of them?”

  “Nothing. But Edgewater’s got every outfitter in the valley headed up onto Boulder Ridge and into the Carter Mountains. If the Tappan kids are thinking to hide those people up there, they’ll be rounded up and back in chains within days.”

  “Someone’s got to warn Brandon,” Sam said. “If he knows he’s being hunted, he’ll keep them safe.”

  “Warn him how?” Richardson asked.

  “Airplane,” Sam replied. “You don’t even have to find him. Just buzz around like you’re searching.”

  He took a shallow breath. “My turn. How’s Pam?”

  “Alive,” Sully told him. “There’s hell to pay down in Hot Springs. The sheriff and deputies are dead along with some locals. My guess, the Willson-Smith faction’s going to come out on top. Especially since Edgewater can’t send his soldiers down to back up that FEMA guy down there.”

  “What about Tank and Barry Lehman?”

  “Sheriff Madden arrested them the day they got back from Cheyenne. They’re charged with sedition and conspiracy.”

  “I need you to get a message to Frank and Bill Tappan that Breeze and Brandon are alive, and that they got some of the girls and hostages out.”

  “I’ll do that.” Sully crossed his arms.

  “What about the Basin? Anyone talked to the governor?”

  Sully said, “Eastern side of the Basin is firmly behind Agar. It’s just Cody now that’s the problem.”

  “We need those young people,” Briarson was fingering his chin. “They tell their story, and Edgewater’s life won’t be worth a pebble in the street.”

  “And we have to keep Sam, here, as far from Edgewater’s hands as we can,” Dr. Simpson said. “Edgewater was serious. If he can get Sam alive, he’s planning on crucifying him in the middle of Sheridan Avenue, and to hell with the consequences.”

  “Yeah, well, Doc, you shoot me full of digitalis or something if it even seems like that’s a possibility, huh?” Sam asked wearily.

  “Let’s just ensure that it doesn’t go that far.” Dr. Simpson reached out and laid gentle fingers on the back of Sam’s hand.

  At that moment, the phone rang. Briarson stepped behind the desk, lifted the handset from the cradle, saying, “Yeah?”

  He listened. “How the hell would I know? I’m in bed.”

  Another pause.

  “Sheriff, this is just my advice, but if I were you, I’d start acting like the Constitution was still the law of the land, and to hell with what Edgewater says.” He tilted his head, lips grim as he listened, and then said, “You’ve got my last word on that. Now I’m going back to sleep. And if you had any sense, you would, too.”

  Briarson replaced the handset on the cradle and said, “They know Delgado’s been taken. Sully, you’d better get home. Just in case they check.”

  Sam watched the Highway Patrol captain nod and thoughtfully remove himself from the room.

  Briarson arched his bushy gray brows and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t think they’d dare to search here, but let’s put Sam back in my documents room. Just to be safe, you know.”

  “What happens next?” Sam asked, his body so exhausted he didn’t care.

  “Everything hinges on producing those young women and freed prisoners. Their testimony sinks Edgewater and avoids a civil war.”

  “But he’s sent people up into the mountains looking for them,” Dorothy Malone reminded, her expression pinched.

  “Yeah.” Briarson crossed his arms. “Let’s hope they don’t find them, hum?”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  The airplane shouldn’t have been a surprise but did cause a near panic. Breeze immediately worried about being strafed from above. Fortunately, so far as she knew, Edgewater’s people wouldn’t have drones capable of long-distance flight.

  Brandon, however, quickly routed people, horses, and gear into the trees. For the captives, it was a relief to throw themselves on the ground. The pace was hard enough on the freed women, but they were young. Mackeson, the Visanges, Marley, Baker, and Nelson were on the verge of collapse.

  Then, as the plane weaved its way back north, Shirley Mackeson held up a hand. “Wait. We can’t do this.”

  “You’ve got to,” Breeze told her.

  “Kid, at this stage of the game, the only thing I have to do is die someday. I don’t even have to pay taxes.” She glanced at Brandon. “The drainages east of here, they drop into the headwaters of the Greybull River, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Shirley indicated the rest of her party. “We’ve been talking. We can’t make it across the mountains. We’re not as young and fit as the rest of you. And more to the point, we’re not dressed for back-country travel. It makes more sense if we split up. All we have to do is follow the creeks down. They’ll take us
to the Greybull River, which will drop us at the Pitchfork Ranch. I’ve got friends there. People who will keep us safe.”

  Brandon turned to Breeze. “What do you think?”

  “Hey,” John Baker piped up. “I used to hunt elk up here with my Dad. I can get us down.”

  “Breeze, think it through,” Shirley said reasonably. “Two parties doubles our chances that someone is going to live to expose Edgewater.”

  Brandon pointed east. “Commissioner Mackeson, follow that little valley. Keep to the trees. Take your time. You should make it in two days, three at the most. Wild onions are up. Don’t mistake them for death camas. Shooting star and biscuit root are blooming, too. It won’t be much, but it will keep you going.”

  One by one the freed hostages shook Breeze’s hand. Each offering their thanks.

  “What about us?” Joelle asked.

  “You come with us,” Breeze told her as she watched the Cody contingent walk away.

  “Time to hide the trail,” Willy told them. “Head north. Toward Cody. That’s what they expect.”

  “And then?” Brandon asked.

  “One by one, we leave the trail. Double back. Last to split off are the horses. They’re shod. Have to split off the trail onto thick duff, in water, or on stone that won’t scar. That way our trail just sort of vanishes.”

  “Where’d you learn this?” Shanteel asked. “Old Indian trick?”

  Willy looked shocked. “You mean, you didn’t read Louis L’Amour when you were a kid?”

  “Who the hell is Louis L’Amour?” Shanteel asked.

  And for two days, they did exactly as Willy said.

  The most daunting problem was the slow pace. And it wasn’t just the time it took to hide their trail. The freed women weren’t dressed for back-country travel. Physically, they were soft, sexually abused, some had been beaten, and none were acclimated to the high altitude.

  Brandon showed them how to keep from hypothermia at night, digging long trenches and filling them with stones; then they kindled fires and let them burn down. One thing they were not shy of was firewood. Shoveling dirt back over the trench left the ground warm through the night. And though the women huddled together for additional warmth, they were constantly turning the cold side down onto the warm ground.