Franklin yanked it out, needing to feel the power of the double barrel 28-inch Benelli in his hands. He ran the tips of his fingers over the engraved nickel-plated receiver, its smoothness running from end to end.
He cherished the scatter gun almost as much as his Colt .45, but for a completely different reason. While the Colt was an irreplaceable gift from Michele, the shotgun represented something more recent—the first month his newly-purchased business turned a profit.
Megan helped him pick out the Benelli from the abundant inventory at the High Country Guns store in Denver. She thought it was the prettiest gun on the rack, so he went with her decision. Luckily, he’d brought enough cash along to cover the cost.
He stared at the weapon and couldn’t believe it. The thief never bothered to check the most likely place for a shotgun—and a $2,700 customized monster at that.
Its satin walnut stock was still in pristine condition, something a burglar would never pass up. At least not anyone who appreciated the fine craftsmanship that went into a firearm like this.
His mind churned through the facts, leading him to only one conclusion: the bandit was only after his Colt 1911. Nobody left a killing machine like this behind. Nobody. Or the stacks of cash in the safe.
But what about the store’s ammunition supply?
Franklin whirled around and took out a key ring from his pocket. He found the one he needed in seconds, using it to unlock the sliding steel door of the specialty made storage cabinet.
When he pulled the heavy-duty compartment open, his eyes found rows of ammo boxes on the shelves, all neatly arranged by caliber, from small to large.
Handgun shells were assigned to the top shelf. Long gun rounds to the middle. Powder and reloading supplies were relegated to the third. Even his generous stockpile of the popular binary explosive, Tannerite, was still where he’d left it, on shelf number four.
He grabbed two boxes of Hornady 12-gauge shells, opened them, and then stuffed the Critical Defense cartridges into his pockets. He knew the shotgun was already loaded with the same ammo, having cleaned and reloaded the beast only a few days before. He finished by taking primer fuse and several sticks of mining explosives, each filled with ammonium nitrate instead of dynamite.
Franklin locked the reinforced cabinet and spun around with the shotgun in his hands. He held it up in front of his chest and readied the weapon, bringing a rush of blood into his system. The Benelli was now primed for action, and so was he, pushing his jaw out with teeth clenched. If the thief was still on his property, he was going to pay for what he’d done. “Nobody steals from me and gets away with it. Nobody.”
He snatched the flashlight from the counter and quickly retraced his steps into the retail area, then broke into a sprint as he headed for the front door of the store.
The heartbeat in his chest was at full tilt and so were his feet when they landed on the dirt path outside. He ran to the spot where he’d left Stephanie and the kids, but they weren’t there.
“Stephanie?” he yelled, calling out into the lingering darkness. “Jeffrey? Megan? Where are you?”
He waited, but a response never came. He called out again, but like before, heard only silence in reply.
The hairs on the back of his neck began to tingle, tightening the knot in the pit of his stomach. He brought the flashlight down, focusing its beam on the dirt around him.
Franklin took a few seconds to study a concentration of impressions about ten feet ahead. The tracks from his boots were easy to identify due to their size and distinctive shape, and so, too, were the tiny patterns from the kids’ sneakers. Stephanie’s tracks were thirty percent smaller than his and directly behind the children, just as he expected.
However, there was another set of prints—larger than his, with a heavy tread. The size and shape of the waffle pattern told him who and what had made it—a man and his hunting boots.
Franklin sold a similar boot in his store, though the tread pattern was more in the shape of parallel waves, rather than the intersecting waffle design he was looking at now. But the differing tread didn’t change what he knew to be true: someone had come up behind his daughter and friends. And now they were missing.
The knot in his stomach doubled in size as a series of new thoughts boiled in his brain. He didn’t want to admit it, but he let someone take them, and it was probably the same person who stole his Colt .45. All of it occurring on his watch.
He looked back at his store, realizing he needed to change his outfit. Something a little stealthier was needed. Something that would give him an advantage.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Jack Bunker followed on his horse as Deputy Clark rode her mount across the wooden slats of the bridge in the burgeoning hours of night. The misty glow of the moon was helping them see—barely—making him glad they’d snatched one of the working flashlights in town before they’d left. He kept the beam trained on Daisy’s horse, shining past the animal’s legs to light the road ahead.
It wasn’t easy to hold a flashlight steady while riding a steed, nor was it easy keeping the cold from creeping into his bones. The sun had long since extinguished its flame for the day, bringing with it a damp chill he knew was only going to get worse.
Despite the patchy darkness, he could see Daisy was an accomplished rider. That much was clear. He watched her work the reins with the grace and control of a well-seasoned orchestra conductor, gliding along in the saddle as if it were a magic carpet in the sky. Her posture was perfect and confident, like she’d been born on a horse.
He, on the other hand, was under siege from the saddle, feeling the polished leather smack into his undercarriage with every step of the great beast. His back was starting to feel it, too, and he found himself wishing he’d never sold his old ride. He needed something he felt comfortable on. Something with far more than one horsepower and something with a reliable, built-in suspension and foot pegs.
If they didn’t reach Tuttle’s place soon, the pain between his thighs and in his lower spine would continue to rise, threatening his ability to walk right. Or have kids. Even his teeth were starting to hurt, clanking together about every fifth stride.
It had been a tiring day of challenges but thankfully, only one task remained: obtain communications gear from Tuttle, and anything else that could be useful, tactically speaking.
The Sheriff and Mayor were counting on him. So were Daisy, Stephanie, and Jeffrey. Plus all those kids he’d rescued. Oh, and their parents, too. Now that he thought about it, he’d essentially given his word to everyone in town.
Even though he could turn the reins and slip off into the night, he planned to complete the mission. As appealing as a smooth getaway sounded to the old version of him, the new Bunker wouldn’t allow it. Not now. Not after the town had claimed him for their own. He was committed. At least for the short term.
More importantly, if an invasion was imminent, where else could he go where there was food, water, shelter, and people who trusted him?
If their theories were correct about the Morse code signal and what was coming across the southern border, going it alone was not the right move. Safety in numbers was the only way to play this, even if the town was filled with a bunch of mostly untrained civilians.
“Tuttle’s place is just over there,” Daisy said, pointing to the right as they cleared the wooden bridge.
“Good, ‘cause my ass is killing me.”
She laughed. “On the way back, I’ll show you how to sit properly so you can move with the horse and not against him. It’s much easier that way.”
“I figured there was a trick to this. There has to be. Otherwise, nobody in their right mind would ever take a long ride like this.”
“Long ride? This is nothing, Bunker. Some day you’ll have to take a trip with me to Thompson Falls. It’s about thirty miles from here, across some super tough trail. But it’s totally worth it. It’s one of the most beautiful places on Earth. When you get there and the trees open up,
you’ll see this massive waterfall that pours into a crystal-clear lake. All of it surrounded by forest and mountain peaks as far as you can see. I swear to God, you’ll think you just found heaven. It literally takes your breath away.”
“Yeah, some day,” he said, not wanting to be impolite. It sounded amazing, but he doubted he’d ever agree to that level of torture on his backside. Not unless her secret trick for the saddle solved the pain he was in, and did so quickly. Otherwise, he’d never survive the agony of a thirty-mile ride.
She turned, taking her horse down a wide dirt road that faded off into the shadows ahead. The surface was uneven and rocky, with deep ruts from water runoff snaking their way across the road from high to low.
“Down on the right is Rainey’s place. I think you may have met her in town. Her grandson was supposedly on the bus. Though now that I think about it, I don’t remember seeing him. But I only met him once since her daughter moved to town, so maybe I just missed him in all the commotion,” she said, sauntering her horse ahead a few more strides. “North, across the street, is Tuttle’s. When we get there, let’s get off our horses and stand together. You’ll need to stay close and keep the flashlight on both of us so he gets a good look at you. But whatever happens, let me do all the talking. Otherwise, he might just start shooting.”
“He’s really that twitchy?”
She nodded. “He doesn’t like strangers. Well, actually, he doesn’t like anyone at all. But I think he has a soft spot for me. At least I hope so.”
“Great, just what we needed.”
“He’s really not that bad. But ever since his wife died of ovarian cancer, he’s kinda withdrawn from society. He and Helen were together ever since high school. After all those years, it’s gotta leave a big hole that just can’t be filled. I can’t imagine a love like that.”
“Speaking of relationships, is there a Mr. Clark?” Bunker asked her in a smooth, gentle tone, not knowing where the words came from. They just came flying out on their own, making him suck down a quick breath afterward.
She scoffed, sounding amused. “A girl’s gotta have a boyfriend for more than a minute if she’s ever gonna get married. I’m sure you noticed in town, it ain’t exactly full of underwear models. Slim pickin’s, if you know what I mean. Most of them missing a few teeth.”
Bunker’s mind drew him a visual, which he quickly erased. “You ever thought of moving to the big city? Denver isn’t that far away. A lot more choices there.”
“Nah. I love it here, despite the total lack of men. I figure I’ll grow old in Clearwater and then they can bury me next to my dad. He’s been gone eight years now.”
“And your mom?”
“Eleven years. I miss them both so much. Especially around the holidays. My trailer isn’t very big to start with, but when Christmas comes, I feel like I live inside a tuna can. It’s just me and my cat, Vonda, who loves—”
“—tuna,” he added, interrupting her.
“Exactly. The walls close in like a noose around our necks. Sometimes, I just can’t breathe and have to get out of there. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah. I do, as a matter of fact. Sometimes the only thing you can do is say no more and get the hell out of there. Change is good for the soul.”
She hesitated for a moment, then swung her head around to make eye contact. “Is there a Mrs. Bunker waiting for you somewhere?” she asked, using the same tone and playfulness in her voice as he did a minute ago.
“Nope,” he said, wishing he hadn’t opened himself up for investigation by asking her about her love life. Now he was compelled to answer or he’d sound like a complete jerk.
She spoke again, this time sounding more deliberate. “So . . . no one who’s waiting for you back in LA? A girlfriend? Friend with benefits? Regular Thursday night stripper?”
He smiled, enjoying her candor. However, he wished it wasn’t aimed at him. He needed to end this line of questioning and fast, before he was cornered.
Keep it simple and to the point, he decided. “Nope. Nobody. I don’t even have a home back there anymore. I decided it was time for some drastic changes in my life and I left town. That’s why I was on the train when I met Steph and her kid. Just looking to start over. My old life wasn’t going the way I planned, so I set out to see where fate would take me.”
“And bam, you ended up here. Lucky us.”
“Well, I don’t know about that.”
“Yeah, seriously. Lucky us. Those kids wouldn’t be alive if God hadn’t brought you here,” she said, slowing her horse as a metal gate came into view. “We’re here.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Bunker rode his horse next to Daisy, then aimed the flashlight higher, showering the top of Tuttle’s gate with light. Beyond the gate were piles of rock and then a tall structure—the barn, he assumed. They were on the left, opposite a singlewide trailer on the right.
The house looked to be sitting on a foundation, but its distinctive shape and style screamed mobile home—a model from the seventies, if he had to guess. The four windows along the front were covered in horizontal blinds, something he figured Tuttle purchased from Home Depot and installed himself, given the rundown look of the place.
In front of the home were three old Ford pickups, sitting bumper to bumper with their driver doors facing the road. Beyond them was a huge stash of gas station and roadway signs. They’d been stacked up vertically, with their faded lettering and logos aimed away from the trailer.
“Tuttle’s a serious packrat,” he said to Daisy.
“Yeah, no doubt. I’m pretty sure he does it to get under the skin of Mrs. Rainey across the street.”
Bunker couldn’t hold back a half-smile. “Gotta love neighbors. Doesn’t matter where you live, there’s always one who pisses you off. Even way out here.”
“I think he angled all this junk to shield his place, too. You know, privacy. Rainey is a gawker, supposedly.”
“I was wondering why the trucks were parked parallel to the street. A collector would’ve had the hoods facing the road.”
“Yep and those signs are way cheaper than a fence. Plus, I think he gets off knowing she has to stare at them all day.”
Tuttle even had a couple of safes lying in the weeds, their reinforced doors hanging open. But there was something else between the house and the trucks—something much smaller and a darker color.
He moved the beam to get a better look. It was a red lawnmower, but it wasn’t old and rusted like the rest of the scrap.
Daisy dismounted.
He did the same, taking the reins of her horse so she could focus on Tuttle. Bunker stood to her left, with the flashlight angled up from his waist, showering both of their faces in light.
A single light was burning in the house, near its midpoint. It wasn’t flickering or moving, so it wasn’t a candle. Nor was it a flashlight or a fireplace. Probably a lamp or some other type of fixed, hard-wired light source. If his assumption was correct, it meant Tuttle had power—backup power—with the grid down.
Daisy took in a deep breath before she spoke in a loud, deliberate tone. “Frank? Are you home? It’s me, Deputy Daisy Clark with the Sheriff’s Department. From earlier.”
They waited for an answer, but none came.
She called out again, this time louder than before. “Frank? We really need to speak to you. This is my friend, Jack Bunker. Sorry to bother you again, but we need to borrow one more thing.”
“Rent one more thing,” Bunker reminded her quietly. “Not borrow.”
“Rent one more thing!” she yelled, correcting herself. “I know it’s late, but can you please come out and talk to us? It’s super urgent.”
Again, there was no answer. She called a third time, pleading with him to show himself. He didn’t.
“That’s weird. The light’s on,” she mumbled before turning her eyes to Bunker.
“Probably on battery backup. I don’t hear a generator running.”
“I don’t unders
tand. Why doesn’t he answer? He’s got to be home. He’s always is.”
“It’s possible he’s not inside. Could be out back somewhere. Or he’s busy taking a leak.”
“Yeah, maybe,” she said, laughing. “Probably has his hands full. Sort of.” She pointed at the stacks of rocks in the driveway. “Last time, he was hiding in that middle pile. He’s got some kind of little hidden bunker thing going on in there.”
“A bunker?”
She smiled. “Yeah, bunker. Just like your name. Hmmm. How about that? Never dawned on me until just now.”
“Is it deep?”
“I don’t think so. It’s more like a hatch, but I never went inside. Maybe it leads somewhere. Who knows? He did mention something about having more than one stash of supplies. Underground, I think. I just wish I could remember exactly what he said.”
Before Bunker could respond, three brilliant flashes caught his attention from inside the house. Two happened quickly, then another one a second later. Each of the flashes was immediately accompanied by a loud bang.
“Get down,” Bunker said when he recognized the sound of gunfire. He turned off the flashlight and grabbed Daisy’s arm in an instant, pulling her and the horses about twenty feet to the left. He stopped when the bulk of the rock piles were between them and the house.
“Oh my God! Frank?” she said in an emotional voice, pushing large amounts of air out with each word. “We gotta get in there,” she added a few moments later, pulling her weapon from its holster. “I think he just shot himself.”
Bunker kept his grip on her arm, preventing her from standing. “No. Wait. There were three shots. Not one. When you shoot yourself there’s only one. Then it’s over.”
The fright on her face disappeared and was replaced by concern. “Someone’s in there with him?”
Bunker nodded. “That’s my guess. Whoever it is probably didn’t expect a deputy to show up just now, either. With some other guy.”
“Then Frank is d—”
Bunker: Boxed Set (Books 1, 2, and 3) Page 21
