Dauntless (Lawless Saga Book 4)

by Tarah Benner

  He sprinted back down the center of the room with the idea of taking a crack at the keypad. He ended up three aisles over and turned right, almost smacking into Axel along the way.

  “Anything?” Axel gasped.

  “There’s a loading bay back there, but it’s locked down pretty tight.”

  “Seriously?”

  Soren nodded, still heaving for air.

  Axel’s brows scrunched together in a constipated expression. Soren knew that was Axel’s deep-thinking face, but they didn’t have time for one of his crazy brute-force maneuvers. The door they had come through was their best chance for escape.

  Dashing over to the entrance, Soren combed the wall for some sort of release — a fire alarm, an emergency override, anything. He knew it was a long shot. Griffin was intimately familiar with this building, which was why he’d left them there. He knew they would never find their way out before the authorities arrived.

  Taking a deep breath, Soren tried a code at random. The light above the keypad blinked red. He tried 1234 — hoping some idiot would have left their passcode on the factory setting — but they hadn’t. He tried his own birthday last, and the light flashed stubbornly red before glowing yellow.

  Soren had used his three chances. They were locked in for good.

  Feeling desperate, he tugged on the door handle and cast around for something he might be able to use to break it. He kicked and pounded at the handle, but the door stayed firmly shut. He let out an animalistic yell and threw his whole body into it, but all he achieved was a searing pain in his right shoulder.

  Just when he thought he might lose his mind, Soren heard a loud steady hum coming from the far corner of the seed bank. He turned around and felt his jaw drop.

  Axel was driving a forklift. It was small and slow, but it was a forklift nonetheless.

  “What are you doing?” Soren called.

  But it seemed that Axel couldn’t hear him over the hum of the motor. Either that or he was choosing to ignore him. He turned down the center aisle, and Soren took off after him.

  “What the hell?” Portia yelled, careening out from between two shelves and staring at Axel in disbelief.

  “C’ain’t believe you thought a locked loadin’ bay was a lost cause,” Axel called.

  Soren followed him at a jog, still stunned. “What makes you think this thing —”

  “This baby’s got serious power,” Axel yelled.

  Soren just stared. It was worth a shot. They’d exhausted every other possibility. Axel’s brute-force method was just simple enough to work.

  Flooded with a sudden burst of optimism, Soren dashed off to collect the crates that Portia had found. They were spread out around the room, and they were heavy. It was slow going dragging them with his one good arm, so he waited for Portia to grab one end so they could carry the crates over to the door.

  By the time they heaved the third one up to the loading bay, Axel had the lift positioned in front of the door and was fitting the forks under the thick metal lip. He was muttering swear words under his breath, which led Soren to think that he’d already tried several times to get the correct alignment.

  Soren and Portia ran off again to get the fourth crate, but neither of them could remember where it was. Soren sprinted down both ends of the seed bank before he finally found it. Heaving one end off the floor with his good arm, Soren hauled it back to the loading bay, panting and sweating the entire way.

  As he drew closer, he heard the groan of the forklift and Axel yelling something over the din. When he rounded the corner, he saw Portia watching the entire operation with her mouth hanging open.

  The force of the lift was causing the metal door to vibrate, and finally something seemed to give. The door rose with a heavy shudder, and a warm gust of air wafted into the building.

  “Whooooweee!” Axel yelled.

  Soren didn’t waste any time. He grabbed one of the crates by the handle and slid it onto the concrete ramp on the other side of the door. The ramp ran along the side of the building and into the loading area below.

  Once he and Portia had pushed all the crates out, Axel jumped out of his seat and slid under the door, too. The muggy Texas air was a welcome relief from the chilly seed bank, and Soren felt a sheen of sweat bead up on his skin the second he stripped off his borrowed coat.

  Campus was dark and very quiet, but Soren knew they were running out of time.

  “Now what?” he panted, the cold reality of their situation dousing his victory high.

  “Whaddo you mean?” huffed Axel, clearly annoyed that Soren was raining on his parade.

  “How are we gonna get this stuff out of here?”

  “Uh . . . the same way we got here,” said Axel, drawing out each word as if Soren were incredibly slow. “In the truck.”

  “Griffin,” Portia breathed. “He must have taken it.”

  At those words, Axel doubled over and let out a gleeful bark of laughter. “That ol’ fruitcake didn’ take our rig,” he said, clearly amused by their assumption.

  Soren just stared at him.

  “Do I look stupid to you?” Axel scoffed. “I never trusted that nutjob.”

  Portia and Soren looked at each other and back to Axel, who broke into a wicked grin. “I disconnected the battery. Either that asshole’s still ’round here somewhere, or he’s hoofin’ it back home tonight.”

  Soren’s eyebrows shot up, and even Portia looked impressed.

  “Gimme some credit,” said Axel. “Griffin ain’t the first dickwad who’s tried to screw me over . . . an’ he sure won’ be the last.”

  9

  Lark

  The next morning, Lark was awoken by a low, menacing growl. She sat up with a start and looked around for Denali. He usually slept at the foot of her bed, but at that moment he was standing on his hind legs, staring out the open window.

  A jolt of alarm surged through Lark’s veins, and she reached over to shake Bernie awake. A vehicle was idling somewhere outside, and she had the immediate fear that Homeland Security had tracked them to the farm.

  “Whaddisit?” asked Bernie.

  “Get up,” said Lark, sliding out of bed and grabbing the handgun off the bedside table. She’d borrowed it from Katrina the night before, but what she planned to do with it, she still wasn’t sure. Engaging in a shootout with Homeland Security certainly wouldn’t make her life any easier, but she had no intention of going back to prison.

  “What’s going on?” Bernie croaked, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

  “Someone’s out there.”

  “What? Who?”

  Lark shook her head. Grabbing her pants off the floor, she edged toward the window at a crouch, signaling Denali not to bark. She could tell that it was killing him not to. His eyes were alert and his tail was erect, but he stood in silence waiting for her command.

  Lark reached the window and peered down at the driveway. To her relief, she didn’t see a black sedan or any government vehicle — just an ugly brown Ford Country Squire with Arizona plates. A well-dressed man was getting out of the station wagon, and Lark could see two more passengers unbuckling their seat belts.

  There was something off about the man, though Lark couldn’t quite put her finger on it. He was in his early thirties with a bushy blond beard and vivid blue eyes. The man was wearing a pair of pressed gray slacks, suspenders, and a pair of brown shoes that looked almost homemade.

  Even stranger than the man’s attire were the two women seated in the back of the station wagon. Despite the oppressive summer heat, they were wearing dresses with long sleeves and very high necklines. Both of them had their hair pulled up in a thick Swedish braid, and they each wore the same meek, nervous expression.

  Lark guessed that they belonged to some sort of religious order, but she didn’t know which. Lark’s first thought was that they could be Amish, but she knew an Amish family wouldn’t be driving a car. The women weren’t wearing any sort of head covering, which made Lark think that they were
n’t Mennonites, either.

  As she watched, the man sidled up to the front porch and knocked. The women got out of the car but hung back several paces, as if they were waiting for permission to approach.

  “Can I help you?” came a voice from the mudroom. It was Thompson.

  “Blessed morning, miss,” said the man, speaking with an old-timey affectation that set Lark’s teeth on edge. “My name is Gideon Miller. These here are my wives, Judith and Rachel.”

  “Wives?” Thompson repeated, emphasizing the plural.

  The man didn’t offer any explanation or clarification. He just gave a gracious nod and stared at Thompson, waiting.

  “Could I speak to the man of the house, please?”

  “You can speak to me,” said Thompson testily.

  “I’d really prefer to speak to Walter,” said Gideon. “If it’s just the same to you.”

  “It’s not just the same to me,” said Thompson, her voice growing frostier by the second. “And he’s out in the fields.”

  “Oh, I don’ mind waitin’,” said Gideon cheerfully. He made a move as though he were about to shove past Thompson into the mudroom, but Lark heard a shuffle of feet and knew that Thompson had blocked his path.

  “I’d be delighted to have an iced tea while I wait,” he said in a smooth, fake-polite tone.

  “I bet you would be,” said Thompson, “but seeing how I haven’t offered you any —”

  “It is mighty warm today,” Gideon continued, as though he hadn’t heard her. “I’m feelin’ pretty parched, as it happens.”

  Lark couldn’t see Thompson’s face, but she knew her well enough to know that the look she was giving Gideon was utterly terrifying.

  Gideon smiled and quirked both eyebrows. “I assure you that if you and your . . . father should come to call, Judith and Rachel would gladly return the hospitality.”

  “Walt’s not my father,” said Thompson.

  “Your uncle then.”

  “No.”

  Gideon let out a short burst of laughter that was completely devoid of warmth or mirth. “My apologies,” he said. “I just assumed . . .”

  Thompson didn’t say a word.

  “Some distant relative, perhaps?” Gideon probed. “Please don’t think I’m being forward, but you do seem awfully young to be his wife.”

  “I’m not his wife. My sister was his daughter’s partner.”

  There was a long pause, followed by a deep look of scrutiny from Gideon.

  Lark was seething with anger. She couldn’t believe he was standing there on Walt’s porch talking as if he had a right to this information. Who the hell was this guy?

  “My, my, how unusual,” he said finally, his creepy blue eyes staring right through her. “I knew that Walter had a daughter who was a homosexual, but I never imagined that a good Christian man like himself would allow it to happen right under his roof.”

  By now, Lark could practically feel the house quaking with the force of Thompson’s rage. “Allowed what to happen?” she growled.

  Gideon merely offered a cool smile. Lark sensed that he was about to leave when he spotted Walt ambling across the yard toward the driveway. He was walking at a brisker-than-normal pace, and Lark could tell that he found the presence of a strange vehicle disconcerting.

  “Hello!” he called, waving to get Gideon’s attention.

  “Blessed morning,” said Gideon, seeming to forget all about Thompson and turning his full attention to Walt. “You must be Walter.”

  “Who wants to know?” asked Walt, an uncharacteristic edge of irritation to his voice.

  Walt took in the sight of the station wagon and the two peculiar women standing in his yard, his face growing more perturbed by the second. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Well, as it happens, I thought perhaps that I could help you.”

  At those words, Lark got a very icky feeling in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t know what Gideon could possibly want to offer Walt, but she knew it wasn’t going to be anything he wanted.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes,” said Gideon. “My family and I have been blessed with fertile land just over yonder . . .”

  “The Millers,” said Walt. “Yes, I’m familiar.”

  “Abraham Miller is my father,” said Gideon. “My brother and I moved away for a spell, but seeing as how the rest of the country is facing the blight of this horrible drought, we thought the time was right to move on home and grow our family here.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “The good Lord has blessed us with a bountiful family . . . a family built on love, generosity, and clean livin’ with Jesus our Lord and Savior as our guide . . .”

  “Is that right?” said Walt. He wasn’t being outright rude, but his tone was dull and clipped, as though he couldn’t wait to get Gideon off his property.

  “There are twenty-seven of us now,” Gideon continued. “Soon to be twenty-eight.” He stepped off the porch and patted Rachel’s stomach. Lark had to suppress a gag. “We feel mighty blessed to call this place our home, which is why we thought we’d do the neighborly thing and invite ya’ll to Sunday service. Maybe afterward we could discuss how we can help each other prosper in these challenging times.”

  Walt seemed to consider this for a moment — either that, or he was calculating how long it would take him to reach his gun holstered at his hip. “You have a church?”

  “Sir, we believe that church is wherever God’s children gather in prayer.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Gideon seemed to sense that Walt wasn’t feeling all that enthusiastic about joining his “church.” “It’s just an invitation,” he said. “With all due respect, sir, I thought ya’ll could use the chance to cleanse your souls.”

  “Oh you did, did ya?” said Walt. Lark could tell that Gideon was dancing in dangerous territory. “And what in particular might we need to cleanse our souls of, boy?”

  Gideon glanced at Thompson and then over her shoulder, as if searching for Katrina. “For one thing, your daughter might like to come to service to ask her Lord and Savior for forgiveness. After all, it is the daughter’s duty to submit to her father’s wishes.”

  Walt let out a low, dark chuckle. “Sonny, if my daughter ever submitted to my wishes, I’d plum die of shock.”

  “With all due respect, sir, as head of the household, it is your duty to set your daughter on a righteous path.”

  There was a long heavy silence, and Lark felt raw unbridled fury spill into her stomach like a poison.

  Walt took a step toward Gideon, and Lark saw a tiny flash of rage in his normally steady blue eyes. When he spoke, his voice was so low that Lark could barely hear him.

  “As it happens, my late wife Shelley was the brains of the operation ’round here, but I’ll tell you what . . . If my daughter ever steps off the righteous path, I’ll let you know. ’Til then, stay the hell away from me and my family.”

  Gideon’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but he managed to keep his smug smile firmly in place.

  “Now get off my property.”

  Gideon paused for a beat and then took a few slow steps backward. He didn’t seem shocked by Walt’s reaction, but he was backing down. He signaled to his wives that it was time to go, and they all piled back into the station wagon.

  Walt watched Gideon back out of the driveway, and Bernie let out a low whistle. “What the fuck was that about?”

  Lark shook her head. She didn’t know what Gideon’s deal was, but he definitely gave her the creeps.

  She and Bernie got dressed in a hurry and padded downstairs to talk to Walt. Bernie took a while to hobble down the stairs on her crutches, and by the time they reached the kitchen, Thompson was already pacing back and forth. Walt was seated at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, looking as though he were deep in thought.

  “I can’t believe them!” Thompson shrieked.

  “Don’t tell Katrina about this,” Walt murmured, rubbing a h
and over the top of his head as if he were still working out what to do. “I don’t want her to worry.”

  Thompson pursed her lips but didn’t say anything.

  “What’s going on?” asked Lark.

  “We had some . . . unwelcome visitors this mornin’,” said Walt.

  “Yeah, we saw,” said Bernie. “Who were those people?”

  “The Millers have lived in the area for quite some time,” said Walt. “They were always pretty religious, but they kept to themselves, mostly. Then their son Gideon went off to Arizona and came back with a bunch of radical new ideas.” He shook his head. “I heard from Bob Schaffer down the way that Gideon spent time with some ‘trad life’ people down in Tucson, but I didn’t think much of it until recently.”

  “Trad life?” Bernie repeated.

  “Traditional life,” Walt clarified. “Militantly so.”

  “What happened recently that made you worry?” asked Lark.

  “Gideon’s father Abraham Miller approached me about purchasing my water rights . . . Said his son and a few friends were moving back to the farm and they needed the water. It didn’t occur to me that a ‘few friends’ meant twenty-some people, but it smelled rotten anyhow.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’ve known the Millers for years,” said Walt. “But the way Abraham was acting . . . nervous, I suppose . . . Well, it gave me a turn.”

  “You didn’t grant him the water rights, did you?” Lark asked.

  “No. I told him that I’d think about it, but as I said, it gave me a turn.”

  “So Gideon and the trad-life people are living down the street?” Bernie asked.

  Walt nodded. “Bob Schaffer told me that this particular group that Gideon was a part of — the Sons of David — advocated things that aren’t strictly legal . . . polygamy, marrying off teenage girls, ritualistic killings . . . that sort of thing.”

  “The Sons of David?” Thompson repeated. “I’ve heard about them. Why didn’t you tell us the Millers were mixed up in that?”