Buckley looked at Apollo for guidance. The Sheriff didn’t offer any.
Burt continued. “So the way I see it, you’ve got no legal standing here. I’m using my fuel for my motorcycle that I purchased legally to pull my cart that I made with my own two hands. As long as I’m not breaking any traffic laws and the bike is licensed, which it is, I don’t see how you can stop me from using my setup any way I please. In fact, if this idea takes off, and I think it will, I’ll build a fleet of these rigs.”
“Well, we could always close down the streets,” Apollo said, looking at Buckley. “Make them pedestrian-only zones.”
Burt laughed, shaking his head. “Sure, that’ll go over well. You’ll end up with a bunch of pissed-off citizens on your hands. I’m sure you realize there are a lot of old people in this town who can’t get around without assistance. They’re gonna need my new taxi service. Maybe I’m wrong here, but it seems to me that closing down the streets just to stop my ride sharing business is the last thing you wanna do, especially with the Mayor’s reelection coming up next year.”
Buckley didn’t have an answer.
Apollo was silent, too.
Burt tilted his head and shot Buckley a look of superiority. “Okay then, if there’s nothing else, I need to get back to work.”
Before Buckley could respond, a gentle female voice spoke up from behind the group. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Are we interrupting something?”
Buckley whirled around. It was Allison Rainey. She was with her mother Martha and her son Victor.
The woman looked at Apollo. “Looks like we meet again, Sheriff.”
“Allison? What are you doing here?” Apollo said, stammering over his words.
“I heard Mr. Lowenstein is giving rides to people who need them.”
Burt stepped forward, looking damn proud of himself. “Looks like my first customer has arrived. What can I help you with, folks?”
“We need a ride out to my mother’s place on Old Mill Road. She needs to feed her animals and get her meds.”
“Are all three of you going?” Burt asked. “Round trip?”
“Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. How much would it cost?”
“Let’s see . . . Three people . . . Old Mill Road . . . Round trip . . . we’re looking at fifty bucks.”
“Fifty?” she repeated.
“Whoa, that’s too much,” Buckley snapped.
“Yes, it is,” Apollo added.
Burt ignored Buckley and the Sheriff, keeping his eyes on Allison. “It’s a long way out there lady, plus I have to wait around for you to finish your business and bring you back. My time ain’t cheap. So it’s gonna cost fifty. Take it or leave it.”
Allison dug around in her purse. “I’ve only got thirty. Been a little slow at the diner.”
“Well then, looks like it’s gonna be a one-way trip.”
Allison hesitated, looking at her mother and her son. They both nodded. “Then I guess that’ll have to do.”
“Wait a minute,” Apollo said, pulling out his wallet. “I’ve got a twenty you can have.”
Allison shook her head with vigor. “I can’t let you do that, Sheriff. Especially after that huge tip at breakfast. That was too much earlier. I can’t let you do that again.”
Apollo held the bill out in his hand, shaking it. “I insist.”
“No Sheriff, we can’t take your money.”
“So what’s it gonna be?” Burt asked her.
Allison’s face softened a bit. “Can you come back to my mother’s house in a couple of days? I’ll need a ride back into town for my next shift at the diner.”
“Sure, I can do that. Probably offer you a discount, too, assuming this is gonna be a regular thing.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
“I’ll need a little bit more time here,” Burt said before pointing at his project. “I’ve got some more work to do, then it’ll be ready. Why don’t you have a seat in my office and let me finish?”
“Thank you,” Allison said, shooting the Sheriff a friendly look before leading her family toward the office access door.
Burt turned to Buckley, letting a thin smile grow on his lips. “Like I said, filling a need.”
“No, that’s not filling a need. What you’re doing is highway robbery.”
“Supply and demand, Mayor. What choice do they have? Other than walking all the way out there.”
“Still doesn’t make it right.”
“You guys know your way out, right?” Burt asked, angling his head at the open bay door.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Bunker lowered the last of the bodies from the mostly chestnut-colored horse using a rope assembly he’d fashioned from the leftover paracord in camp. The makeshift pulley system was a godsend, giving his back and shoulders a reprieve from the pain. The corpse landed on the others, flopping to its side in an awkward position.
He was impressed with the power and willingness of Franklin’s steed—an American Paint Horse, according to its owner. Tango was more than capable and not nearly as skittish as he expected when Bunker first approached him in the forest. He was able to walk right up to the white-legged animal and mount the saddle, without the slightest hesitation.
Good thing, too, otherwise hauling the dead bodies by hand to this well-used game trail would’ve been a time-consuming chore, not to mention exhausting—the path was nestled at the bottom of a steep ravine.
The horse seemed to instinctively know what Bunker wanted him to do, working with speed and precision, no doubt because of Franklin’s training.
Bunker didn’t know Franklin all that well, but the towering cowboy’s attention to detail was obvious. Not just in his appearance but in the way he carried himself. His daughter Megan was as sweet as they came—another testament to the man’s steadfast nature.
“It’s all about dedication and effort,” Bunker’s old man used to say, preaching something along those lines on a daily basis. “They’re the keys to success. Got to test yourself, Jack, then see it through.”
Franklin must have believed in those virtues as well. Let’s face it, being a black man in a small town in Colorado was a test in and of itself. But running a horse stable and supply business in redneck country—that took guts. And balls.
Bunker wondered what his old man would say now if he were still alive. Bunker’s past had certainly taken a few wrong turns. No denying that, but here he was, working with a bunch of near strangers in the forest of Colorado. Funny how life takes you down paths you’d never imagine.
Bunker was happy to be back wearing his own clothes, having found them during a search of the camp. It was the first thing he did after the others headed back to Clearwater in the pair of ancient Land Rovers. Thankfully, both women knew how to drive a stick, keeping Franklin from having to drive with a wounded shoulder.
Thus far, the cleanup was going according to plan. He’d found more of the Pokémon cards hidden inside pouches on all but one of the men. Only Grinder’s body didn’t have a card, but that wasn’t a shock since his old riding partner had apparently just showed up at camp before Bunker was forced to burn him with a single round to the forehead.
From what Grinder had said, his old gang leader, Watts, sent him to make some kind of a business deal with the unidentified insurgents. Bunker figured that meant The Kindred were expanding their territory again, obviously not expecting the sweeping EMP attack to hit the countryside.
Just then, before Bunker could take another step, the saddled beast backed up in a lurch, snorting and bucking his head. Bunker stumbled sideways from the sudden weight shift, yanking on the reins to catch his balance.
“Easy there, Tango,” he said, running his hand along the animal’s neck. He looked around but didn’t see anything that could’ve spooked Tango, other than the lifeless meat sacks lying nearby.
Bunker pampered the animal with long, even strokes of his fingers. He continued talking to the animal using slow, tempered phrases, timing the movemen
t of his hand to match the melodic delivery of his reassurances.
Tango looked him in the eyes, almost as if he were judging Bunker’s sincerity. The magnificent creature was an imposing combination of muscle and force, able to trample him at a moment’s notice. However, Franklin’s ride gave off a different aura. It was one of tranquility, as if Tango was content with just being alive and available to help.
“We’ll head out soon, boy. Just need to spread these bodies out, so your friends can have a go at them. Everyone needs to eat.”
He admired the symmetry of the rounded spots of white, offsetting the chestnut base with balanced perfection. It was almost as if Picasso himself had painted this stunning portrait, and done so for the sole purpose of Bunker’s admiration. He’d never noticed such beauty and elegance in a horse before. Then again, he’d never really been this close to one, either.
It was possible his newfound connection with Tango was simply the product of his exhaustion and raging soreness. He couldn’t be sure. Not that it really mattered. He liked how it felt, his emotions guiding him down a new, undiscovered path. A path where four-legged creatures suddenly took on a profound magnificence in the world around him.
Bunker took a moment to soak it all in. Then a new idea stormed into his thoughts.
Maybe it was okay to rely on someone else for a change.
Even if that someone was a non-stop fly-swatting machine, its tail flapping at every insect in the area.
After Bunker swiped his hand through Tango’s thick, luxurious mane a few more times, the quadruped let out a blow, nodding like he understood all that Bunker was thinking and feeling at the moment. It was a strange sensation, washing over Bunker like a fresh ocean breeze, caressing his skin with contentment.
Bunker shook off the moment of unexpected tranquility, then tied Tango to the closest branch. It was time to turn his attention to the pile of bodies. He had work to do.
The dead were lying at odd angles in a tangle of arms and legs, reminding him of a loose pile of deli meat, fresh from the butcher’s slicer.
The instant Bunker’s mind focused on the word butcher, a wicked spin of dizziness took over.
The forest around him blurred into a swirling green haze, sending him to the ground on his knees. A razor-sharp headache exploded between his eyes, then shot to the back of his skull. When it traveled down his spine, Bunker slammed his eyes shut and wrapped his arms around his head, trying to stop what was about to happen.
But it came at him regardless.
Images.
Hundreds of them.
Snapshots.
Memories.
Played in rapid succession.
Amplified in color and brightness.
He knew what it was, having endured it all before. It was a vivid replay from Afghanistan—the night before he was due to rotate out. The horrific scene continued to flood his thoughts, stampeding his already exhausted synapses.
One after another, the images flashed. Severed arms. Mangled legs. Headless torsos. Stacked up like sand bags. All of it bloody. All of it his fault.
Bunker fell into the grass with his jaw clenched, writhing in silence. The visual onslaught went on for what seemed like minutes, never taking a moment off.
Then, just as quickly as it had started, the playback stopped. A few heartbeats came and went, then the headache dulled to a speck of numbness. So did the dizziness.
He sat up, his chest heaving and hands shaking.
Tango snorted, then neighed twice, acting like he was concerned.
For some reason, Bunker felt compelled to console his new friend. “I’ll be okay, buddy. Just some human bullshit to deal with.”
Bunker kept his eyes closed as he took in a long draw of air. He held it for a three-count before letting it out slowly. He ran the sequence again and again, needing to collect himself.
A wet nose pushed at the back of Bunker’s head, softly at first, then harder. Bunker pried his eyes open and found Tango standing next to him. A broken branch hung from his bridle, tangled in a knot of leather.
“Clever boy,” Bunker said, realizing he’d underestimated his mount.
The stallion pushed at him again and again, this time snorting with attitude.
Bunker freed the broken limb from the reins and tossed it aside before wrapping his hands around Tango’s prominent nose. He gave his new friend a tender rub with his thumbs, traversing the streak of white on his snout. “I’m working on it, boy. Just need a minute.”
Bunker waited for the energy to return, then stood with knees wobbling. The ache along the back of his neck was at level seven, almost matching the sting in his ribs.
Yet, none of the discomfort surprised him. He’d been through this type of episode before, knowing the weakness would pass. So would the aches and pains, but this time he couldn’t wait until they did.
He walked to the bodies and began spreading them out in even rows with space between. Better access was needed for the moment when the game trail came alive with activity.
The feeding frenzy would begin once the sun gave way to the moon. The nighttime air would settle in like a blanket of thick mosquitoes, hovering with a chill over those creatures who called the darkness home.
Nature’s garbage disposal, he thought. Fast, efficient, and indiscriminant. Human or not, meat was meat. All of it fair game for those with a thirst for blood and tissue.
The last body he arranged was that of Grinder. The wound in the bald man’s forehead was no longer bleeding, but the gaping entry wound was still there, staring at Bunker like a judgmental third eye.
Bunker had known the tattooed brute for four years at last count, sharing hookers and whiskey bottles at various roadside establishments across southern California, some gloomy, others seedy, but each of them welcoming riders who wore their colors.
If someone had asked him a few months ago if he ever could’ve imagined a moment like this, he would have responded with an emphatic HELL NO!
So much had changed over such a short time. One minute he was riding his Harley through the car-clogged streets of LA, and now this.
He shook his head, letting the insanity of the situation soak in. The more he thought about it, the more the long string of unbelievable events came together in his mind, forming a logical roadmap. A roadmap drawn just for him.
Somehow the craziness made sense, almost as if destiny had reached out and touched him. Yet, despite the epiphany, it was time to press on. The past was history and so was his former life as Bulldog, fifth in command of the infamous Kindred biker gang.
He gave Tango a pat on the side of the neck. “Ready to go, stud?”
The horse lifted its nose, sending a huff into the air.
Bunker smiled. “Just try to take it easy on me. I’m not the rider Franklin is. Or Megan, I’m guessing.”
Bunker stood frozen for a moment, contemplating his next move.
Suddenly, he wasn’t convinced heading back to Clearwater was the best course of action. He’d done his part and saved his new friends, then disposed of the bodies. Surely, they could venture on without him at his point. They were capable and they all had each other. Small towns were like that, pulling together in times of crisis so no one was alone.
Bunker figured Jeffrey would get over it. So would Stephanie, once she stopped dwelling on it. They’d all understand if he decided to quietly slip away and resume his walkabout, a term Jeffrey had used.
Perhaps the biggest reason for leaving Clearwater was Daisy—a unique bundle of grace and power. A bundle with a badge who knew his secret.
It was obvious she no longer trusted him, and he couldn’t blame her. He didn’t always trust himself. Why should she be any different?
Bunker figured it wouldn’t be long before the Sheriff and Mayor were read into the facts she’d uncovered. Eventually, she’d have no choice. The facts would find their way to the surface. So would the truth—it always did, no matter what bullshit was tossed on top of it.
&nb
sp; Bunker might be able to keep Daisy at bay for a while, but not all three of them. They’d gang up against him—eventually. No matter how many people he saved.
Sure, his Code of Honor was nagging at him to head back to town like he promised, but his heart wasn’t into it. Neither was his logic. He didn’t have the energy or time to overcome their doubts, needing to head somewhere quiet. Somewhere he could enjoy some serious shuteye and recover from the beatings.
And maybe grab a steak, too.
And a beer.
There had to be a friendly rancher around here somewhere, someone with a few chores needing to be done. He figured a trade was in order—a little manual labor in exchange for a bed and breakfast. He liked the idea.
“What do you think, boy? Will Franklin mind if I borrow you for a little while? Maybe head to Denver or Kansas City. See what’s what. I’m sure we can find a nice stable for you. Someplace with a hot little filly for you. You’d probably like that, wouldn’t ya?”
The horse didn’t seem to care, only blinking its eyes and flapping its tail at another round of bothersome flies.
“Or we go back to town,” Bunker said, wondering if the horse could sense his dilemma.
He stood there another ten seconds, pondering what to do. Once he’d reached a decision, he folded the reins in his palm before addressing the mount with a firm grip on the saddle horn and a foot in the stirrup. He yanked, hoisting himself up with his right leg over first.
The molded leather of the seat settled in under his backside, reminding him he still had plenty of healing to do across his undercarriage. And elsewhere. He still didn’t feel confident in the saddle, but was starting to get the hang of it. Of course, it helped getting to know Franklin’s horse a bit.
Bunker: Boxed Set (Books 1, 2, and 3) Page 32
