Lawless (Lawless Saga Book 1)

by Tarah Benner

  In an instant, eight or nine more skinheads emerged from the crowd, pulling homemade shivs out of their belts and encircling Soren and Axel.

  They were hopelessly outnumbered, but a moment later, Wolfe and Shep broke free from Hudson’s men and threw themselves into the fray.

  Wolfe let out an alarming battle cry and proceeded to unleash a storm of pent-up rage. He clobbered three skinheads in quick succession, and Shep wrestled the largest one to the ground. Simjay was swinging an enormous branch around like a sword, and Willie Texas Ranger pushed his way through the crowd to rescue Finn.

  Soren was sure they were winning, but suddenly he felt a pair of strong hands on his shoulders and a sweaty arm snaking around his throat. Soren choked and kicked back on instinct, but his attacker was much bigger and stronger.

  The man tightened his chokehold, and Soren felt his airways constrict. A surge of adrenaline shot through him like an electric shock, narrowing his vision to a point.

  The man yanked him back. Marcus, Big Jim, and a dozen more of the Peterses’ heavies were pulling Soren’s friends and the skinheads apart, and the crowd was booing in disappointment.

  The other inmates had been eager to see Finn and Isaiah beat the crap out of each other, but they’d gotten more than they’d bargained for.

  In the hectic scuffle, Soren noticed that Hudson’s men weren’t going after the skinheads. They were merely pushing them out of the way to restrain Wolfe, Axel, Shep, and Simjay.

  Soren’s captor hauled him toward the Peterses’ compound, and he let out a bubble of demented laughter. He’d just remembered that he had his knife strapped to his belt and another stowed in his boot. He hadn’t even thought to pull a knife during the fight, but he thought about it then.

  If Big Jim and the others were hauling them to the brothers’ quarters, it meant the worst was yet to come. Soren didn’t know how he was going to get them out of this mess, but he had to try.

  They piled into the large adobe building, a mess of sweaty, dusty flesh. Marcus slammed the door behind them, but they could still hear the restless crowd jeering in the square.

  Soren looked around. Simjay was hanging limply over the arm of a stocky black guy. Wolfe was still fighting his captors tooth and nail, throwing out his fists in jerky, uncoordinated swipes.

  It had taken four men to restrain Axel. Two of them were sporting bloody noses and a slew of random cuts, but Axel seemed suddenly calm as he watched Shep elbow Big Jim in the face.

  “What the hell was that?” Clarence bellowed as he stormed out of the back room.

  Nobody spoke.

  Clarence’s eyes narrowed into mean little slits. “Maybe you dickheads forgot, but you don’ call the shots ’round here.” He puffed out his chest in what was meant to be an intimidating gesture, but it just made him look oddly constipated.

  Axel let out a stream of air that sounded an awful like pfft, and Clarence’s eyes snapped onto him. His fist flew out of nowhere, and Axel’s head snapped to the side.

  “You think yo’ tough?” said Clarence as Axel turned his head back around. Then his eyes locked on Simjay. “How tough you think yo’ friend is?”

  As if on cue, one of the men grabbed Simjay by the hair and slammed him bodily against the wall. Simjay let out a cry of anguish, and Soren felt himself snap.

  “Hey!” he barked, still fighting to keep his captor’s arm off his trachea.

  Clarence’s head swiveled around to him. “You got somethin’ to say, inmate?”

  “Yeah,” said Soren. “But I wanna talk to Hudson.”

  Clarence just stared at him for several seconds, as if he were imagining all the ways he could torture and humiliate him.

  “Yeah? Well, I wanna talk to the bitches that run this place, but we don’ always get what we want.”

  He took two slow steps toward Soren, and Soren braced himself for a strike.

  “Like I said,” Clarence whispered. “You don’ call the shots ’round here.”

  “Yo!” called a deep voice from the back room. “Bring ’im in.”

  Soren froze. He was sure that voice belonged to Hudson, but he had no idea why he would agree to talk. Hudson much preferred to express himself through violence.

  Clarence waited for several seconds, breathing angrily through his nose. “Fine.”

  Soren’s captor shoved him forward, and two more men appeared to take his place. They walked him to the door, but Hudson’s voice stopped them.

  “Hey! Hang back,” he called. “Me an’ him need to talk . . . in private.”

  Soren’s stomach did a nasty flip. Was Hudson really inviting him into his office for a private chat?

  It seemed too easy.

  It was possible that Hudson wanted to get him on his own to teach him a lesson, but Soren felt confident that he could beat the eldest Peters brother in a hand-to-hand fight.

  Hudson’s men looked at each other stupidly. Soren could tell they didn’t want to miss their chance to rough him up a little, but they didn’t stop him as he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  “Shut the door,” barked Hudson.

  Soren threw one last look at Shep and did as he was told.

  He was standing in a windowless room that the Peters brothers had turned into their own private lounge. Boxes of cigarettes they’d stolen from other inmates lay stacked against the wall, and there were three enormous wooden chairs spaced around the fire.

  Hudson was leaning against the shallow clay mantel, staring into the dancing flames. A fat joint was smoldering between his stubby fingers, and he looked as though he hadn’t noticed Soren.

  “Get yo’ ass over here,” he breathed, taking a long hit and exhaling a thick cloud of smoke.

  In that moment, Soren realized he had an opportunity he would never have again. There was no time to think. There was no time to plan. He just had to go for it.

  He crossed the room in three powerful steps, drawing his knife as he went. Hudson turned his head slowly in Soren’s direction, but before he could move, Soren had him pinned against the wall.

  Hudson was so smug — so confident in his own superiority — that he’d never seen it coming. One minute, he was standing lazily by the fire; the next, he was being held at knifepoint in his own lounge.

  Hudson’s eyes bulged, and he made a strange gurgling noise in the back of his throat.

  “Now that I have your attention . . .” Soren panted, digging his blade into Hudson’s flesh.

  Hudson made a sudden jerky move to push Soren away, but Soren shoved his fist into Hudson’s gut with all the force he could muster.

  Hudson choked, doubling over, but Soren pushed him back against the wall.

  “You should listen to what I have to say,” he breathed. “You should listen very carefully . . .”

  Hudson’s eyes bugged out even farther, and Soren took that as a sign that he was all ears.

  “You’re gonna knock this shit off,” he growled, forcing his blade into Hudson’s flesh so that it drew a thin line of blood. “Now.”

  Hudson lunged forward, knocking the knife aside, but Soren throttled him so hard that his head cracked against the adobe wall.

  Breathing deeply, he repositioned the knife against Hudson’s throat and spoke in a low and deadly voice. “If you don’t lay off my friends . . . If you don’t lay off me . . . I will personally make sure your mother is killed in her bed.”

  At those words, Hudson let out a horrible growl and swung out a fist toward Soren. It was awkward and powerless with Hudson’s back against the wall, and Soren used the opportunity to deliver a punch that he’d been longing to hurl at him for months.

  Soren’s fury had made him bold, and a crazy plan had leapt fully formed into his brain. It was ugly, and it was risky, but it was all he could think to do.

  “I know where she sleeps . . . I know what she eats . . . I know who prepares her food,” Soren growled, drawing a line down Hudson’s face with the point of his knife.

  Hudso
n heaved out several loud, furious breaths. “You’re lying.”

  Soren expelled a cold, mirthless laugh that didn’t sound like him at all. He grinned, preparing to sell the biggest lie of all. “I’m fucking one of her daughters, asshole,” he whispered. “You know how that is . . . At least Zachariah did.”

  At those words, Soren’s life flashed before his eyes. Hudson’s expression had turned so monstrous that he thought the eldest Peters brother might break both his legs by sheer force of will.

  But Hudson didn’t move or speak, and Soren knew he’d bought the lie.

  “You filthy piece of shit,” he rumbled. “I should have you fucking gutted just for —”

  “But you won’t . . . Will you?” whispered Soren, sounding much more confident than he felt.

  Hudson didn’t reply.

  “Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Soren continued, putting away his knife and taking a step back. “You’re gonna kick my ass. Hell, beat me to a pulp if you have to . . . That way no one will question your authority.”

  Hudson was still panting with fury, but Soren could tell he was hanging on every word.

  “You get to show that you’re the big boss — show everyone else that we’ve been punished — and then we’re gonna walk out that door.”

  Hudson looked momentarily confused, so Soren felt he needed to elaborate.

  “You’re gonna let us go, and you’re never gonna mess with me or my friends again.”

  For several seconds, the two of them just stared at each other. Soren could tell Hudson was sizing him up, mulling over Soren’s proposal and weighing the risks of refusing it.

  “Deal?” Soren breathed, blood pounding in his ears. He’d laid all his cards on the table, and this was the moment of truth.

  Hudson never said a word, but Soren got his answer. A fist flew toward his face with enormous speed, and Soren hit the floor.

  sixteen

  Lark

  Lark was a jumbled mess of nerves the day after she spoke to Soren. Not only had she agreed to escape with him, but she’d agreed to steal some of the materials required for their prison break.

  The day had been windy and overcast, which meant a storm was brewing. Lark had to find a way to get her hands on a pitchfork, and she still hadn’t told Bernie what she and Soren were up to.

  In her heart of hearts, Lark knew that Bernie wouldn’t want to go along with the plan. Bernie only had three years left on her sentence, but if they escaped, she’d be a fugitive for the rest of her life.

  Lark never would have dragged Bernie into their plan, but she herself had said that she wouldn’t make it on her own. As much as Rita had taken a liking to Bernie, their little prison family was too small to protect her. If Lark were gone, Portia and the others wouldn’t waste any time making Bernie their bitch.

  Lark dreaded telling her what she and Soren had discussed. She knew what Bernie was going to say — that it was rash and impulsive and horribly dangerous. Those things were true, of course, but something about Soren made Lark trust in his abilities. Maybe it was the fact that he so ardently believed that he could do it. It made her believe they could do it, too.

  It wasn’t until that evening that Lark got Bernie alone in their shanty. The skies had turned an ominous shade of gray, and she could hear the rumble of thunder overhead. It rattled their crude little house and shook Lark’s nerves even more. She was running out of time.

  It started to pour when she sat down on her bed, turned to Bernie, and choked out the plan. Bernie listened with wide-eyed rapture as Lark told her Soren’s idea for getting over the fence, scaling the outer wall, and escaping to Mexico. She explained how they were waiting for a power outage and that it was her job to steal a pitchfork. She recounted it all in one breathless stream of words, waiting until the very end to mention the part about Bernie escaping with them.

  At that, Bernie’s eyebrows shot toward her hairline, and Lark wondered if she’d been wrong to imagine that Bernie would want anything to do with Soren.

  When she finished, Bernie didn’t say anything for several seconds. She just stared at Lark as if she’d told her that she planned to chop off both her arms and legs.

  “Are you — insane?” she choked finally. “We can’t go along with this!”

  Lark’s heart sank.

  “If we got caught, we’d be shipped off to max so fast your panties would catch fire.”

  “I know,” said Lark.

  “We’d probably get time added to both our sentences.” She shook her head. “You’ll already be forty-five when you get out . . . Your best years will be behind you in the looks department.”

  Lark fought back a laugh. She knew Bernie wasn’t finished with her tirade and that it would be best to let her get it all out of her system before speaking again.

  “We both know that I wouldn’t survive in max,” she said. “I’m still getting used to this communal-shower situation.”

  “You don’t have to go,” said Lark, fighting the sinking feeling in her stomach that she was going to have to say goodbye to Bernie.

  “You’re damn right!” she snapped. “I can’t believe you’re on board with this.”

  “What have I got to lose?”

  “Well, if we get caught, you can kiss all your walks through the woods goodbye.”

  “True.”

  “Even if it all works out, what the fuck are we supposed to do in Mexico? What are we gonna do for money?”

  “We’ll work,” said Lark, feeling a little desperate.

  “What? For three dollars an hour?” Bernie shook her head. “How are we gonna live?”

  “We’ll find a way,” said Lark. “We’ll find a place we can grow some food and live off the land . . . just like we do here.”

  “It’s gonna be a little different out in the real world, Lark.”

  “We’ll find a way,” she snapped.

  “And what about Denali?” Bernie asked. “How long do you think it’ll take Portia to turn him into dog sausage if you’re gone?”

  “Denali’s coming, too.”

  Bernie deflated visibly at this. It seemed she was running out of arguments.

  “I just don’t want to do this without you,” Lark murmured. “You’re my best friend.”

  Bernie fell silent for several seconds, her face screwed up in a strange mix of emotions.

  “Don’t hate me,” Lark sighed finally. “It’ll be all right. I’ll find a way to send you a postcard from Mexico. They’ll stop looking for me after a few years, and then we can —”

  “Oh, don’t be stupid!” Bernie scoffed, cracking a sardonic grin. “Of course I’m coming with you.”

  Lark faltered. She was sure she couldn’t have heard Bernie correctly. “But you said . . .”

  “Oh, I meant what I said,” Bernie added with a sharp laugh. “This is a terrible idea. One hundred percent bonkers. But if it works . . .” She trailed off, and for the first time, Lark caught a flicker of excitement in her gaze. “That would be fucking amazing.”

  “So . . . you’re in?”

  Bernie let out an exasperated sigh. “Of course I’m in.” She rolled her eyes. “Like you could do this without me.”

  By the next morning, storms had turned the sky a sickly grayish green. All field work was temporarily suspended, and those who should have been out working spent the day watching the storm from their open doorways.

  The ladies in charge of the livestock weren’t so lucky. The animals had to be tended to — rain or shine — and Lark could see the women darting around the pens in a state of frantic irritation.

  As the day dragged on, nervous anticipation twisted Lark’s stomach into knots. This was the storm of the season. Rain was pouring down in buckets, drenching the fields and pooling in low places. Nasty storm clouds were swirling overhead, blocking out the sun and causing a heavy chill to settle over the colony.

  It was too wet to venture down to the river, but Lark knew it was probably high on the banks. If the stor
m continued for much longer, the fields would flood, and all their crops would be washed out.

  This type of storm was just what Soren needed to render the electric fence useless. With any luck, the next day would bring more cloud cover, and San Judas would experience a power outage.

  By late afternoon, Lark realized that she’d have no choice but to steal the pitchfork that night. All the farm tools were stored in the ag sheds along the eastern border of the colony. Maureen, the head of agriculture, pulled out what they needed at the start of every work day, but at night, they were kept under lock and key.

  She’d never wondered what Maureen did with the key to the toolshed, but she guessed Maureen had to turn it over to Mother Mercy after every shift.

  Lark would have preferred to wait until dark to put her plan into motion, but once curfew hit, most of the daughters would be inside Mercy’s compound — grooming, gossiping, and thinking up ways to make the other inmates miserable. She’d have to do it while they were at evening mess.

  Fortunately, the relentless storm cast a gloom over the square, and by five o’clock, it was almost dark. With the rain coming down in icy sheets, Kira would be serving dinner inside the mess hall. Mercy and her daughters would be served first, and the field hands would get the second-to-last shift.

  Lark locked Denali in the shanty, donned her jacket, and took shelter under an old Arizona ash outside the mess hall. Still, by the time Mercy and her daughters scurried across the square, her clothes and hair were completely soaked.

  She whistled to Bernie as she passed Mercy’s compound to signal that she was going in. Bernie wasn’t crazy about Lark’s plan for stealing the key to the toolshed, but she’d insisted on serving as a lookout.

  The main building of Mercy’s compound was the size of six regular adobe shanties put together. Lark suspected it had been designed to serve as an ancillary mess hall but had been repurposed by Mercy and her crew soon after construction. All the windows and doors were trimmed in light-blue paint, and the adobe walls hadn’t undergone the shoddy patch jobs that many of the older shanties had.