by Jami Gray
Lying in Ruins
Jami Gray
www.escapepublishing.com.au
Lying in Ruins
Jami Gray
In a world gone to hell, it’s hard to tell the good guys from the bad...
The world didn’t end in fire and explosions, instead it collapsed slowly, like falling dominoes, an intensifying panic of disease, food shortages, wild weather and collapsing economies, until what remains of humanity battles for survival in a harsh new reality.
Charity uses lethal survival skills learned too early in her work as a ‘Hound, sniffing out pivotal secrets for one of the most powerful people on the west coast. Her work is deceptive, deadly, and best performed solo, which means when she has a run-in with a member of the notorious Fate’s Vultures, she has no intention of joining forces in some mockery of teamwork. The man might be sexy as hell, but she travels alone. She will accomplish her mission and she will settle a score - hopefully with the edge of her blade. But fate has other plans.
As one of Fate’s Vultures, a nomadic band of arbitrators known for their ruthless verdicts, Ruin witnesses the carnage of corruption and greed battering the remnants of humanity, and he bears the scars to prove it. Now he has a damn ‘Hound showing up in suspicious circumstances, leaving every cell of his body sceptical - and painfully aroused. The woman is trouble, and Ruin has every intention of steering clear. But when they realise they have a common enemy, Charity and Ruin will have to set aside their distrust if they want to achieve their mutual goal - justice and revenge.
Sometimes, when the world’s gone to hell, it’s better to stick with the devil you know...
About the author
Jami Gray is the coffee addicted, music junkie, Queen Nerd of her personal Geek Squad, Alpha Mom of the Fur Minxes, and author of her latest romantic suspense series, Fate’s Vultures. She writes to soothe the voices in her head.
Acknowledgements
Besides my family, there are three very important people who deserve recognition as their endless support plays a major role in my success; my writing group:
Dave—You, sir, rightfully claim your throne as a cherished friend and king of the plot twists. When the battle of creativity becomes strewn with word carnage, and the dark cloud of ‘This-sucks’ looms on the horizon, your encouragement rallies the troops and leads them to victory. Whether we shared the agonies of pen and ink or not, I would count myself blessed to have you in my life.
DeAnna—Your dedication to the craft amazes me and leaves me stretching my muscles in an effort to keep up with you. I know there will come a time when I will say with utmost fondness, ‘I remember her when …’ From one writer mom to another, I promise those small humans will eventually let you take a breath without providing commentary and be able to sustain life on their own. In the meantime, we’ll keep making a run for hidden coffee shops where we can freely discuss adulting and ponder our creative dilemmas.
Camille—Woman, you are the coffee in my morning and the chocolate in my addiction. Only you could match my dark, twisted humour and best it without breaking a sweat, provide endless topics of intriguing conversation, and laughter when I need it most. Not only do you have mad skills as a writing partner, but you kick-ass as a best friend. And yes, some day, we will be the ones leading the pack.
And, never least, but always, I bow to you, my readers, and offer my humblest thanks. Telling stories is no fun if there is no-one to listen to them.
For my Ian, who handles having a mom who asks strange questions by providing brilliant answers so she can finish the damn story.
For my Brendan and his endless patience in advising his mom on the best weapons for any given task and his willingness to block out fight scenes with the same weird mom, despite our height differences.
For my Ben, who manages to keep the other two males in our household, plus the Fur Minxes, the actual house, and life in general, stable so I can disappear into my imaginary worlds without guilt.
Without you three—this and every other book I write, wouldn’t happen.
Contents
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…
Chapter 1
She picked the wrong damn day to visit. From her position in the doorway, Charity took in the blood-spattered room as she leant against the doorjamb of the shop serving as Pebble Creek’s delivery and message centre.
Next to her, leaning against the other side and modelling the latest in crimson-stained field medic bandages was her old mentor turned friend, Boden. ‘As soon as the last Raider was down, I headed back and found this.’ His expression was as grim as his voice.
This encompassed the carnage gathering flies and filling the confines of the room with the stench of hard death. A scent the spring air couldn’t cut even as it found its way in through the doorway and shattered window. Light danced among the carnage as sunlight hit pieces of old glass, igniting tiny bloodstained fireflies. It was a too familiar scene.
Years before her birth, the winds of change swept over the world, laying waste with gleeful abandon, ripping apart the wonders of civilised man and reminding those who survived how overrated being civilised truly was. Man-made super viruses danced through the heavy urban populations and vital crops leaving decimation in its wake. Wasn’t long before logic fell to its knees under the unbreakable grip of fear while cities raged and burned.
Even Mother Nature got into the mix, drowning coastlines and recreating the landscape and borders with the tools at her disposal. Each event cascaded into a brutal lesson for humanity’s children, a lesson they refused to heed until they had no choice. Then, it was too late to do anything but survive. And survival became a brutal, vicious game with very few rules.
Part of her wanted to turn on her heel and walk away. She had enough things to worry about right now, and adding this cluster to her to-do list wasn’t ideal. Instinct whispered and instead of leaving, she stepped inside.
There wasn’t much to the room besides a long counter with a good size opening dead centre. It stretched across the width of the room, splitting it in half. She counted three, maybe four bodies. It was hard to tell if the leg sticking out from behind the counter was still attached to a body. However, identifying the body on her side of the counter was easy. It was Crane, the man she was here to see. Looked like her meeting was cancelled. ‘Had to have happened during the raiding party attack.’
‘Yeah.’ Boden’s one-word answer landed like a two-ton stone.
She shifted a bit and winced as the movement pulled at the shallow bullet graze in her torn shoulder, a remnant from the brief, but furious earlier firefight. ‘I’m not a big believer in coincidence.’
That earned her a grunt from Boden. ‘Funny, neither am I.’ He dug a thick finger under the bloodstained strip of cloth covering his weathered chest and scratched. ‘Especially when they come in pairs. First, Raiders don’t generally come this far up the pass, especially during early spring. Too much hassle, which is why Crane picked this spot.’
This spot being Pebble Creek, a virtual str
onghold situated in a narrow natural valley between two ridges in the southern area of what used to be Idaho. A place that should be too far north to tempt the desert dwelling Raiders into crossing the ravaged bones of what once made up Nevada, Utah and Idaho. After the Collapse, what humanity remained, hunkered down in a few key urban areas or huddled in strategic rural communities like Pebble Creek run by men like Crane. ‘Second?’
‘Second, Crane was outnumbered, which tells me they were targeting him, not any of the supplies or shipments.’
Her attention went to the neat stack of boxes lining the back wall. A recent delivery? ‘Which would make the attack at the front gate a smoke screen?’
‘Probably.’
She sighed. An hour ago she rode into Pebble Creek, hoping to claim some of Crane’s time and maybe get a solid lead on the trail of breadcrumbs she was sent to follow. Instead, she was waylaid by Boden, after one of the guards on watch informed him of her arrival. Since Crane was in the middle of something, she passed the time playing catch up with Boden. They were headed to the café to grab some coffee when the Raiders hit, and everything went to hell. Just her luck the damn scavengers decided to descend en masse in some crazed version of a suicide attack. Suspicions nibbled on the ragged edges of her mind, but she still asked, ‘Why Crane?’
‘You want a list?’ Boden drawled.
Right, there were tons of reasons to want Crane dead, which made narrowing it down nigh to impossible. You could accuse Crane of many things—arrogance and being a dick were the first two that came to mind—but he wasn’t stupid. The man who held a territory free and clear while surrounded by the two biggest powers on what was left of this side of the Mississippi was the furthest thing from stupid. Unlucky as shit since he was dead, but not stupid.
Time to try and figure out what the hell happened and screwed her plans to hell. From her position just inside the doorway she and Boden shared, she studied the gruesome scene. Her stomach began a slow, sickening pitch. Besides the leg protruding from behind the counter, at her feet, there was a body half in and half out of the doorway. She didn’t need to toe the dead guy over to know he bled out from a gaping gut wound. The cool pool of crimson creeping towards her boots and Crane’s knife lying in the smear of blood trailing the Raider’s progress from Crane to the door was more than enough to get the picture.
Back inside, slumped under the counter against a water-stained wall, and surrounded by blood-soaked papers and packages, probably part of today’s delivery, was Crane. Just beyond his curled fingers was a handset from an old rotary phone. Very few landlines survived the Collapse, and most were attached to key spots, like Pebble Creek. The phone’s cord dangled across the counter probably plugged into a jack on the other side. On the floor the heavy base lay on its side, marked by smears of reddish-brown. Not surprising, the old things were heavy enough to double as a bludgeoning tool. Still, the positioning of the phone’s receiver made her wonder. ‘He get a call out?’
Without moving from the doorway, Boden stared at Crane, a frown settling on his blocky face. ‘Don’t know, maybe.’
‘That the only line available?’
He nodded.
Huh, who would a dying man call? Setting the question aside for later, she inched inside the room, careful not to step into the blood at her feet. She had managed a whole step before a big palm landed on her uninjured shoulder, holding her in place. She turned her head and gave Boden an arched eyebrow.
‘Don’t go getting your panties in a twist, little girl,’ he muttered. ‘You sure you want to get up close and personal here?’
Trust her old mentor to remember how much she abhorred all things gore. The thing was, she spent years working on her aversion, until she could now stare at the most gruesome scenes without betraying a flinch, despite her violently protesting stomach. Not that the discomfort would stop her. Sometimes the only way to make a point was to drive it deep enough to hurt.
Thinking of which, she wrapped her fingers around Boden’s wide wrist, zeroing in on key pressure points. He grinned even as she tightened her hold until his fingers finally spasmed and released. ‘It’s a good thing I adore you, old man, or you’d be curled on the floor trying to stuff your guts back where they belong.’
He shook out his hand. ‘That threat would carry more weight if I wasn’t the one who gave you that knife you love so much.’
She’d give him that. The grizzled warrior who spent hours training her was one of an elite few who held her loyalty. ‘Maybe I just don’t want to nick one of my blades on your thick skull.’
He snorted. Unwilling to stall any longer, she turned and carefully picked her way across the floor. Which turned out to be harder than it sounded, thanks to the sprawled limbs and scattered brass bullet casings. She stepped over Crane’s legs, ignoring the unseeing gaze and frozen grimace of a second Raider who sported more holes than Swiss cheese and barely looked old enough to shave.
She scanned the back half of the room behind the counter. A tattered couch with a couple of duct tape mended cushions crouched against the back wall next to two salvaged metal filing cabinets sharing space with boxes. To the right, on top of the battered metal desk, lay a broken and bent lamp, the rest of the items scattered to kingdom come. To the left, next to the window wearing a spider web of cracks, a cluttered bookcase made of cement blocks and sheets of wood stood.
Leaning over the counter, she confirmed the protruding leg was still attached to a third Raider. The beefy body was sprawled face down behind the counter and under the shattered window. Death was courtesy of the concave skull, or—was that a letter opener?—still pinned at the base of the skull. Maybe it was a combination of both.
Needing a moment before, as Boden said, ‘getting up close and personal’ with Crane, she turned back and focused on the far wall covered with a large map of the area from before the Collapse, sucking in a silent, steadying breath. From this angle, she could pick out the spots of rust decorating the map’s hand written adjustments marking the last seventy or so years of geographical change. When she was sure she wouldn’t embarrass herself by gagging, she crouched next to Crane, bracing her hand on a clean spot on the wall behind him for balance.
Crane’s head was turned towards her, his brown eyes filmy, bloody streaks deepening the lines on his pallid face and staining the mix of grey and white scruff lining his chin and jaw. The gruesome details added decades to his face. Mottling spanned one side of his face, and his lips bore multiple cuts as if he’d been hit by something or someone repeatedly. ‘Looks like he took a few punches.’
‘They’d need a two-by-four to damage his thick skull.’ Boden stayed where he was, letting her do her thing.
Gingerly she lifted Crane’s left arm, turning it so she could see the back of his hand. Sure enough his knuckles were raw which meant he managed to get in a few hits of his own. But that wasn’t what had her sucking in a sharp breath. ‘Someone took a souvenir.’
‘What the hell?’ Boden growled, then something scraped across the floor, and the light shifted as he came to Crane’s other side to join her.
Raising Crane’s wrist, she showed him the man’s mutilated hand. ‘He’s missing his ring finger.’
A forbidding fury darkened Boden’s face. ‘Proof of a completed job?’
She shook her head. ‘There’s nothing unique about a finger.’
‘There is about Crane’s.’
That caught her attention. When he didn’t elaborate, she pushed, ‘What?’
Boden rubbed his chin. ‘He had a tattoo, like a ring. Except his was some Irish bird design.’ He grimaced. ‘Never paid much attention to it.’
‘Someone else did.’ Those niggling instincts grew teeth. She set Crane’s arm down and took in the various wounds scattered across his torso unwilling to touch the body more than necessary. ‘Without stripping him, it looks like they nailed him a couple times with lucky shots.’
Unlike her, Boden didn’t hesitate, but reached out and lifted the
left side of Crane’s faded hunting jacket. ‘He took one to the shoulder, the second a bit lower. At that angle, it’s a good bet the bullet bounced off a rib.’ He let the jacket fall closed.
She repeated the motion with the right side and found another hole. ‘Third shot down near the kidney. Just these three made him a dead man walking.’ Because Pebble Creek didn’t sport the medical facilities found in the few remaining cities, instead they relied on the patch and pray philosophy.
Boden directed her attention to the deep cuts scoring Crane’s lower stomach. ‘These wouldn’t have helped either.’
Good god, the old codger took a hell of a beating. There was one more thing she wanted to check. ‘Lean him forward, would you?’
Boden shifted around and managed to brace Crane, giving her space to work. First, she ran her fingers over the back of his skull. Sure enough, she found a telltale lump just behind his ear. The wall behind Crane was saturated with blood, which meant he bled out under the counter. ‘Go ahead and put him back,’ she murmured, thinking it through. ‘I’m betting the Raider behind the counter followed him in, nailed him from behind, thinking that’s all it would take.’ She straightened, and Boden did the same. She went behind the counter to stand next to the body with the dented skull. She eyed the very long phone cord plugged under the counter. ‘Crane brained him with the phone, then set the knife in his skull to be sure he didn’t get up. Unfortunately, with his back to the door, he missed the nasty duo coming in behind.’
‘Makes sense,’ Boden said. ‘It also means they were watching for a chance to catch him alone. The firefight out front kept everyone else occupied.’ He straightened. ‘And the finger?’
The cut was too neat. ‘I think he was already dead when they took it.’
‘So definitely proof of death, then.’
She didn’t bother answering the obvious.
He went on, ‘Which means the first three Raiders were sent ahead to take him down.’ He frowned. ‘And someone came in after to ensure it was done and get the finger.’
