K-9 Outlaw: A Kelton Jager Adventure Book 1

by Charles Wendt

  At the corner of Chandler’s road was a dilapidated country store, the old sign no longer legible. The antique gas pumps had been removed from the crumbling island, and the plywood window coverings had long since rotted away to let the weather inside. Kudzu vines were doing a credible job of reclaiming the lot for Mother Nature. It smelled of rat feces.

  But they weren’t there to fill up or grab a six pack like customers of long ago. It had a small gravel parking area and was unlit. Behind the decaying building was room to stash the motorcycles. And it was in walking distance of Chandler’s house, if a bit of a long walk for guys who drank too much, smoked too much and sat on their bikes all day. It was a wonder he hadn’t had to throw in several pills of Viagra for these guys to seal the deal.

  The thugs, Ripper and Burt, had wanted to ride all the way to the house. If things went badly, they had their own way of bugging out if it became every man for himself. Rebel wanted to approach more quietly, as quietly as a truck could, without the roaring of the hogs shaking the neighbors for a half mile around. A single truck at night wasn’t that unusual in the country. Three vehicles, of any type and especially at that hour, was a parade reserved for special holidays. The discussion had been lively, until Shep dictated using a staging point. It also kept the motorcycles away from the raid, which could potentially lead an investigator asking questions to his establishment if a witness noticed a “two-wheeler”.

  Despite the empty seat upfront, both Ripper and Burt opted to pile in the back of the crew cab whose last passenger had been Dixie. Ripper carried a machete, Burt a sledge hammer and a pair of bolt cutters. Rebel cracked the window a little. The guys really stank, like they had passed out on the bathroom floor and others had taken turns pissing on them the rest of the night. It probably explained Bambi’s appeal. There was no other way besides a violent forceful rape that they would be getting any. Hookers in Tijuana were not only too far away, they also had some minute sense of standards concerning their clients.

  No cars passed as they pulled out and made a right onto Caisson Road. Rebel killed his headlights and drove slowly to keep down noisy engine revolutions. He toggled the switch by the rearview mirror to keep interior lights coming on when the doors opened. As they approached within a hundred yards of the drive he killed the ignition and let the truck roll to a stop without hitting the brakes.

  “Y’all don’t close the doors when we get out,” explained Rebel in a soft tone. “Makes too much noise.”

  They piled out, Rebel taking his crowbar from underneath the seat. The house on the hill was dark, but the moon was bright. Frogs sang from the pastures behind where there was a cattle watering pond. The trio made their way up the driveway, Rebel tapping the green phone pedestal with his palm as they passed. The scraping of gravel with their boots was hardly audible. Chandler’s driveway was pretty well graded which made for easy going. The Durango, with its blue light bar on the roof, sat in plain view on the side of the house under the carport. The carport was simply a metal overhead cover to keep off sun and rain, without any sides or back.

  Rebel whispered toward Burt, “Get her phone.”

  Burt, with Ripper following, headed toward the side of the house and quickly found the gray box. It had a small lock on it, but the bolt cutters made short work of that. They opened the cover with such force, the plastic hinges broke. Inside were the tiny low voltage phone wires. A couple of savage thrusts from the machete point did for them. There would be no dial tone inside.

  While the boys were doing that first essential thing, Rebel made a line to the driver’s side rear door. He pulled out a penlight from his shirt pocket and touched it to the window before turning it on. Buck was right about the old ammo can with padlock. The question was, the $40,000 question to be exact, was the money in the box? He reached into his overalls’ pockets for his work gloves and pulled them on. He took a look over his shoulder and rolled his eyes. Ripper was preparing to urinate on the flowerbed.

  “What the hell he doing?” scolded Rebel.

  Burt shrugged, “Ripper gets nervous.”

  Rebel shook his head and tried to lift the door handle to see if it was locked.

  The frog voices were silenced by the drowning torrent of honking, as the anti-theft mechanism activated.

  “Bitch!” shouted Ripper over the noise to be heard.

  Rebel savagely jammed the crowbar into the seam between the door and frame near the locking mechanism and pried, tearing the thin sheet metal. A light came on upstairs in the house as Rebel speared again, making the opening wide enough to use the curved end of the crowbar for better leverage. The side-impact airbag went off, filling the interior with a giant white balloon. The pulsing honking continued its barking.

  Burt warned, “Hurry up, Rebel.”

  “Bring the bolt cutters, dammit!” Rebel said as he ripped at the bag with the crowbar to hasten its deflation.

  “Here,” offered Burt as he traded it for the crowbar. He grasped both it and the sledge hammer tightly, not wanting to leave either tool behind. He hadn’t thought to leave on his biker gloves.

  “Back porch lights just came on!” shouted Ripper to be heard.

  Burt walked around to the front of the SUV while Rebel wrestled with the airbag, trying to get the bolt cutters on the ammo can’s padlock. The biker stabbed the crowbar’s straight end several times into the grill, and on the third thrust the honking mercifully went silent. Barking dogs called out from all directions.

  “Got it!” shouted Rebel in triumph as the tool’s jaws finally met, even though the horn’s demise made raising his voice unnecessary. The lock fell to the floor of the SUV with a clatter.

  Something grabbed at his cheek and shoulder, tearing at his flesh as he felt glass pelt his face. The shotgun’s report followed as he fell over backward on to the gravel. He lay there stunned, as he heard a second blast that seemed far away.

  Ripper cried out, “Bitch! She got me!”

  Ripper came running over to the Dodge, passed Rebel and kneeled by the radiator with Burt to take cover.

  “You messin with the wrong black woman!” proclaimed Evelyn as she broke open the shotgun. The empty cases popped out and she smoothly took two from her front pocket and replaced them with a single motion.

  Rebel came to his senses again as she slammed the action closed. He pushed himself to a crouch and made a diving leap on to the backseat as more glass shattered in the blast. He lay there sprawled across it as his arm fished around on the floor for the lid of the ammo can. He found it and yanked at the clasp.

  The next blast was a little higher, and rattled the sheet metal of the ceiling in addition to bits of the tailgate windshield. Stuffed into the metal box, was the clear bag of heavy duty plastic, perhaps six mils thick, with bundles of cash. He pulled at it, the metal sides forming a suction that didn’t want to let go, but Rebel wanted it bad. The angle denied him leverage, but he strained until it yielded.

  More pellets flew as the shotgun again roared, and he felt the searing burning across his backside. He reached for the passenger side door, prayed the backdoor safeties were deactivated and got lucky. It opened, to give him a view of Burt and Ripper running down the driveway with short choppy strides. Rebel scrambled out the door after them, falling to the gravel and chipping a tooth. He almost let go of the bag. Almost.

  “Fuck!” he complained.

  As he struggled to his feet, he felt the searing burning sensation of the laceration on his butt cheek. Another shotgun blast and he cringed, frozen in place, waiting for the pain of ripped flesh and gushing blood to register. He watched Burt fall down instead some fifty feet in front of him. His nerves unlocked and he plunged forward down the driveway after the two bikers. Ripper raced ahead, either unaware or unconcerned that Burt had fallen.

  Rebel reached him and paused long enough to hook his free hand under his shoulder and help him to his feet. Ahead of them, and nearly to the road, Ripper stepped in a slight depression and his ankle rolled over.
The big man fell hard, the impact of his fat gut on the ground pushing stomach acid into his throat and nose. Burt and Rebel staggered past and turned at the road toward the dark empty truck.

  “You want some more of this, you just come on back now!” Evelyn screeched from the top of the hill.

  Two more shots sounded in quick succession, fired up into the air. Rebel reached the driver’s door, threw the cash bundle inside, but stood bent over while holding the arm rest. A moment later, he vomited onto the road.

  Burt hoisted himself into the back making use of the running board, also on the driver’s side, and yelled encouragement, “Come on man, we got to go!”

  Rebel reached in to grab the steering wheel, using his arms as much as his legs to mount the truck. He turned the key, not waiting for the glow plugs. The engine was still plenty warm and roared to life. With his other hand he put his seatbelt on, by racecar driver reflex. He closed his door and put it into gear at the same time, mashing the accelerator as soon as he had a free hand for the wheel. The sudden acceleration closed the passenger side rear door. Up ahead he could see the silhouette of Ripper hobbling down the end of the driveway waving his arms at them.

  Rebel stopped at the mouth of the drive. It wasn’t out of great love for Ripper, but no one left behind meant no one the cops could turn with a deal to implicate them all. Ripper ran around the front of the truck as if to bar them from leaving, using his right hand on the hood to take weight off the ankle. It was torturously slow for him to reach the back door and pull on the handle. The door didn’t open. The locks had automatically triggered when Rebel had put it in drive.

  The shotgun fired again, just as Rebel hit the lock release, and pellets rattled on the truck’s side like hail on a tin roof. Ripper had already moved away from the door though, going for the bed of the truck instead. Even without a hurt ankle and a shotgun wound, it would be doubtful his athletic prowess would permit him to climb the side of the bed. He was having to go all the way to the rear bumper.

  Rebel took his foot off the brake, as Ripper yelled “Don’t leave me, Bitch!” but all he was doing was trying to get the rear of the truck up to Ripper. He overdid it slightly. Another boom of thunder, this time a slug that shattered plastic upfront near the grill. Then the truck rocked on its shocks as Ripper made it over the tailgate and collapsed into the bed.

  Burt screamed, “We got him! Go, go, go!”

  Rebel mashed the gas again. The big turbo diesel roared, and carried them forward.

  “No way man, that was close!” Burt celebrated looking back at the house on the hill.

  Rebel turned on his headlights to see ahead, leaning forward to peer through the windshield. Only the passenger side lights came on, and using high beams didn’t help much. He wiped at his face, feeling grit and fragments wet with sweat and blood.

  “Got to go get the bikes, Man!” demanded Burt.

  “You want to pass her house again? Bitch probably at the end of the drive just waiting with that shotgun. We’ll be like fish in a barrel!”

  “Got to get the bikes, Man!” yelled Burt again.

  “We’ll double back. Stop bitching,” snapped Rebel.

  The road came to a dead-end up ahead, with turns to the left and right. He ran the stop, slowing just a whisker shy of rolling it, and flooring it to pull through the turn. Unlike his passengers thrown about by the centrifugal forces, the tight seatbelt held him to the truck’s controls so he could work his magic. The boy could always drive.

  Ripper rolled in the back, being mashed by various tools and howled “Take it fucking easy!”

  Rebel ignored him, and whipped around another turn and then another in a panicked flight through unfamiliar backroads to get away as far as he could as fast as he could. He had his money. There were no witnesses who knew them. The bikes weren’t his concern, but they were safe. The boys may have to ride like bitches to go pick them up later, but they weren’t really out anything. All was well.

  Until it was not. He didn’t know these roads, didn’t see the faded orange warning sign in his panicky flight and limited headlights. Rebel merely barreled ahead down the slight grade, speed far over the legal limit, the way ahead dark with the trees making a thick canopy over the winding lane. The black and yellow barricade crossed all lanes, but he saw it much too late. He slammed on the brakes in panic, but the loose gravel gave them no chance. The truck splintered the wooden warning in all directions, larger chunks trampled under skidding tires.

  It was a small bridge, under replacement, just enough to get over a narrow creek. It had been a slight wooden structure that had slowly weakened over decades of service. Now cleared away for a large steel culvert design not yet in place, there existed a twelve-foot gap and four-foot drop to meeting the road on the other side. The law of gravity made it not even close.

  The nose of the big Ford began falling as the front wheels went over the edge. There wasn’t a ramp to launch them up into the air in some “Dukes of Hazard” rerun. Their high speed, despite the hard braking, carried them across the gap for the bumper to impact the muddy face of the far side. The frame crumpled with the impact, Ripper thrown from the bed over the cab with an assortment of tools. Burt, not wearing his seatbelt, was slammed into the back of the front seat. Rebel met a violent white explosion as the airbag punched his face, but the seatbelt held his hips in place so he didn’t take the edge of the steering wheel deep into the gut.

  A moment after the shattering impact all was unnaturally quiet, the truck wedged into the depression with tailgate up in the air. The big diesel died in the impact, spinning wheels rotating freely until coming to a rest. No shred of consciousness betrayed any human existence to the birds and frogs who resumed their natural routines of a few minutes before.

  CHAPTER—19

  Buck stirred in the small bed where in his dream he’d been reliving his most recent encounter with Dixie in her shower. His body was warm under the blanket and content with the rest, but the dream had left him unsatisfied as his erection continued to strain against his Jockeys. He tried to drift back to sleep before even opening his eyes, hoping the fantasy could resume where he’d left off. The sexual frustration dragged him to consciousness instead. The red digits of the clock said it was five in the morning.

  Pulling his knees up to his chest underneath the blankets, he slipped his thumbs into the waistband and pulled down the white underwear to his ankles. Buck stroked his flagging member gently under the head, arousing himself back to full firmness. Then he grasped the whole shaft, moving quickly as he remembered pushing her up against the tiles. He pretended, as he relived it, that he’d entered her backdoor like in the movies.

  A couple minutes later he could feel the surge was coming, but his arm muscles were beginning to burn. Would he get there? Could he get there? Sweat rolled from his temples as his hand stroked harder and faster. Almost. A big breath. Almost. Faster. Nearly there.

  The phone rang and Buck slammed the bed top in frustration. He snatched it from the nightstand and put it to his ear.

  “What?” he greeted with all the disdain he could muster.

  “Deputy Garner, this is Evelyn Fouche. I’m sorry to call you so early, but a pack of vandals broke into Chandler’s car a little while ago here at the house.”

  Color drained from his face as sat up on the edge of the bed.

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Fouche. I didn’t look at the caller I.D.”

  “It wouldn’t have helped you. The phone at the house is dead for some reason so I walked down to the neighbors.”

  “Are you safe? Did you call 911?”

  “Should I? I thought I would just bypass the middleman.”

  “You did well, Mrs. Fouche. I’m on my way and will be there as soon as I can.”

  “Thank you, Deputy. I will walk back and meet you there.”

  She hung up before he could, and he held the phone briefly with forearm throbbing. He looked down and tried to decide if things were still aroused enough to resume,
but thoughts of how Rebel’s raid went, did they have the money, and then the phone’s “off the hook signal” pushed the Dixie fantasy away. Buck hung up and went into the hallway bathroom, the only bathroom, to splash water on his face. He quickly donned yesterday’s uniform that was draped over a chair. He would look disheveled, but that would be forgiven. Failure to be prompt would not. This could drag Sheriff Fouche down and line him up for the job, but one sentence in the newspaper about “the deputy took over an hour to arrive” would not play well in any special election.

  Buck lived in a little two-bedroom farm laborer house four miles to the east of I-85. Essentially it was on Main Street, but the name changed to Virginia Route 605 past Ed’s. It was an eighth of an acre backed up to large fields, with neighbors in similar digs who drove combines and other farm equipment depending on the time of year. But it met his needs and his neighbors rose too early and were always too tired from their labors to ever stay up late and be rowdy enough to bother him.

  Walking through the common room, he unplugged his cell phone from the charger and saw he had missed a call. He’d sat out on the porch with a beer last night for a while, listening to the baseball game on the radio like he used to with his dad when he was a kid. He must have missed it then. Buck checked the call log, and didn’t recognize the number. Rather than play it now, he made his way out to the patrol car. There was a Twinkie in the glovebox he could scarf down on the drive over.

  The sheriff used to have the entire department over for a grill out every summer, but the steady decline in funding drove the departure of the other deputies. And as the department had finally shrunk to just the two of them, Chandler had stopped hosting get-togethers. Which is to say Buck had been over to the sheriff’s a few times over the years, and even though it had been a while and it was still dark, had no problems quickly getting over to Caisson Road.

  As he was approaching the drive, the silvery reflections of assorted plastic fragments twinkled on the dark asphalt. He stopped, leaving the blue lights on, and then went back to the trunk for the portable barricade. It was essentially a white sawhorse of tube steel with blue reflectors and a sign on the side “Lowland County Sheriff”. It also had a couple of blue flashing LED lights, and besides his patrol car was the piece of equipment he used the most. He carried it around to the other side of the driveway to the middle of the road, unfolded the legs, and turned it on.