by Rachel Aukes
Bounty Hunter: Dig Two Graves
Rachel Aukes
BOUNTY HUNTER: DIG TWO GRAVES
Bounty Hunter series, book 2
Copyright 2020 Rachel Aukes
All rights reserved.
Waypoint Books LLC
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by Francois Vaillaincourt
Edited by No Safe Words and Kriegler Editing Services
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Epilogue One
Epilogue Two
Message from the Author
Bounty Hunter: Nothing to Nobody
Also by Rachel Aukes
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
The servant bleeding on Roderick Sloan’s freshly polished marble floor did nothing to improve his mood. He gave his guards holding the filthy, bleeding man a commiserating glance before returning his scowl to the prisoner. “This is the last time I’ll ask, where have you and your fellow contract-dodgers been hiding out for the past two months?”
“I told you already, Mr. Sloan, I was staying in the back of that barn those guys found me in. I was all alone. I don’t know where anyone else went. We all ran separate ways when we broke free,” the man replied.
Sloan’s eyes narrowed. “Broke free? Don’t you mean when you and your pals reneged on labor contracts you signed with me and left me high and dry? Or have you already forgotten?”
“I haven’t forgotten. I’ll never forget. You told me that if I didn’t sign that slavery contract, you’d kill my wife.” Then he snarled. “I signed, and you still killed her!”
Sloan nodded to Captain Boris Stolichov, who stood on his right—making the captain quite literally his right-hand man.
Boris raised his fist, and the servant cowered. “Please don’t hit me again!”
The captain double-checked, and Sloan gave another nod. He took a step back to make sure no blood splatter marred his clothes this time—he hadn’t stepped back far enough last time. Boris punched the servant again, who collapsed into a heap again. Workers had no fortitude anymore, and the problem was becoming more pronounced as Sloan’s need for more workers grew. He motioned to his guards, and they lifted the whimpering man back to his knees.
“You’ve been lying to me, and I don’t appreciate that, William. Tell me where you’ve been staying since leaving the farm.”
The man’s bottom lip quivered like he was about to cry. “I told you—”
“You told me a lie,” Sloan interrupted. “Tell me the truth, or I’ll have Boris execute a worker in front of you, and for every lie you tell me after that, he’ll kill another one. How long will you keep lying to me then?”
His features tightened; he looked like he was attempting to portray a raisin.
“Boris, fetch me a worker. Make it a young one, preferably female,” Sloan said.
“Yes, sir.” Boris turned to leave.
“No! I’ll tell you whatever you want!” the prisoner exclaimed.
A smile crept up Sloan’s face. “Excellent. Then we understand each other. Where are all the contract-dodgers hiding?”
The prisoner gulped. “The silo,” he said almost inaudibly.
Sloan held a hand behind his ear. “What’s that you said?”
The man stiffened. “The silo. We’ve all been staying in the silo.”
Sloan frowned. “Impossible. The nearest silo is over a hundred miles from here.”
He shook his head. “This one’s just on the other side of the lake.”
Sloan found it curious that people still referred to the lake as a lake, since it was nothing but a sludge pit anymore. As a lake, it’d been beautiful, but pretty scenery didn’t bring in credits; production facilities did.
He took a step toward the worker. “You remember what I said would happen the next time you lied to me?”
“I’m not lying,” he cried. “There’s a silo out there. This one wasn’t even used during the fallout.”
“Tell me more,” Sloan crooned.
Words came easier for the prisoner after he relinquished his precious secret. “It’s never been raided, not even once, so there’s enough down there for people to live underground forever. Sheriff Vane knew about it. She took us there.”
Sloan’s nose wrinkled in distaste at the mention of that name. Sheriff Val Vane had been a thorn in his side for too long. She harassed his murcs, and he was convinced she’d played a hand in the breakout the night William and over a hundred other indentured servants fled the farm. Sure, his murcs had rounded up over half of them within the first three days, but the remaining contract-dodgers had mysteriously disappeared, something else he suspected she’d had a hand in.
He couldn’t publicly kill Vane, since she was the town’s sheriff and he was a government official, but once he received the equipment he’d requested from President Darville, he wouldn’t have to worry about keeping up the tiresome charade anymore. Vane’s death was imminent, and he looked forward to being rid of her once and for all.
He turned back to the prisoner. “Even if the sheriff knew about the place, silo doors are built to withstand nuclear attacks. How’d you get inside?”
“Sheriff Vane had access.”
Curious. How had the sheriff, especially one not originally from Clearwater, let alone the Midlands, gained access to an abandoned silo? Then he realized that, as sheriff, Vane had likely arrested a drunk, at some point, who happened to have a key. If there truly was a silo near Clearwater, some people had
to have known about it.
“Once we were all inside, she pulled a few folks aside and gave them clearance for locking and unlocking the silo to keep it secure, even with folks coming and going.”
“And, pray tell, do you happen to be one of that select group?” Sloan asked.
“No. I work in maintenance. We all have jobs, just like we did in other silos during the fallout. There’s maintenance, security, plumbing—”
Sloan waved him off as he began to pace. “No need for the history lesson, William. I remember quite well what life was like and how we survived before we reclaimed the surface. Bear with me; I’m finding it hard to swallow that there was an untapped silo in Clearwater all this time and no one, save our dear sheriff, was aware of it.”
“I’m telling the truth. Please believe me.”
“I believe you are.” Sloan resumed pacing. He found the knowledge disconcerting…and fascinating. People had emerged from their silos because the structures had become underground shantytowns. Humans had lived below the surface for generations longer than originally intended. With resources sucked dry, and plagued by equipment failures, people returned to the toxic surface in desperation, even if doing so was a death sentence. It had been, for some, but enough had survived, thanks to desperate ingenuity and the sacrifices of the first ground cleaners.
Roderick Sloan had never returned to his tribe’s silo after he stepped out to the surface—there was no longer anything of value for him down there. But a new silo, chock full of its precious resources, would be of immeasurable value—he could sell its food and supplies for millions of credits.
His older brother, Gabriel, would’ve been intrigued by the mystery and considered it a pawn in his never-ending game of chess, but he would never have appreciated the silo for the goldmine it was. That had always been Gabriel’s flaw—he had been focused purely on being the most powerful man in the wastelands. It’d been his dream to take control of the MRC. The Monuments Republic Command was the only government that still operated in the wastelands, and he’d thought Roderick shortsighted for not wanting the same.
But Roderick saw things differently. He had no desire for control—there was too much hassle involved with that—and while power was a nice perk, he knew that power would be laid at his feet, hassle-free, if only he had enough credits. So his dream was smarter than Gabriel’s: he would become the richest man in the wastelands, and with that, he’d enjoy the same perks his brother had craved but without any of the hassle.
Money bought everything, plain and simple.
An untapped silo could progress Roderick closer to his goal of achieving incomparable wealth. But what if there were more untapped silos out there, untapped, waiting for their resources to be plucked by a man with vision?
He turned back to the prisoner. “I had believed all silos were tracked on the Earth map. That one never made it on to the map in over two centuries makes me wonder how many more undisclosed silos are still out there. Tell me, have you heard or seen any evidence that there could be more lost silos in the Midlands, or perhaps, anywhere in the wastelands?”
“I don’t know about any others out there, but I think this one wasn’t on the map because it’s not old enough to be on the Earth map,” the prisoner replied.
Sloan was taken aback. “What do you mean ‘not old enough’?”
“I saw its bones while working maintenance. From the pipes and conduits, it’s pretty new. Maybe fifty years old at most. Nothing like the fallout silos.”
Sloan guffawed. “Impossible. Someone would’ve noticed it being built during the ground cleanings.”
“Most folks have only been on the surface for twenty years, boss,” Boris said, “but Zenith State had their robots working up here a whole lot longer than that. Who knows what they were doing when they had the surface all to themselves?”
Sloan turned to his captain. “You’re telling me that Zenith was building more silos while they were building train tracks and cleaning the surface? Why would they do that, when they were making such a massive investment so that people could live on the surface? They wouldn’t have cleaned the surface if they didn’t think we could return to it, so building silos seems like the opposite of what they’d do, not to mention being a massive waste of money and effort.”
Boris shrugged. “Who knows what Zenith was thinking—if it was even them. All I know is, they always seemed to be several steps ahead. Who’s to say they weren’t preparing for a second fallout before we ever stepped foot on the surface?”
“Thinking there’d be another fallout?” Sloan chuckled. “You always have been a conspiracy theorist.”
“We could ask them, if only they hadn’t all been killed in the Revolution,” Boris offered.
“Yes, Boris. And little girls have their pockets filled with ‘if onlys,’ which don’t seem to be much help to them, either. Tell me, are you a little girl?”
The captain gritted his teeth. “No, sir. I most certainly am not.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” He turned his attention to the guards holding the prisoner. “Take William to the servants’ barracks.”
“Yes, sir,” one guard said. The pair yanked the servant to his feet.
“You—you’re not going to kill me?” the man asked.
Sloan guffawed. “Goodness, no. You still owe me seven years on your contract, plus another ten years for running away.”
The servant’s mouth dropped open, and he whimpered.
The guards led the worker away, leaving Boris alone with Sloan.
“Keep an eye on him,” Sloan said. “Don’t let him try to escape again, or worse, try to kill himself. He needs to show us exactly where that silo is. Every single one of those contract dodgers—all sixty-seven of them still out there—need to be brought back here to my farm to fulfill their contracts.”
Boris nodded. “There will be no escapes and no suicides on my watch.”
Sloan turned to leave and stepped on a wet blood streak. He lifted his foot and examined the sole of his shoe with a scowl. He dropped his foot hard onto the floor. “And get someone to clean up this mess,” he snapped.
Chapter Two
Some folks would say it’s a bad idea for a fugitive to walk into a den of bounty hunters. Joe Ballast certainly agreed, but he was heading into one such place all the same. Trepidation made each footfall feel heavier. His exoshield—the body armor that covered him from head to toe—did surprisingly little to instill more confidence.
“You sure no one shows up around here until after dawn?” Joe asked.
“Guildsmen usually don’t check in until seven at the earliest, and with Cat still trying to drum up business in Cavil, I’m guessing they’re all slacking off in Copper Gulch,” Kit Argall’s reply came through Joe’s helmet.
“Usually? That’s not real comforting,” Joe said.
His friend chuckled. “You’re in the wrong line of work if you want comforting.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, but if I get shot at, I’m going to be awfully disappointed in your ability to plan.”
“Trust me. No one will see you, let alone shoot you, as long as you stick to the plan.”
He chortled. “I’ve yet to see a plan that survives the first five minutes in action.”
“Then you’d better be sure you’re out of there in four and a half minutes.”
“That’s my goal.” Joe took a deep breath and walked through the empty lot to the building standing all by its lonesome, ten miles out of Copper Gulch. His helmet, equipped with night vision, cast an eerie glow over the domed structure. He stopped at the door and eyed the security panel. It read: IRON GUILD. NO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ALLOWED.
“I’m ready for the code,” Joe said.
“Try Two-Tee-Four-Bee-Six-Eight-One.”
The red light above the panel switched to green, and the locks clicked, startling Joe. He hadn’t been confident the code would work; that it did confirmed his hope that Kit’s former employer, Cat, hadn’t returned
yet. Now that Kit was a disavowed Guildsman, Cat would change every security code at the Iron Guild’s headquarters as soon as she could to prevent him from accessing their resources. “It worked. I’m heading inside.”
“I have a full view of the building and the area around it. I can see anyone coming from two miles out,” Kit said.
Joe pressed the icon of a door displayed on the panel, and the door slid open. He stepped inside, and his crimson cape flitted in the breeze caused by the cooler air exiting the building. Bar lights and loud music came on, shattering the darkness, and he pulled out his blaster. He relaxed when he realized the lights and music were automated. He blinked while his helmet adjusted to the brightness, and holstered his blaster. Then he walked past the bar and weaved around tables on his way to the door on the other side of the private club. A glint caught his eye, and he stopped cold. His jaw slackened as he noticed the decoration illuminated by a spotlight. On the wall hung an exoshield, the same model as Joe’s, but this one had been shredded into one-inch strips. The callsign on the chest plate—TURBO—was barely legible on the ribbons of composite armor. To the left of the armor was a sign:
