Dauntless (Lawless Saga Book 4)

by Tarah Benner

  Walt nodded but didn’t say anything, so Lark continued.

  “I agreed to help them in exchange for our freedom. I was supposed to steal the seed for Homeland Security, but I got caught and they put me back in San Judas.”

  “They lied,” Bernie grumbled. “They were never going to set them free.”

  Lark took a deep breath. “It doesn’t matter. In the end, I got the seed. But what I had to do to get out of there — what Soren and Axel had to do to escape Cheyenne Mountain . . . They’ll never let us go free now. But we still have the seed, and we have to get it to the people who need it.”

  Up until that point, Walt had listened in thoughtful silence. He was sitting with one leg crossed over the other, watching Lark carefully.

  Finally, he cleared his throat to speak. “What is so special about these crops that Homeland Security wanted you to steal?”

  “They’re supposed to be able to withstand severe drought,” said Lark. “At least that’s what they told me.”

  Walt’s eyebrows shot up. “And you managed to procure samples of these seeds?”

  “Yes,” said Lark, reaching into her boot and withdrawing the small canvas pouch. She carefully pulled out each plastic tube, handing them to Walt to examine one by one.

  “Do you know what they are?” Lark asked.

  Walt frowned, squinting through the plastic at the seeds. “I might be able to venture a guess,” he said. “But if these crops are truly unusual, we might not know for sure until we plant them.”

  He stared at one tube for a particularly long time, and Lark wondered what his experienced eye could see that hers could not.

  “These are some kind of soybean,” he said finally, handing the seed back to Lark. His eyebrows scrunched together, and Lark sensed that he was working up to a difficult question.

  “Can I ask what you need my help with?” he asked. “What is it that you’re hoping to achieve?”

  Lark glanced at Bernie and Simjay. “I want to get these seeds to the people who can use them,” said Lark. “Farmers. Homesteaders. Any survivors who can grow their own food.” She took a deep breath. “Homeland Security said these crops could save us — that they could change the world.”

  Walt nodded but did not respond. Under his probing gaze, Lark had the distinct feeling that he was sizing her up — or perhaps searching for a nice way to tell her that she was out of her mind.

  “It’s an admirable plan,” said Walt after a moment. “But I’m no expert. I’m just a farmer. I have no idea what makes this soybean plant special, and even if I did, I would be hard-pressed to get my hands on something else like it.”

  Lark dragged in a deep breath. He was telling her that he couldn’t do it — that her plan was stupid and that she had risked her life and her freedom for nothing.

  “I could grow the crops myself, of course. Then take the seeds from those plants and disperse them to others in need, but that would take time. Besides, we have no way of knowing whether GreenSeed engineered these seeds with a terminator gene. We could plant a crop the following year and come to find that the seeds those plants produce are sterile — useless.”

  Lark’s heart sank. Walt was saying everything she’d feared that he would say. At least he wasn’t sugarcoating it. Ex-marines were good about that.

  “Don’t look so glum,” said Walt, a familiar note of humor in his voice. “I would say it’s not the end of the world, though I suppose it is. No sense in cryin’ about it.”

  Lark looked up. She wondered how he could be so cavalier about it. Didn’t he understand how serious this was? Didn’t he know what she’d been through?

  Then it occurred to Lark that he did understand. Walt understood the hardships of the world better than anyone. He’d lived through war. He’d seen horrors that she could scarcely imagine. He’d lost his wife and Starlight, who was like a daughter to him. He’d had to fight every day to keep his farm and his family alive, but Walt would never be caught feeling sorry for himself.

  “Listen,” said Walt. “I admire your gumption.”

  Lark met his gaze. She definitely wasn’t imagining that twinkle in his eye, though she didn’t know how he was going to salvage her half-baked plan.

  Walt seemed to think for a second and then got to his feet, shuffling stiffly toward the door. “Hang on a minute . . . I want to show you something.”

  Lark watched Walt amble through the mudroom and out the front door. He walked around the side of the house and then disappeared around the corner.

  “Any idea what this is about?” Lark asked Katrina.

  Katrina shrugged. “With Dad . . . who knows.”

  They waited in strained silence for what felt like hours. Katrina kept glancing out the window, and Lark began to feel concerned.

  Had he meant to be gone this long? Had he run into trouble? Walt wasn’t exactly young. What if he’d had a heart attack or a stroke? Had Lark stressed him out by laying all her problems on him?

  But then Walt came striding back around to the front of the house with an old bucket in hand, and Lark felt stupid for doubting him. He reentered the living room and sat back down, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Dad, don’t,” Katrina started, her face turning beet red as she stared at the bucket in his hand.

  “Katrina, please,” said Walt, waving away her protest with one gnarled arthritic hand.

  “Not the potatoes!” Katrina groaned, squeezing her eyes shut and kneading her temples in embarrassment.

  “Potatoes?” said Lark, gathering up the courage to peer into Walt’s bucket.

  “Not just any potatoes,” he chided, reaching down and pulling one out.

  Lark recoiled. The potato Walt was holding didn’t look like any potato she’d ever seen. It was long and skinny and bright mauve. When Walt broke it in half, Lark saw that it was an even brighter shade of purple inside.

  “This is a Papa Cacho potato,” said Walt excitedly. He reached down and pulled out another potato — this one smaller, rounder, and very yellow. “This is a Yema de Huevo.” He held up the Papa Cacho in one hand. “Clay potato . . .” He switched to the yellow potato. “Egg yolk potato. These are two heirloom varieties from the High Andes that I have been cultivating for the last fifteen, twenty years.”

  Simjay’s eyes grew wide. He looked as though he feared for Walt’s sanity. “Come again?”

  “Did you know that there are more than three thousand varieties of potatoes grown in the Andes?” Walt asked, positively quivering with enthusiasm. “The average Andean farmer will plant over a hundred varieties of potatoes in any given year. The diversity is so important to their heritage that they will actually give potatoes for wedding gifts.”

  Katrina didn’t bother to hide her eye roll. It seemed that she had heard this spiel many times before.

  “It’s taken me a while to get it right,” Walt admitted. “The differences in altitude, temperature . . . These were originally grown in cool, moist conditions, and they can be finicky. But I managed to get my hands on some samples from the USDA, and over the years I’ve grown several varieties that thrive in our warmer, drier soil.”

  “You haven’t seen his potato field?” Katrina asked weakly.

  Lark shook her head. She’d thought that she’d seen most of the Baileys’ farm, but as it turned out, she’d missed the potatoes.

  Walt gave a dismissive wave. “I don’t do that much to the potato field anymore. It gets minimal irrigation. I lose a few different kinds every year to pests, but I always have plenty of survivors.”

  Lark just stared at him. Was Walt offering what she thought he was?

  “If you’d like, I can rustle up a bunch of seed potatoes that you can distribute. And we can grow your mystery seeds and see what we get.”

  “Dad’s been dying to show off his potatoes,” Katrina muttered.

  “The potato is shamefully underrated, Kitty Kat,” said Walt irritably. “It’s kept us full in lean times. That’s for sure.”

 
A warm glow started high in Lark’s chest and began to spread to her extremities. It wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind, but it was a start.

  For the first time since they’d escaped, Lark felt a glimmer of hope. They had a plan. They had help. Maybe they could do this after all.

  “Now, just so we’re on the same page . . . How much trouble are you in?” asked Walt.

  Lark looked from Bernie to Simjay to Conrad, who were all wearing expressions of mild panic. “Pretty deep trouble.”

  “Like wanted-for-murder trouble,” Simjay added.

  Bernie gave him a sharp kick that was anything but discreet.

  Walt’s eyebrows lifted again. He brushed a hand over his balding head, looking more than a little concerned. “Well, seems to me that everyone’s in some kinda trouble these days.”

  Simjay and Bernie exchanged a nervous look, and Lark sensed that there was more to the story that Walt wasn’t telling them.

  “Trouble?” said Lark. “What sort of trouble?” She glanced over at Katrina and Thompson, whose expressions were unreadable.

  “Oh, nothing,” said Walt, waving her question aside. “Who’s hungry? I’ll whip us up some home fries.”

  6

  Soren

  In all his excitement, Axel hadn’t been able to find the keys to the old Ford pickup. He did, however, have a screwdriver and a pair of wire cutters.

  The driver’s side door was already unlocked, so Axel jumped inside and immediately began to hot-wire the steering-wheel column. He jammed the screwdriver into the keyhole and pounded on the end with his fist, but he couldn’t get the truck to start.

  He swore loudly and went to work prying the plastic panels away from the steering wheel. By then, Soren could hear voices emanating from the front of the bait shop, and he hoped that Axel was a pro with the inner workings of a truck’s electrical system.

  A few seconds later, Axel popped the cover off the steering-wheel column and yanked down the bundle of wires.

  “Hurry!” Portia hissed, leaning over Axel to get a closer look at his progress.

  “You wanna back up there, princess? You’re blockin’ my light.”

  “They’re coming!”

  “No shit,” Axel growled, stripping the ends of the power wires and twisting them together. “Now back the fuck up before I electrocute you.”

  A half-murderous, half-panicky look flashed across Portia’s face, but Axel gave a little “zap zap,” and she backed up to give him space.

  Soren watched in awe as Axel stripped the ends of the starter wires and held them together. There was a tiny spark, and the truck roared to life.

  “Whoooooweeeee!” Axel yelled, jumping into the driver’s seat with an ecstatic smirk.

  Soren breathed a sigh of relief and squeezed into the back so that Portia could ride shotgun. Not three seconds later, Soren saw the shadowy outline of half a dozen men shoot around the corner. Two eager German shepherds were straining at their leashes, and the men were toting semi-automatic weapons.

  At that moment, Axel peeled out of the grass and let out another triumphant whoop. They zoomed toward the road, bumping over the ditch, and Soren’s head almost flew through the roof. The truck’s suspension was completely shot, and it felt as though they were riding in the back of an old stagecoach.

  Then Axel punched the gas, and they sped down the road in a cloud of exhaust.

  “Aw, shit . . . This thing is older than my Pa-Pa!” Axel yelled.

  “How much gas we got?”

  “Not a lot. Should be ’nough to ditch the suits, though.”

  Soren turned and looked out the back window. He couldn’t see the Homeland Security guys yet, but it was only a matter of time. They’d seen them get into the red truck and drive away. They wouldn’t be hard to find.

  Despite Axel’s confidence, Soren doubted very much that they would be able to outrun Homeland Security in the ancient hot-wired truck. He could hear the engine struggling to keep them above seventy miles an hour. They couldn’t beat the feds in a high-speed chase.

  “We need to get off the road,” said Soren suddenly.

  “What?” Axel growled.

  “We’ll never outrun them in this hunk of junk.”

  “Don’t hate on my truck,” said Axel. “This bad boy jus’ saved all our skins.”

  “It wasn’t built for speed.”

  “We can han’l the suits,” said Axel dismissively. “I bin drivin’ since I was twelve.”

  “It’s not you,” said Soren. “It’s the truck.”

  Axel let out an incredulous scoff.

  “Do what he says,” Portia snapped.

  “Las’ time I checked, I don’ take orders from spoiled bitches ridin’ shotgun in my rig,” said Axel in a loud, rough voice.

  “Ignore her,” said Soren dismissively. Axel hated women telling him what to do. Under different circumstances, Soren might have called him on it, but it just wasn’t the time. He needed Axel to cooperate.

  “What are we gonna do when they catch up to us?” Soren asked.

  Axel cocked a grin and pulled the stolen rifle off the floorboard.

  “You think you’re gonna shoot them all?”

  “I’m a good shot.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Soren. “This truck’ll look like a piece of swiss cheese by the time they get done blowing holes in it. We’ll be dead.”

  Axel didn’t respond, but Soren could tell he was considering his points, weighing the odds that he’d be able to pick off all the Homeland Security agents before they shot him.

  Soren could tell that Axel was coming around to the idea when he spotted a break in the guardrails. It was a tiny dirt road snaking off from the highway that probably led to a trailhead, but it was so inconspicuous that Soren had almost missed it.

  “Pull off here,” he said, pointing to the road.

  “What? No! Are you crazy?”

  “We have to wait them out,” said Soren. “They won’t expect it.”

  Axel let out a huff of irritation. Clearly he’d been excited at the prospect of a high-speed chase, but even he had to admit that their truck wasn’t built for it.

  “Fine,” he muttered, twisting the wheel hard to the right and pulling off the highway.

  The road was more rock than dirt and not very well maintained. Soren thought that Portia might fly out the window as they bumped over potholes and swerved around rocks, but she didn’t complain or say anything at all.

  Axel drove them around a hill and pulled onto an embankment to turn the truck around. He pointed them back toward the road but killed the engine, waiting for the sound of approaching vehicles.

  Soren’s heart was still hammering in his chest, and his skin was alight with nervous energy. It went against his every instinct to stop and wait, but he knew that it was their best chance of escape.

  Sure enough, he heard the hum of vehicles coming down the road, and he held his breath as they drew closer to their hiding place. It sounded like two cars, but there could have been three. They didn’t have any sirens, but Soren knew they belonged to Homeland Security.

  The cars whooshed past their road one by one, and they let out a collective sigh of relief as the road noise faded into the distance.

  He couldn’t believe they’d done it. They’d thwarted Homeland Security once again. But they weren’t completely out of harm’s way. He knew that Agent Reuben and Agent Killigen wouldn’t give up so easily. They wouldn’t rest until he, Axel, and Lark were behind bars, but for the moment, they were safe.

  Once he was confident that they had lost Homeland Security, Soren opened the glove box to look for a map. He found one jammed in with the owner’s manual and a stack of mail addressed to Roger R. Smith.

  It was a little sad. Their truck had belonged to someone else recently, but that person had either died or moved on to try his luck elsewhere.

  According to the map, the road they’d been on was state highway 68. It would take them to 285, which would get
them across the state border and all the way to Fort Stockton. Soren still remembered how to get to Dr. Griffin’s house; he just hoped that the coward hadn’t fled since their last encounter.

  It was late afternoon by the time they reached Sheffield. Most of the gas stations along the highway were dry, and they’d had to stop multiple times to find one that wasn’t. But Axel seemed to have a knack for picking cars that would still have gas left to siphon, and soon they had more fuel than they’d started with.

  Soren kept his eyes peeled for Homeland Security as they flew down the highway toward Dr. Griffin’s house. The bizarre earthship home was burned into his memory, but it had been situated off the highway and hidden by the contours of the land.

  After a while, Soren began to worry that they’d missed it. The afternoon sun threw long shadows over the landscape, and every time they crested a hill, Soren was sure he ought to have seen it.

  Finally, they came around a bend and saw the earthship’s enormous windows shimmering in the sun. The rest of the structure came into view, and Soren’s blood pumped a little faster.

  He couldn’t tell whether Griffin was there, but his entire body was instantly alert. He didn’t trust Griffin as far as he could throw him, but they needed his expertise to learn more about the seed.

  The earthship looked as though it were made out of some type of clay. It had a row of slanted windows on the southern face and an arched doorway that Griffin monitored with cameras. The roof was covered in solar panels, and there was a rainwater collection chute running down the side.

  As they pulled off along the edge of the road, Soren instantly wished that Lark and Simjay were with them. They had been the ones to approach the house the last time they’d been there, and they would know where the booby traps were buried.

  Soren had gone over the plan with Axel and Portia on the way there, so when he stepped out of the vehicle and made a “go” gesture with his hand, they spread out automatically to position themselves around the house.