K-9 Outlaw: A Kelton Jager Adventure Book 1

by Charles Wendt

  “Damn, couldn’t get a shot on Burrito,” complained Baylee Ann peering through the shelves with her mop spear, “but good one. You got Jingles.”

  Baylee Ann stood back from the doorway some, seeking a target through an opening where she could thrust as a loud rifle boom sounded outside. Bambi nodded at her, trading the broom for a large cleaver. She stood to the side of the doorway up against the wall, ready to slash at any prying hands or fingers that tried to remove their protective shield. There would be regrets later. She’d killed someone and she would cry about it. But for now, she had a lifetime of rage waiting to get out and one simple kill would not slake it.

  “Fucking Bitches! What did we ever do to you?” screamed Burrito through the shelves as more gunfire erupted in the parking lot.

  Baylee Ann set the spear aside to quickly pick up a small paring knife and side armed it through the upper shelves at his face. It slashed his cheek just below his left eye and he rushed forward in rage to grab and shake the shelves like some frustrated prisoner on the bars of a jail cell. She was quick to pick up the spear, and he jumped back in just the nick of time. The large rifle boomed again, drowning out the smaller rapid pops of the pistols.

  Then Burrito turned and ran toward the front knocking aside tables and chairs in his panicked strides, “Hey guys, we need some help with the bitches!”

  Baylee Ann looked at Bambi and they exchanged smiles. Their eyes glowed with hope and adrenaline. Then they heard a sharp rapping sound as a bullet tore through thin sheet metal followed immediately by a rifle’s roar. Superheated oil from the fryer gushed through the bullet hole in the drywall out onto the dining room floor. It also flooded onto the kitchen floor, pooling underneath the appliance and finding the heating element. Seconds later it ignited, and moments later flames licked at the dry seasoned timbers of the roof as thick black smoke poured from the kitchen’s doorway.

  CHAPTER—32

  Kelton Jager crouched with his big Glock 40 behind the engine block of Dixie’s old Mercury Cougar. Under the car’s belly was a knocked down row of motorcycles, backed over until the car was aground on its oil pan and the suspended wheels spun uselessly. He’d bailed out the driver’s side and took cover by the left front wheel as a hail of bullets rained from the porch and the barn’s windows, sprinkling the car’s passenger side with bare metal stars. He wanted to rise and make shots, but didn’t dare with some half dozen barrels gunning for him. Normally he would have been forced to move immediately, even across the open parking lot, because if he didn’t they would come around both sides of the car at the same time and have him. Except, there was Braxton Greene.

  Braxton Greene wasn’t a trained marksman, but he was southern country and owned a deer rifle. The off-ramp from the interstate was a great elevated platform to fire from, the rifle steadily rested on the guard rail with a good view into the front of Shep’s establishment. Hardly anyone took the exit in the daytime, let along in the small hours of the morning so witnesses weren’t an issue. It was a simple matter to place the crosshairs of the scope on the silhouettes backlit from the barn while sitting on the road’s shoulder, and fire. The powerful .30-06 bullets pierced bodies and splintered barn timbers. He fired slowly, and deliberately, giving Kelton Jager the time he needed to slice the pie.

  Kelton crept to the front of the car still using the engine block for cover until he could just see one of the bikers. As the green triangle of the reflex site was placed over the man’s chest, he fired. Then he inched around a little more, until he could see the next man and did the same. From a bird’s eye view, one could draw a pair of lines making a wedge of what the shooter could see much like a slice of pie. This tactic allowed Kelton to engage targets mano a mano, rather than facing down multiple shooters at the same time. And with his skills, he was well equipped to win these one on one combats. Especially as he was acting, instead of reacting, toward a target coming into view. Action was always faster.

  The bikers were tough men who didn’t back down from a fight. Rather than fade back into the cover of the barn as their numbers slowly fell away, they rallied into a group that rushed forward. They weren’t particularly quick or athletic, but they were determined. They were also backlit from the lights of the barn and easy pickings through the scope of Braxton’s deer rifle. A couple of quick shots and two of them fell, mortally wounded. Another sharp crack of the rifle sounded as a bullet flew over the heads of those falling back.

  Kelton didn’t cut them any slack, popping up from cover to press home shots while he and Braxton had the initiative and emptied the last of his pistol’s fifteen-round magazine at their fleeing backs. None of the bikers went down, but Kelton felt confident he’d scored several hits. He dropped back down under a few wild shots of return fire, loaded a fresh magazine and slipped the empty into his hip utility pocket.

  The fight then settled down to him behind the car, and the bikers replying from the edges of the barn’s doorway and over the sills of its flanking front windows. No one was able to maneuver to advantage for fear of being shot. Kelton began to feel trapped on the island of the car’s cover in the openness of the parking lot. Only Braxton’s rifle shots kept him from being overrun, but he also knew that would be coming to an end soon. Braxton only had a dozen rounds or so in the house, left over from a box of twenty from the last time he’d gone hunting several years ago. Kelton would soon be on his own.

  Bambi and Baylee Ann flipped the makeshift spears in their hands and used the mop and broom to beat at the flames steadily spreading from the fryer in the kitchen. The ends absorbed the flaming oil and soon ignited, causing them to rush back to the water filled dish sink to extinguish them. In less than a minute the bellowing smoke, trapped against the kitchen’s drop ceiling, began to blind and choke them. They dropped to the floor.

  “Is there any way we can crawl out into the dining room?” yelled Baylee Ann.

  Bambi slithered toward the doorway on her belly, flinching at the numerous gunshots audible over the roaring flames. Hugging the floor to have air, she reached toward the metal posts of the rolling shelves and used them to pull herself forward. Tiny abrasions formed on her stomach and forearms, but her senses were so overloaded she didn’t feel the old concrete. The thick smoke really only let her see the legs of tables and chairs. But plenty of orange flames licked upward from the floorboards.

  “It’s no good. The room’s filled with flame,” shouted Bambi and then yelled for all she was worth to be heard over another volley of shooting. “Oil ran out through the hole in the wall. The beams are on fire overhead.”

  “We’ll have to make a run for it anyway. Push through!” instructed Baylee Ann.

  Bambi peered again at the inferno, wondering when the roof would collapse upon then. But her friend was right about one thing. Staying in the kitchen was about giving up. And she would never ever give up ever again. Bambi rolled on her side to squirm through the shelves, wondering how in the world Baylee Ann would ever fit behind her.

  A deep thumping noise made her look backward. Unlike the distant shooting, this was nearby. At first she thought Baylee Ann must be clearing a path for herself, but her friend had rolled on her side to look back too.

  “Someone is trying to get into the kitchen from the bathroom,” said Baylee Ann in disbelief.

  Bambi stared at the base of the reefer unit, and saw it vibrate in time with the thudding. Then she felt cool air rush by her face, sucked in by the raging flames and making a whistling sound around the edges of the door.

  “Come on,” said Bambi pushing herself out of the entanglement of the shelves and making her way back toward the reefer.

  “We couldn’t move it before,” reminded Baylee Ann.

  “But it was full and the shelves were in the way. And them are pushing to help,” explained Bambi.

  Bambi grasped with fingers behind the reefer and put her feet on the wall to push. It slid a little with the next thump of the door against its back. The cool air felt like a godsend
at first, soothing her nose and lips with its clean crispness. But she also felt the temperature rising as the flames were fed.

  “I’m stronger. Roll clear,” demanded Baylee Ann.

  Bambi did so, rolling over the discarded broom handle and bruising her hip. Baylee Ann took up her position and strained with her legs and hands, but the old chipped concrete made for hard going sliding the reefer and sweaty fingers slipped from the smooth stainless steel. Bambi wanted to stand over Baylee Ann and pull with her, but the arid choking smoke had forced them to the bottom of the floor. There wasn’t room for her to get close enough to help. Or was there?

  Bambi grasped the broom handle and thrust the wood behind the reefer under Baylee Ann’s legs. Baylee Ann felt the stick and turned and looked.

  “Great idea,” she said. “Let’s pull when they push.”

  The girls grasped the wood while lying flat on their backs and their feet on the wall. They heaved, and the reefer pivoted on its far corner. Then the door pushed into the back of the reefer and they redoubled their efforts. Cool wind rushed across them as the gap between the door and its frame became a few inches, and then a foot. Dull and lethargic flames at the base of the walls, fed by the rush of oxygen brightened and leapt with energy. Bambi felt the skin on her forehead blistering, but one last pull and the gap was a large enough for Baylee Ann to slither through.

  “Give me your feet!” came Dixie’s voice as a pair of soft pale hands grabbed Baylee Ann’s ankles and drug her into the bathroom.

  Bambi rolled and scampered through the gap, coughing and heaving at the wonderful air. Baylee Ann rested on her side for a moment, smiled and gave a thumb’s up.

  “Y’all okay?” asked Dixie.

  They nodded, as thick black smoke billowed out the door and began to fill the bathroom. A wispy orange arm of light reached in and kissed the ceiling, leaving glowing fibers of wood where it touched.

  “We’re not safe yet,” yelled Dixie. “Come on!”

  Bambi took Dixie’s outstretched arm and watched Baylee Ann take hold of the other one. They pushed themselves to their feet, and then fell in behind Dixie as they exited the barn through the west facing bathroom doors, hacking in the fresh air. From there it was a stumbling and clumsy lumber through the vines and drainage ditch to reach the road. They faltered here and there, picking up small cuts from the gravel and broken glass which always collected along rural roads. But they were clear.

  Kelton saw the flickering flames inside the barn and the thick black smoke billowing out the top of the front doorway. It was just a bright background glow at first, but soon twisting and dancing orange fingers reached to the dry timbers of the rafters. He saw the men inside raising their heads, looking back at the inferno and where to possibly run for cover under fire in the parking lot. He engaged them as they appeared, trying to put pressure on some of them to stay inside so they didn’t come out all at once. Kelton knew the heat would force them out.

  He knelt and inserted a fresh magazine to top off his gun. Sixteen rounds were quickly at the ready. Kelton stopped firing and remained kneeling, waiting for the better quality opportunities to get hits that would soon follow. As a central section of the roof collapsed over the dining area, orange fireflies danced into the air. Combustion gases, that had been trapped by the shingles were suddenly released to create a sucking vacuum. It brought in fresh air to the flames through the doors and windows, starting a powerful updraft. Even out at the car, Kelton felt the rush of air through the barn doors and windows and saw the orange glow brighten like a blacksmith’s forge with a breath from the bellows.

  They scurried out as the heat became unbearable, jackets smoking from their backs, half blinded by the smoke, and coughing.

  Aim and shoot thought Kelton. Release the trigger slightly as the gun recoils letting it settle with the glowing green triangle on the new aim point. A tiny squeeze to discharge the gun again, and repeat. Slow is smooth, and smooth is really fast.

  Shot placement was perfect center of mass, the bullets punching through them into the barn’s inferno. Seconds later, all that had run forth were down. Anything his bullets hadn’t finished, the flames soon would.

  Kelton could feel the intensity of the heat himself, and began to walk backward, scanning over his gun for other targets. Drifting embers landed among the upset bikes and car. Seconds later, they found gasoline spilled from the tanks. With a shaking whoosh, another set of flames reached up toward the night sky and he felt the small shockwave roll over his face. The pile of motorcycles and the car was burning. There was no more gunfire.

  He felt he must have watched for a good couple of minutes, and then finally lowered his gun. Again he exchanged magazines so his gun was topped off, and after one last scan he returned it to holster. The whole building was now consumed, and as he jogged toward the road to get away he could see raging flames coming out the old stall windows down the entire side. With a crash, another section of roof gave way as its lost strength could no longer support its weight. Then the long wall on the south side, facing the road, began to tremble.

  Kelton ran all the way across the street, the heat too intense for him to stand on the asphalt. He then made his way west, weaving through the scrub pines covering forested lots once cleared but never built upon. The cool night air soothed the skin of his face, Kelton not truly realizing how angry the painful intense heat had been until it was taken away. He made his way slowly, not wanting to trip and hurt himself, but anxious to get to the rally point and count noses. In a few minutes he saw three figures standing in the road, just outside the circle of light cast by the burning barn.

  Instinctively, he reached for the butt of his gun but there were no mistaking women’s curves and especially the wider hips of Baylee Ann. He stepped out into the roadway so they could readily see him. They all laughed, reached out their arms as they ran forward, and wrapped him into a large group hug. Then the adrenaline made them cry and shake, as their bodies twitched with leftover survival hormones.

  “Everyone okay?” he asked.

  They all nodded and then the four of them turned to watch as the walls of the barn fell in upon itself in a glowing roaring infernal of rubble.

  CHAPTER—33

  It was midmorning on Sunday, and Kelton Jager held Azrael’s leash as they walked west on Main Street toward St. Albans from Dixie’s Truck Stop. The air was cool and fresh, and it felt pleasant to have finally chased away the smell of ashes and soot from his nostrils so he could enjoy the dogwood blossoms. The morning rush of cars to church was over, and the town had returned to a sleepy look with most of the stores closed until Monday morning.

  They’d all watched the barn completely collapse the other night, glowing embers wafting upon the fire wind. Braxton eventually pulled up in his truck. The fire had been so intense he didn’t dare risk driving by it on Azalea Estates Lane. Instead, after gathering his spent brass and rifle, he’d driven down the exit ramp and right back up the onramp. The next exit was River Road, and he’d driven by the small fishing cabins and vacation homes until reaching Thigpen Road. A little trip north, and Braxton had been turning right back on to Azalea. In short, he’d simply gone around the block. But in the country, that was often a half-hour ordeal.

  Baylee Ann and Bambi had sat up front with Braxton, which meant Kelton and Dixie had to ride in the bed with their backs against the cab. He hadn’t minded, and didn’t think she had either. Braxton had driven slowly, minimizing the bumps and the centrifugal effect of the rural road’s twists and turns. The rush of the wind had been too much for them to talk, but the holding of hands and an arm over the shoulders said more than words ever would.

  Braxton had stopped at his house, but left the little Chevy’s lights and engine running. Kelton had leapt over the side of the truck and despite his exhausted legs ran up the concrete steps of the porch to turn the doorknob. Azrael had danced around, emitting barks skyward and circled about to collect his flock of one. Kelton scooped up his pack, retrieve
d his phone and put it back in his usual shirt pocket, and then they were in the back of the truck again and rolling toward the truck stop.

  Dixie had gotten him a room key, but hadn’t stayed. She had said she needed some things from her house, and to feed her cat Patsy, and had asked Braxton to drop her there. Kelton had been too tired to do anything more than nod.

  In the little motel room, Kelton had done the best cleaning he could do. He’d stripped all his clothes in the tub and showered away over them, scrubbing furiously with the thin white washcloth despite the redness of his skin. When the water had drained after, he’d refilled the tub and added all his other clothes and odd possessions which could tolerate a long soaking. He’d added the last contents of his laundry soap bottle, and was fast asleep in no time at all.

  It had been late morning on Saturday when he’d awoken, legs stiff and crampy from the long cold walk the evening before. He’d felt the mild burn on his face and rubbed away the sleep. Azrael had needed to go out, so he’d wrapped himself in the spare blanket to stand watch from the doorway. The soapy water in the tub had turned gray during the night and he drained it away to refill for rinsing. Then he’d hung things on the shower rod and towel bars to dry.

  The knock on the door had surprised him, but Azrael hadn’t appeared weary. He’d wrapped himself in the blanket again and opened to find Dixie standing on the room’s stoop with a steaming tray of food.

  “Room service?” she’d greeted with a sweet southern smile. “And you know,” she had said playfully while nodding her head in time to her words as she walked in, “we do have a dress code.”

  “Sorry. Everything I own is drying. Going to be damp for quite a while.”

  “Brought you my dad’s robe. I’ve an old fan in the maid’s closet I’ll bring you in a few minutes to help your stuff dry, too. How are you feeling?”