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

by Jay J. Falconer

  She didn’t like the answers, but she was too tired to argue. Rules and procedure had been tossed aside a while ago, leaving her at the mercy of Bunker’s decisions. Decisions being made by a former Marine turned white supremacist biker.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Franklin Atwater sat with his arms wrapped around his daughter, his shoulder pulsating with the thump of his heart. The bleeding had stopped, but not the constant sting, reminding him of how much damage had been done by the shooter’s bullet. A shooter named Grinder, according to Daisy after she and Bunker had emerged from the miner’s shack.

  One question kept nagging at him. How did Bunker know the man’s name was Grinder? Who offered up their name when they were holding a gun on a little girl? His little girl.

  “I hope they’re back soon,” Megan said in her sweet little voice, nestling her head against the uninjured side of his chest. “I wanna go home, Daddy.”

  “I know, me too, sweetheart. But we need to wait just a little bit longer. They’ll be here soon. I promise.”

  The temper in his chest boiled as he visualized the scene with his daughter. Megan must have been scared senseless, wishing her daddy would come inside to rescue her from the clutches of a bad guy. A bad guy she’d most certainly never forget. A bad guy whose face would haunt her dreams for years to come.

  Had Franklin been in Bunker’s shoes, shooting the man would not have been his first choice. No, a more personal form of justice was warranted. One involving as many blows as his fists could dish out.

  Primal instinct is a powerful weapon, especially when it’s delivered with ruthless efficiency—efficiency infused with extreme prejudice.

  He imagined the beating in his mind, landing punch after punch, not stopping until one of two things happened: he broke every bone in his hands, or the man’s face caved in like a rotting cantaloupe.

  Sure, to some, his vengeful daydream might seem harsh, disproportionate, or even unwarranted. But deep down, he knew he was right. Every parent knows that no punishment is too great for those who would hurt innocent children. Retribution was the only answer.

  Every cell in his body was tuned into his rage, but he kept all signs of it hidden from his fragile little girl. Megan was the only thing in his life that mattered and he would never do anything to compromise her future or her happiness.

  And yet, he’d come within a trigger pull of losing her. Likewise, she almost lost him. Different bullet, but same shooter.

  The rest of what he had in his life was just a pile of useless possessions. Meaningless spoils of years of hard work. All of it could be replaced. All of it except the Colt 1911, the gun his wife had given him right before she died in a tragic fire. If he’d only been there when the pull-behind trailer ignited, she’d still be alive.

  If he closed his eyes and focused, he could remember every agonizing night since then. The long, sleepless hours ticking by like frozen molasses. But not just for him, for Megan, too. His memories were filled with endless hours of his little girl crying herself to sleep in the bedroom next door, her face buried in the pillow, trying to muffle the sound of her misery.

  The pain in his heart was real. There was no denying it. So was his guilt. All of it stemming from one mistake. His mistake—one that had turned into a flaming dagger, anchoring itself to his soul for all of eternity.

  If only he’d been diligent and stayed on top of his game. Then Megan would still have her mom. And he, his wife. The only woman he’d ever loved.

  His situational awareness skills had become rusty. Not just once, but twice. First with his wife and the trailer fire, and now with his daughter’s kidnapping. These failures couldn’t continue. Not with the Universe apparently on a rampage against him.

  If it weren’t for Bunker, a man who just showed up and took residence in their lives, Franklin would have nothing. It was almost as if God himself had handpicked a savior, sending him to Clearwater just when the town needed him most.

  Before the next thought arrived, Franklin heard a sound. It was off in the distance. Mechanical. Closing.

  Megan sat up in his lap. “Daddy? Do you hear that?”

  “Engines,” Stephanie King said, whipping her head to the side to investigate. “Working engines. Sounds like more than one.”

  “Mr. Bunker must have found them,” Jeffrey added, the freckles on his cheeks dancing with each syllable.

  “Well, let’s hope it’s Bunker,” Stephanie said, pulling her son closer.

  “It is. Gotta think positive,” Franklin said. “That man knows what he’s doing. So does Daisy.”

  “I know, but what about those gunshots earlier?” Stephanie asked.

  Franklin could see the worry smothering her face. “I’m sure they’re okay. Probably did a little hunting while they were out there. Deer, I would guess.”

  Steph’s eyes tightened before a short pause. “Good, ‘cause I’m starving. We all are,” the woman said, wiping a clump of hair away from her son’s face. “This day just needs to end.”

  Thirty seconds later, a pair of identical trucks broke through the trees across the clearing, their engines growling in low gear. They plowed across the rolling terrain, crushing stalks of starter growth with the roll of their tires.

  Franklin recognized them, having owned one in his younger days—1965 Land Rovers. The 109 Series, if he wasn’t mistaken. Each a four-door Sedan model, complete with a winch affixed to the front bumper and a white roof rack.

  The paint was a beautiful Grasmere green color, though the wide splash of mud along the side covered up most of it—so much so, it was difficult to see where one door ended and the other began.

  Franklin stood up. So did Megan, Stephanie, and Jeffrey.

  The trucks pulled to a stop fifteen feet away, giving Franklin a priority view of the oversized, heavy-tread tires. They looked new, including the spare attached to the hood.

  The driver’s window rolled down in successive, uneven bursts before Bunker stuck his head out, wearing a smile. “Someone call a cab?”

  “A cab?” Stephanie asked in a sarcastic tone. “Who calls cabs these days? Uber would be more like it.”

  “Okay then, Uber.”

  “You’re late,” Stephanie added, letting out a thin smile. “Don’t expect a tip.”

  “Traffic was a bitch,” Bunker said, playing along.

  “I was getting a little worried there for a moment,” Franklin said.

  “We heard gunshots,” Megan said.

  “Everything okay?” Franklin asked Bunker.

  “Had to take care of some unfinished business,” Bunker said, stepping out of the vehicle.

  “So . . . you weren’t hunting after all,” Stephanie said.

  “Well, sort of. Just not for something we can eat,” Daisy added, exiting her truck and joining Bunker.

  Stephanie put up her hands. “Someone please tell that woman that I’m not talking to her right now. Or ever.”

  Bunker shook his head, looking at Franklin.

  Franklin shrugged. “Let’s get everyone loaded up and back to town. It’s a long drive south.”

  “Daddy, what about Tango?” Megan asked. “We can’t leave him out there all alone.”

  “I’ll come back for him later, sweetheart.”

  “But your shoulder?”

  “I’ll ride him to town for you,” Bunker said, taking a step forward.

  “Seriously?” Daisy snapped, giving him an exaggerated smirk, then pointing at his backside. “Haven’t you had enough punishment for one day?”

  Bunker rubbed his butt, twisting his mouth before he spoke. “I’ll be okay.”

  “Are you sure? I doubt you can take another argument with a saddle.”

  Bunker laughed. “Right now, my rear end hurts the least of everything. Another ride will just even out the pain. Besides, someone has to do it. We can’t leave a valuable horse out here.”

  “Thanks, Bunker. We appreciate it,” Franklin said, pointing to the right. “He’s tied to
a tree just beyond a stream. Look for a huge oak tree lying on the ground. Can’t miss it. It’s massive. Tango’s right behind the stand of blueberry bushes.”

  “Got it.”

  “Tango loves blueberries,” Megan said, looking at her father.

  “That’s why I left him there, darling. So he could eat. There’s a stream, too, for water.”

  “Don’t you think we should stay together?” Stephanie asked, her tone tense. She cleared her throat, shooting a sharp glance at Bunker. “So none of us accidentally wanders off on their own.”

  Bunker shook his head, ignoring her obvious reference to him. “You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up. I need to finish a few things around here before I head out.”

  “For the buffet,” Daisy said, nodding in a matter-of-fact way.

  “Exactly.”

  “What buffet?” Stephanie asked.

  “I’ll explain later,” Bunker said. “Just not in front of the kids.”

  “Oh, right,” she said, nodding tentatively, though her tone suggested she wasn’t sure what he meant.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Mayor Buckley waited in front of Bubba’s Repair and Restoration, his feet just outside the entrance to the first garage bay. He kept his head turned away to avoid a dangerous case of welder’s flash, waiting for the gas-infused hiss of the crackling torch to run quiet. A few seconds later it did, filling the garage with an echo of silence.

  “I’m a little busy here, Mayor,” a male’s voice said, his tone terse and to the point.

  Buckley brought his eyes around until he found the owner of the auto repair shop, Burt Lowenstein. He was down on one knee with his welding mask tipped up, his face unevenly tanned and soiled.

  Burt wasn’t wearing a shirt, only a pair of shop coveralls with the straps wrapped around his wide shoulders. There must have been two dozen burn scars across his arms, round belly, and powerful biceps, making Buckley wonder why Burt chose to weld steel without a shirt for protection.

  The bruise around Burt’s left eye was colorful and notably swollen, courtesy of the Sheriff’s nightstick from a few days prior. Yet the injury didn’t diminish the intensity of Burt’s penetrating stare. Nor did it lessen his body odor or gruff demeanor.

  The Mayor wasn’t looking forward to this conversation, but it needed to take place. “Sorry to interrupt, Burt, but I need to speak to you about something.”

  “It’s gonna have to wait, Buckley. Got a schedule to keep,” the mechanic said with sharp words. The man brought his eyes down to the triangle-shaped project in front of him that featured two mountain bike wheels on the end of an axle. His hand came up to the open mask along the side, his fingers wrapping around the edge.

  Buckley assumed he was about to flip the mask down and resume his work. The Mayor needed to stop him and continue the conversation.

  However, before the Mayor could utter his next word, Sheriff Apollo arrived and joined him at his side, his voice charged with volume. “It can wait, Burt. The Mayor can’t. I’m afraid this is official business. So I’m gonna have to ask you to put down the torch and have a little chat with us.”

  Burt never looked up at Apollo, keeping his head low and shaking it slowly. It was clear the man wasn’t happy about the interruption. After a three-count, the grease monkey stood up, tearing the mask from his head and tossing it onto the workbench behind him.

  Burt huffed, then ran his hands through his unruly hair before making eye contact. “Okay, but make it quick. You’re costing me money here.”

  “We can appreciate that, but this won’t take long,” the Mayor said in an authoritative voice, stepping inside the open garage bay. Apollo followed him as they walked to Burt’s location.

  Burt grabbed a red shop towel from a rolling work cart next to him and wiped the sweat from his brow, then turned the cloth loose on his filthy hands and fingers.

  Buckley decided to forgo the customary handshake, not wanting a messy transfer of grease to take place. He knew Burt wasn’t a fan of meet-and-greets anyway, so he figured the man wouldn’t take offense.

  Burt was a carbon copy of his dad, Bartholomew Lowenstein, the entrepreneur who started the repair shop some twenty years prior. At first blush, one might think the senior member of their family would have been tagged with the nickname Bart, but that wasn’t the case. Everyone called him Bubba. Buckley wasn’t sure why.

  The Mayor remembered the old man’s funeral like it was yesterday. A brawl broke out in the church pews halfway into the service. The melee started as an argument over the previous presidential election. Something about gun control, if Buckley remembered right.

  As usual, Burt was at the center of the fisticuffs, taking on his toothless cousin Dave. It took an act of God to pry the burly combatants apart, etching the day into Buckley’s memory until the end of time.

  “Is this about what happened with Albert?” Burt asked, his eyes focused on the Sheriff’s duty belt.

  Buckley figured the sweaty professional wrench was looking for Apollo’s nightstick, worried that another beat-down was forthcoming. “No, this is about another matter.”

  “How’s the eye?” Apollo asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

  Burt tightened his chin, and his eyes. “Hurts like a motherfucker. How do you think it feels?”

  “I wish it hadn’t been necessary, but you can’t assault a deputy like that,” Apollo said.

  “Deputy? Albert’s not a real deputy. Who are you trying to fool? He’s a lazy dumbass. Everyone knows that. And you just gave him a badge? Seriously?”

  “Yes, I did and it was the right thing to do. We’ve got a serious situation in town, in case you hadn’t noticed. And I have a town to protect.”

  “With Albert and that other spaz?”

  Apollo hesitated, looking like he was fighting back his temper. “You know, Burt, you should be grateful that I didn’t toss your ass in jail and file charges. There was certainly probable cause to do so.”

  Buckley needed the tension to disappear. “Gentlemen, what happened at the gas station is ancient history now. We need to move on.”

  Burt pointed at his face. “Yeah, well, tell that to my eye. I’ve been seeing double ever since. Gotta close it when I’m using my torch.”

  “Yes, that’s unfortunate. But we can’t dwell on the past. There are more important things to discuss.”

  “Then let’s get on with it, Mayor. I don’t have all day,” Burt said with more air in his words than before. He tossed the wipe away, depositing it on a loose pile of soiled towels sitting a few feet away.

  “First of all, thank you for repairing the town hall’s generator. It’s working much better now,” Buckley said, giving Burt a pair of hundred dollar bills from his pocket.

  The man snatched the money. “The invoice was for three hundred, Mayor. Where’s the rest?”

  “I’ll have it for you tomorrow. We’re a little low on petty cash at the moment.”

  “That’s not what we agreed on,” Burt snarled. “I thought you were a man of your word.”

  “I am. You just need to be patient until I can send my assistant to the bank to restock the cash box. Should be tomorrow afternoon, at the latest.”

  “Fine. Is that it?” Burt asked.

  “No, there’s another matter we need to discuss,” Apollo said, pointing at the two-wheeled frame on the floor. “You’re building a rickshaw, am I right?”

  Burt shrugged, looking smug. “Yeah, so? No law against that.”

  “Actually, there is,” Apollo answered in a sharp tone.

  The Mayor decided to explain in more detail, just in case Burt hadn’t been informed of the new conservation policy. “Since we don’t know when the next tanker truck will arrive, if ever, I’ve designated the town’s fuel supply off limits to everyone. Except, of course, in case of emergency.”

  Burt rolled his eyes. “Yeah, good luck with that. People are gonna need fuel.”

  “I’ve already instituted a rationing system, based o
n need. Everyone seems to be adjusting.”

  “Well, good for you. What’s that got to do with me?”

  Apollo spoke next. “We know about the 1932 Indian Chief motorcycle you just bought from Stan Fielding.”

  “That’s what this is about? And old ride I bought from a buddy who wanted to sell it? He needed the cash and I needed the bike.”

  “We know you’re going to use it to pull the rickshaw,” Apollo said.

  Burt stood there for a moment, blinking. Then he answered. “Hey, people still have to get around, so I thought I’d lend a hand. You know, fill a need.”

  “For money.”

  Burt nodded. “It’s called free enterprise, Sheriff. Even you can’t stop a man from earning a living.”

  “That motorcycle will take fuel. Fuel we can’t afford to spare,” Buckley said.

  “Wow. You guys are really looking to bust my balls. Over nothing.”

  “Wasting fuel is more than nothing,” Apollo said.

  “Look, I figured there’s some easy money to be made offering rides around town. So I’m showing a little initiative. What’s wrong with that?”

  “We’d prefer that you didn’t. Others might follow your lead,” Buckley said. “And that will cause a run on the town’s fuel supply. So I’m afraid we can’t allow you to do this.”

  “Look, I’m not planning on using any of your precious fuel. So get over yourselves.”

  “Okay, how’s that exactly?” Buckley asked, wondering if the man was going to build a wood gasifier for the motorcycle, or possibly some other form of alternative fuel system.

  “Got my own supply out back. Topped off the thousand-gallon tank last week, long before any of this craziness started.”

  Buckley wasn’t aware of Burt’s fuel storage but still needed to stop the man, for his own good, if nothing else. “Don’t you think you should conserve the fuel you have and not waste it on a fleeting endeavor?”

  Burt’s face flushed red as fire erupted in his eyes. “Fleeting endeavor? Are you serious? I’ll tell you what’s a fleeting endeavor . . . being an auto mechanic in a small town where all the vehicle electronics have been fried. And I mean totally fried. I can’t fix any of it, even if I had the parts, which I don’t and probably never will. Even my tow truck is useless. So no, I can’t just stand by and do nothing. Only an idiot would do that. Unless I come up with something quick to replace the income, I’ll be hanging a Going Out of Business sign on the front of my old man’s building. Even you can’t possibly think I’m gonna let that happen.”