Bunker: Boxed Set (Books 1, 2, and 3)

by Jay J. Falconer

  Daisy was still on the left, positioned behind one of the rock piles in the driveway. Bunker could feel her eyes studying his every move, trying to figure out what he was doing.

  He didn’t get a chance to lay out the diversion plan before he started on this quest, so she’d have to be patient and figure it out on her own. She was smart and capable. As long as she took the shot when the opportunity presented itself, his plan should work.

  After another step, the sign bumped into something firm. He lifted the metal several inches and took a peek underneath. The moonlight was just bright enough to see a pair of black wheels and the mower’s cutting deck.

  It was time to reverse course and haul the mower where he needed it. He took a deep, invigorating breath and hoisted the sign in one flash of movement, then brought it down on the inside of the handlebar in front of him.

  He wrapped his fingers around the mower’s grab bar and pulled the machine away from the house, keeping the shield in place. The weeds were thick, slowing the process down, but he was able to drag the cutter behind the trucks where he had better cover. He tossed the sign aside.

  Part of him was shocked the shooter hadn’t sent a round while he was exposed, but the rest of him was thankful. Bunker couldn’t be sure if the intruder was watching him or not, but since Daisy hadn’t taken a shot, he assumed no. He figured the target was hunkered down behind a couch, waiting for them to breach.

  Bunker found the cap to the mower’s tank and twisted it open. He leaned in to smell it. The fumes were potent, making him turn his head away. Fresh gas. Excellent news.

  He took the beer can and held it under the machine as he tilted it, allowing the fuel to leak out and run inside the aluminum container. Some of it spilled onto his fingers, but he was able to fill the can halfway. He put the mower back on its wheels, leaving the gas cap off.

  Bunker held the can next to the mower and was about to pour it across the ground to make a long fuse, but a new thought stopped him. If he didn’t work quickly, the gas would evaporate or soak into the dirt. Either way, it would become inert and not light. But that wasn’t the only problem.

  The mower’s explosion might not set off the old fuel in the truck’s tank. For ignition to happen, he needed to bring a high-intensity flame directly inside the tank.

  A better solution was needed.

  Then he remembered the bandana in his pocket. He pulled the rag out and studied it for a few seconds, letting a new idea form in his brain. He liked it, though everything had to be set up perfectly for it to work.

  First, he made sure the truck’s gas cap was securely in place. He twisted it tight, locking the varnished fuel inside the enclosed container. Step one complete.

  Now he needed to find the weakest point on the truck’s tank. He opened the matchbook and struck one of the four remaining matches. It was risky to expose his location for a few seconds, but he didn’t have a choice.

  When the match head finished its initial flare, he bent down with the steady flame and held it under the truck. He studied the condition of the tank, finding a rusted area about the size of a baseball on its longest side, facing forward. Some of the steel had peeled away, reminding him of petals on a rose, though brown instead of red.

  He put the tip of his knife against the tank to mark the location, then blew out the match. He wrapped both hands around the knife’s handle and leveraged all his weight to push the blade into the oxidized area.

  The tip penetrated slowly at first before the metal gave way, sending the rest of the knife inside with a lurch. The lack of resistance sent his knuckles slamming into the tank, bringing a sharp sting to his hands. He grimaced and withdrew the knife.

  The decomposing fuel began to seep out in slow-moving clumps of goo. It reminded him of nearly frozen marmalade jelly, oozing out like sap from a tree.

  Now for the bandana. He sliced the smelly do-rag into two dozen strips of cloth, each a half inch in width. Once cut, he twisted them lengthwise between his fingers to form strings, then tied their ends together.

  Next up: the beer can and its fuel. He dunked the makeshift fuse into the gas and let the cloth soak for a few seconds. When he took it out, he put one end of the fuse into the mower’s tank and draped the rest of it to the ground.

  He slid the machine under the truck’s gas tank, positioning the mower’s cutting deck directly under the fuel icicle that was now halfway to the ground. He spread out the remainder of the fuse on the ground, snaking it around the rear tire and under the tailgate.

  It was now or never.

  Bunker wiped his hands in the dirt to soak up the petroleum on his fingers, then took the matchbook and folded over one of the remaining matchsticks. He closed the cover and lit the exposed match with a single swipe of his thumb across the contact strip.

  Once the flame settled into a steady burn, he angled the rest of the matchbook over the fire, then tossed the burning pack onto the end of the fuse. Bunker crawled feverishly past the other two trucks and positioned himself inside the stack of metal signs.

  If he’d set this up correctly, the fuse would burn to the mower’s gas tank, setting it ablaze. Once the fire reached a high enough temperature, it should ignite the dripping fuel-cicle and take the flame inside the truck’s tank.

  He covered his head and waited.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Daisy Clark’s focus was pulled to the right when a brilliant flare erupted from underneath the Ford truck closest to her. She knew Bunker was behind the old clunker and working on something big—something he said would bring the shooter to the designated window. The same window where the sights of her Glock were currently aimed.

  She thought setting a fire was the extent of Bunker’s plan, but then a powerful explosion rocked the property. The truck blew apart along the rear axle and sent the vehicle’s rusty bed flipping into the air.

  The shockwave hit her first, knocking her to the side and landing on her elbow. The thunderous blast ripped at her eardrums, locking her jaw in an open position as a high-pitched, pinging sound tunneled its way inside. It felt like someone had unleashed a turbocharged dentist’s drill against her temple.

  She cried out in pain, covering her ears as the back section of the truck flipped through the air, cradled inside a cocoon of flames. Gravity soon took charge and brought it down on top of the second truck, smashing its cab flat.

  Daisy shook off the ringing in her ears, then resumed her firing stance behind the rock pile. She brought the handgun back into position and locked its sights on the closest window of Tuttle’s home.

  A big part of her was worried that Bunker got caught up in the explosion. Even if he was hurt, she couldn’t let her attention drift. Her eyes and hands needed to remain where they were, burning a hole in the window’s covering.

  The beat in her chest was rapid and so, too, was her breathing. If it weren’t for the pile of stone acting as a shooting rest, her aim would have been erratic. Impossible to control.

  The horizontal blind began to move, pried apart near the midpoint. Daisy took a short breath and let it out before her finger pulled the trigger.

  The round left the chamber, tearing a hole in the glass before her finger could squeeze again. The blinds blew apart, sending a spray of red across the window.

  She continued firing in rapid succession, smashing more of the glass as she aimed lower with each successive shot. Her wrists absorbed the near-continuous recoil, keeping the sights trained on the destruction path down the wall. When the magazine was empty, the semi-auto’s slide locked open.

  The blind broke free from its overhead mount and crashed to the floor, almost as if someone had tried to pull themselves up with a yank.

  Daisy pushed the release button on the left side of the grip and let the empty magazine fall to the ground. She jammed a new double-stacked magazine into the bottom of the Glock, then racked the slide to fill the chamber with a round.

  Bunker appeared in a blur from the right, entering her visi
on as he worked his way through the weeds in front of Tuttle’s place. His backside hit the wall to the right of the door a second later.

  Thanks to the light from the truck fire dancing across his body, she could see his Ruger LCP locked in a two-handed grip and held chest high. He waved her to join him, looking unharmed and eager to take down the shooter.

  * * *

  Bunker waited until Daisy arrived and took position on the opposite side of the entrance. He turned the door handle and pushed it open, keeping his profile thin and out of view.

  The blaze behind him was in full burn, creating a concert of shadows to contend with, each dancing in lockstep with the ballet outside. The shadows were a threat, providing dynamic cover for the target.

  The shooter was there, somewhere, but not at full strength thanks to at least one bullet wound. Possibly more. Bunker was impressed with Daisy’s accuracy, seeing the spray of blood after her first shot.

  He remained outside as he worked the doorway by slicing the field of fire into a handful of thin segments, moving both his vision and his aim slowly to the right. It was a tactic called Slicing the Pie, a phrase his Fire Team Leader used often.

  When he finished his initial visual sweep, he pointed to himself to get Daisy’s attention. She nodded. He aimed his finger at the door and swung it to the left, then pointed at her and turned his aim to the right. He ended the covert communiqué by holding up three fingers to indicate a countdown was about to start. She made an okay sign with her fingers.

  He started the hand signals in one-second increments, starting with three. At zero, he led the two of them into the home. He went left and she went right, both keeping low with their handguns ready to fire.

  The corners were clear of active threats. So were the walls, leaving only two bodies to cover—each motionless and lying in a pool of blood. One was under the window Daisy shot out, and the other was twisted awkwardly on a bearskin rug in the center of the room.

  Behind the rug were a tattered sofa, loveseat, and recliner, forming a horseshoe shape around the body. Next to the dark-colored easy chair were four stacks of newspapers, reaching the same height as the chair’s stained armrests. Beyond that was the only light in the room—a floor lamp. It was lying on its side with its bulb smashed to pieces.

  Daisy was right. The room reeked of smoke and body odor. Years of it—all of it fermenting until it had taken up permanent residence in the paint, the upholstery, and the light-colored linoleum floors. The stench was overpowering and nearly enough to make a billy goat gag.

  Bunker pointed at the long gray hair of the body on the rug. Daisy swung her eyes and looked at it. Her look of shock told him the victim was Tuttle.

  She lowered her head for a two-count, shook it twice, then brought her focus back to Bunker. The look of alarm was now gone, having been replaced with a fierce, determined stare—almost predator-like.

  He knew exactly what she was feeling, having felt it years ago. He remembered the moment well. It was the same day he found himself standing over a heap of body parts, deciding right then to end his deployment in the swirling sands of Afghanistan.

  Daisy went to Tuttle’s body while Bunker crept forward to the shooter. He kept his trigger finger at the ready, just in case the corpse wasn’t a corpse. When he arrived, he found the intruder covered in all-black garb, including a sweatshirt, balaclava, canvas pants, and trail shoes.

  Daisy’s aim had been spot-on, landing a round in the shooter’s left eye. Most of the blood had pooled around his head, forming a near-perfect circle of red.

  Bunker pulled the assailant’s hood off in a single tug. A large hunk from the back of the skull came off with it, landing on the floor with a thud.

  The man was dead all right. No doubt about it. Even a zombie from the Walking Dead couldn’t function with half his brain missing.

  Earlier, when Daisy had suggested the intruder was probably a meth-head looking for an easy score, Bunker thought it was plausible. However, now that he was standing over a body dressed in all black, he wasn’t willing to accept that assumption.

  He studied the man’s face for a moment, then bent down and pried his lips apart. The dead man’s teeth were aligned with precision and stark white—both upper and lower. No signs of tooth decay from inhaling endless amounts of methamphetamine.

  This was no drug addict or down on his luck outcast. The man’s short-cropped hair, all-black clothing, balaclava, trim body, and complete lack of facial hair screamed military. Or former military.

  But why break into Tuttle’s place like a common thug? He thought about it for a moment and realized something wasn’t right. He stood up and looked at Daisy. “You stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  “Is something wrong?” she asked while checking Tuttle’s vitals.

  “Toss me that flashlight. I need to go check something.”

  She sent the flashlight flipping end over end. He snagged it out of the air with one hand, then turned it on before starting his trek down the hallway.

  He stopped to search the first bedroom. No threats. Only food stores. Dozens and dozens of #10 cans for long-term survival storage. Everything air-tight and sealed. He saw mostly Mountain House labels. However, a few stacks contained inventory from Saratoga Farms. Potatoes and pancakes must have been the man’s favorite. Plus beef stroganoff.

  Bedroom two had more of the same, except for the pair of backpacks leaning together in the center of the room. Their aluminum frames, adjustable shoulder straps, and padded hip belts were designed for hiking.

  Bunker figured they were Tuttle’s bug-out bags, both of them camouflage green and stuffed to the seams, with their pouches hanging open.

  But why two packs if he lived alone?

  When Bunker arrived at the last bedroom, he entered with the Ruger LCP and flashlight leading the way. He scanned for targets. All clear.

  Most of the space had been dedicated to the sagging king-size bed. To the left was a single-stack four-drawer oak dresser covered in scratches and dents. A pile of clothes stood next to it—waist-high and soiled. The dingy t-shirt on top looked paper thin with a plethora of holes in it, the white fabric barely holding together.

  Poor man’s hamper, Bunker mused, figuring it was a couple of weeks’ worth of laundry.

  Before he could take another step, he remembered a light being on in the house when they’d first arrived on the scene—the floor lamp in the main room, toppled over with bulb smashed.

  Tuttle had backup power. Bunker didn’t need the flashlight. He found the wall switch and flipped it on, stinging his eyes with overhead light.

  The stench of smoke was pervasive and even more pronounced here than in the main room. When he looked at the end of the bookcase-style headboard, he discovered why: a half-length cigar smoldering in a turquoise-colored ashtray.

  A black revolver with a wooden grip was huddled next to it. He guessed it was a .357 based on the diameter of the six-inch-long barrel. Just the type of cowboy gun he’d expect an old-timer like Tuttle to own. Plenty of stopping power, too, plus it was quick and reliable. No magazine jams or extractor problems. Just aim and fire, though the trigger guard would sting the hand of anyone not familiar with the powerful recoil.

  Tuttle’s room wasn’t much, but he’d obviously spent a lot of time in it, mainly on the oversized bed. Its white sheets were twisted into a rope-like pattern and pulled to one side, making room for a spread of newspapers. A magnifying glass, yellow marker, 100-pack of push pins, and blue-handled scissors sat nearby.

  The scene fit what Bunker saw on the walls—hundreds of newspaper articles, each with yellow highlight streaks and uneven edges from Tuttle’s scissors. Push pins held them up in a mosaic pattern, though there were numerous gaps remaining. Some of the cutouts remained a pristine white color, while others hung faded from years of smoke damage.

  Bunker took a few seconds to consider the scene. Only one answer came to him: the assailant caught Tuttle in the middle of a cigar while scanning
articles in bed.

  But how did he get a drop on Tuttle?

  Daisy claimed the man lived on the edge and had an itchy trigger finger. If that was true, Tuttle would’ve been tuned in to any change in his surroundings and grabbed the .357.

  Bunker went to the headboard to inspect the firearm, freeing all six rounds from the cylinder. The hollow points were still seated in their brass jackets, none of them fired. He smelled the barrel. No gunpowder odor.

  It was clear he was missing something.

  Across from the bed were three piles of newspapers nestled against the wall, each about four feet tall with palm-sized rocks sitting on top. He took a paper from the first stack and checked the date. It was from the previous year: May 15. The paper below it was from the week before that. Tuttle was way behind on his reading.

  Bunker turned sideways and scooted past the paper stacks to make his way around the bed to the far side. He found three drops of blood on the floor by the window. But that wasn’t all. There were also two shards of glass about the size of marbles, though not nearly enough to account for the basketball-sized hole in the window.

  After careful consideration, Bunker came up with only one answer: the window was broken from the inside. Possibly during a struggle. A struggle that surprised Tuttle and didn’t allow him time to grab his revolver and defend himself.

  After a quick retrace of his steps back down the hallway, Bunker closed in on Daisy’s position in the main room. He stopped to put the floor lamp on its pedestal base.

  He aimed the flashlight down and saw a gash on the middle finger of Tuttle’s left hand. His suspicions were correct.

  “Something’s wrong, isn’t it? I can see it on your face,” Daisy said in a sharp, concerned tone.

  “I think we have this whole situation wrong,” Bunker said, pointing at Tuttle. “You see that cut? Tuttle’s hand broke the window in his bedroom. Not the shooter. Plus I found a loaded revolver sitting within arm’s reach from his bed.”

  “So what are you saying? This isn’t a break-in?”