Dead End (911 Book 2)

by Grace Hamilton

  “Talking with?” Sara laughed. “The squirrels, I guess, because I was picking berries.” She held out her basket as proof.

  Dexter eyed the basket and then took a drag off his cigarette, clearly unimpressed with the prop. “You think I’m deaf?”

  “I wish you were mute,” Sara replied.

  “I don’t know why you’re being such an uptight bitch.” Deter grinned, showing that his front two teeth were crammed together. “Usually, people are relaxed once they get laid. Maybe you need to try again.” He reached out to adjust his crotch, his grin broadening.

  Seizing on the social cue as cover, Sara scowled. “You’re a pig.” Pretending to be offended, she made to push past him.

  Dexter was having none of it; he grabbed her arm hard and jerked her back toward him. “I’m not through talking to you!” he said. The cigarette in the corner of his mouth bobbed wildly.

  She spun around and dropped her basket, spilling the berries as she slapped him hard across the face, leaving a reddened mark on his cheek. His head snapped to the side, and when he swung his face back around, his eyes burned with his rage.

  “Get your hands off me or I’ll tell Theo you tried to rape me,” she told him. She thought it was a good threat.

  “You really think Mr. Truesdale gives a damn about that? Think again, girlie. We’re all alone out here. Well, assuming whoever you were talking to has left.” He tightened his grip on her arm, and Sara knew from the feel of it that his grip would leave a bruise.

  “You’re hearing things, Dexter. Now, take your hand off me.” Dexter had the strength to back up any threats he made, and Sara knew she was screwed if he tried anything out here. She wasn’t strong enough to fight him off and she wasn’t about to be raped again. Out here, no one could hear her scream.

  “I know you weren’t alone, you little bitch,” he shot back. He shook her arm, making her flop back and forth with the force. “Now, who was it?”

  “Fuck off, Dexter. I already told you that you were hearing things.”

  Dexter jerked his arm back, throwing Sara off-balance so that she crashed into him as he glared down into her face. The cherry on his cigarette looked ready to fall and it occurred to her that it would burn her when it fell; she was that close to him.

  “Fuck off, Dexter?” His tone sounded venomous as he repeated her words. “Fuck off, Dexter?”

  Sara winced when his fingers dug painfully into her arm, but she refused to cry out.

  Lifting his head, Dexter looked down the path toward the center of the Vineyard and, from the look on his face, seemed satisfied that no one would hear them. “I think it’s time you were taught a lesson in manners, princess. No one speaks to me that way. No one.”

  He spit out his cigarette and ground it into the earth, giving Sara the distinct impression that he’d rather be doing that to her.

  Sara froze in his grip, her body rigid. Things had rapidly gone from bad to worse, and she wasn’t going to take it.

  With no more prompting, she stepped close and raked the nails of her free hand down Dexter’s face. She left bloody furrows across his skin and he spun away, crying out. Eloisa had told Sara when she gave it to her that the Glock 26 was such a small subcompact handgun that it had the nickname of “Baby Glock.” She put her hand in her jacket pocket and secured the little pistol. As Dexter turned back around, she fired twice from inside her pocket. The 9 mm rounds punched into Dexter’s narrow chest and cored through his heart. He staggered back, shock making his expression comical. Stumbling, he tried bringing his rifle into play.

  Sara knew what to do. Eloisa had told her. Two in the body, center mass, one in the head. Acting on automatic pilot, she pulled the gun out and put a third bullet of the 10-round magazine into Dexter’s forehead. The back of his head misted outward in a blood halo and the lanky section leader, already falling, went limp.

  Sara stood there for a moment, her arm still outstretched, gun hand rock steady. She blinked. Slowly, she lowered the Glock. Her chest hitched suddenly, and she started breathing again. Lowering the handgun, she hoped no one was close enough to realize the shots had come from so close to the property line. She tore her eyes from Dexter’s corpse and saw her overturned basket and the elderberries spilled across the path.

  She looked back over her shoulder in the direction of the vineyard grounds. Gunshots were loud even if they were muffled by the woods; it didn’t seem possible someone at the compound wouldn’t have heard. Dexter was a section leader, too; he’d be missed, quickly. Then there was the question of whether he’d grown suspicious all on his own, or if he’d been acting under orders because Truesdale himself was suspicious. Even if he hadn’t been acting on orders, others had seen her go into the woods. All things considered, everything would come back on her sooner rather than later.

  No matter what, her cover was blown. It was suicidal and idiotic for her to go back into the hands of the Church now. Her mother couldn’t protect her from Truesdale.

  She had to run, now, and maybe catch up to Eloisa if she could find her, or otherwise follow the plan they’d made if she were discovered and needed to run. It was the only thing that made sense.

  She scooped most of her berries back into the basket. Without any supplies on her, they would provide some much needed hydration until she could scavenge what she needed. Standing then, she realized her jacket had two bullet holes in the pocket. She took it off and waded it into a ball. She’d have to dump it somewhere along the way.

  12

  Manbun’s name was Frank, AR-guy’s name was Adam, and the fourth man was Gabe. As far as Parker could tell, Shitbird’s name was still Shitbird.

  After their ill-advised and prematurely aborted escape attempt, Adam had told the long gun shooter, Gabe, to help guard them. Now, Parker and Ava were simply digging. They dug through most of the day, growing weaker and wearier as they did. Parker’s body burned with fever as he fought his infection, and he frequently leaked blood.

  Minutes after Gabe had fired his warning shot, Adam and Frank had emerged from the woods behind the clearing. They’d looked over the scene curiously, pissed and hungover. They seemed to have more than enough meth to get them through the day, however.

  “What happened?” Adam had demanded.

  “They tried to jump me,” Shitbird replied. “But I saw through their bullshit. You get the other one?”

  Frank had shaken his head. “We saw some movement, but nothing we could work with. She’s probably hightailed it out of here by now. There’ll be others.” He’d grinned at Ava. “’Sides, this one looks strong enough to last for a while.”

  Adam had wandered over to Parker then and promptly kicked his wounded leg. Parker had barked in surprise at the sudden pain and crumpled to the ground.

  “Too bad I need a new shithole,” he’d told Parker. “Otherwise, I’d shoot you now.”

  The sun was a bright red smear by the time the gunmen were satisfied with the excavation. Marched back into the convenience store, Parker and Ava were given a bottle of water and an energy bar each. They ate in silence, giving in to their hunger and thirst while their captors drank warm beers. As soon as he’d had enough calories to begin thinking clearly, Parker started considering their options. The other woman was dead. The hole was dug. He was probably lucky they hadn’t executed him on the spot back in the clearing, too. He was idly wondering why they hadn’t when he noticed how intently Shitbird was staring at Ava.

  He cast about for anything to use as a weapon, but there was nothing in reach, and the gunman came to his decision before Parker could figure anything out. Mostly because there was nothing to figure out. They were almost completely helpless.

  “I think you had a pretty good idea back in the clearing,” Shitbird told Ava. “I did miss out on my turn last night. I think it’s about time you made up for that.”

  “Go fuck yourself,” Ava said.

  “That’s what we have you for,” Adam reminded her.

  Shitbird handed hi
s weapon to Frank, who looked mildly surprised at the kid’s assertiveness. Then amused.

  “I told you,” Shitbird yelled. “You call me, sir!”

  Reaching down, he snatched Ava up by the arm and tried hauling her to her feet. Ava thrashed, shaking him loose. Parker was slow and awkward in getting up because of his leg, and Gabe and Adam began kicking him before he’d fully risen. Their boots thudded into his body in a savage staccato rhythm punctuated by their mocking calls.

  Shitbird hauled Ava to her feet and punched her in the side of the head. Then he cocked back to punch her again, and Frank abruptly grabbed his wrist. Apparently, confused, Shitbird looked at the older man.

  “Quiet!” Frank ordered.

  The gunmen looked at him. Parker had heard it, too; the sound of an ATV engine.

  “That’s our shit,” Adam snapped. He turned on Gabe. “You’re supposed to be on guard!” he yelled.

  “I didn’t want to miss killing the nigger and getting some new pussy,” he protested.

  Frank was already on the move. “Come on A-bomb,” he told Adam as he thrust Shitbird’s rifle back into his hands. “You two guard them.”

  Adam and Frank ran out the front. Shitbird leveled his weapon at Parker and Ava even as Gabe stepped back from Parker and did the same. “If there’s real trouble,” Gabe said, “waste the nigger.”

  The windows on the front doors exploded inward and Gabe dropped. In the next instant, the crack of the gunshot reverberated through the room. Parker lunged forward landing next to Gabe, screaming as his infected wound pulled open yet again and blood rushed out. Shitbird turned and brought the rifle to his shoulder. Ava swung her arm back and then rammed her fist into his crotch, dropping him instantly.

  Gabe was down but not out, even with his side pumping far more blood than Parker’s leg, but his eyes gleamed red and glassy under the influence of the methamphetamine in his system. Rolling to his side, Parker grabbed the man’s weapon in one hand and threw a punch with his other.

  Gabe shrugged off that blow and two more after it. Struggling from his side position, Parker couldn’t get the leverage he needed to put some good English behind the strikes. Straining, he finally shoved himself into the man, trapping the weapon between them as they grappled. As frightened as he was and as desperate as the situation might be, Parker remained exhausted from fighting an infection while digging all day—the adrenaline wasn’t enough to counteract everything he’d been through. And he wasn’t Gabe’s equal in terms of strength. Gabe was well rested and fueled by speed; it was an uneven match. Suddenly, the man reached out and grabbed Parker by the back of his head and yanked him toward him. He struck out with his forehead as he did so, landing a headbutt on Parker that whacked him hard in the nose.

  An explosion of pain electrified Parker and he went blind for a moment, stunned. Gabe used the momentary lapse to wrap one leg around Parker’s and then push with his other. The world spun as Parker struggled to focus through the dull shock of the blow. In the next instant, Gabe was on top and Parker beneath him.

  A gunshot sounded close by, then another.

  Parker screamed out a purely animal sound of frenzy and rage. His hand came up and clawed Gabe’s face. Hot blood soaked through his shirt as he scratched his nails across the man’s eyes. Gabe lolled sideways easily under Parker’s strike and slumped to the floor.

  Parker rolled to his side and got to a knee, his chest heaving. Gabe’s eyes rolled and he gasped for breath, coughing up pink, frothy blood; a round had nicked his lung. Still breathing hard, Parker looked over at Ava.

  She stood with her feet apart, the Glock in her hand. Shitbird was dead at her feet, blood spreading out in a pool from beneath his dead body. The gun exploded again in her hand and the muzzle flashed. Parker winced in surprise at the shot, half expecting it to strike him. Instead, Gabe’s head jerked like a ball on a tether and a scrambled egg mess of brain matter splattered the floor.

  Parker looked back at Ava as she lowered the gun.

  “We’ve got to get out of here and find Finn,” Parker told her.

  Ava didn’t argue.

  13

  As Parker helped himself to the dead man’s weapon, the front door of the convenience store burst open and Frank rushed in.

  “Bitch has a gun!” he yelled. Seeing the muzzles of Ava and Parker’s weapons, he finished, “Oh, shit.”

  “Hey, Frank,” Parker said.

  He and Ava opened fire. Ava’s pistol barked repeatedly in Parker’s ear as she unloaded on their shocked captor. Frank staggered backward before he could fire back, shuddering under the impact. Rounds passing close by, or those passing through him, shattered what was left of the glass in the door. He went over backward, blood soaking the front of his clothes even as he flopped down in the detritus and broken glass.

  Parker, in pain and fighting the infection fever, but finally clear of his self-medications for the first time in a while, slackened his finger from the trigger. Across the room, Ava continued pulling her own trigger. The magazine in the pistol was empty, though, and her handgun dry-fired in a series of whispery, mechanical clicks.

  “Ava,” he said.

  She looked at him, blinked, and then dropped the empty pistol and bent to scoop up the blood-smeared rifle out of Shitbird’s dead hands. Outside, a pistol cracked several times, and was followed by answering fire.

  Creeping forward and keeping low, Parker approached the door of the convenience store without silhouetting himself and tried to get a peek at what was going on outside. Adam, the AR-guy, cut loose with his aim on a drainage ditch across the road, where Parker guessed the other shooter had to be hiding. Fifty yards up the road, Parker could see three more men in civilian clothes with a motley assortment of weapons advancing forward from a knot of parked ATVs. Realizing the person pinned down in the ditch could only be Finn, Parker pushed himself to his feet, backing away from the door.

  “Get to the left side of the door; don’t expose yourself,” he told Ava. “Use that rifle to fire at that Adam fucker from the diagonal angle. Use trigger control; you don’t need to hit him—only get his attention.”

  “What are you doing?” Ava demanded. She still doubted him, Parker realized. He fought down the surge of frustrated anger that welled up inside him in reaction. She has reason, he admitted to himself mentally. Aloud, he said, “Flanking. So for God’s sake, when I yell, you stop firing in that direction.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then you start firing at all of Adam’s friends coming right down the road.”

  “Got it.”

  Her voice was matter-of-fact, but Parker still checked for some sign of the girl that had gone catatonic and been firing blindly at a dead man, if only for seconds. Ava met his eyes with a look of defiance. Her fighting spirit wasn’t in question, he decided.

  “Do it,” he said.

  He turned as she went to her belly, using part of Frank’s body as cover. As he made his way out through the back door, he heard her open fire. He had to move quickly, and the stench of the open garbage hit him at the same time as the sun’s glare. He moved through the door, searching for any surprises. Not finding any, he briefly considered climbing to the roof to command the high ground, but decided he couldn’t trust his leg. Using the pain to keep him sharp, he moved quickly around the side of the building. The sound of the AR rattling off long chains of shots cracked and echoed as he got closer. The pain in his leg was making him nauseated and he had to slow his hobbling run and fall into a toe-heel cadence, his weapon up. Bent at the waist, he floated out from the edge of the corner—“slicing the pie,” instead of attempting to corner and snap aim.

  Adam appeared in his sights, turned ninety degrees to him and returning fire on Ava. “On target!” Parker shouted as loud as he could.

  He shot twice then, moved forward, shot twice more, moved forward, shot, and then came up next to the body and found cover. His five rounds from point-blank range punched into the man, scrambling organs and
spilling blood in a high-velocity firestorm.

  “He’s down!” Parker shouted.

  He snatched up Adam’s AR and began firing toward the three gunmen advancing on the person pinned down in the ditch. The crack of the Armalite’s burning rounds in suppressive fire echoed sharply off the storefront. Sweeping the muzzle back and forth, Parker rode out the recoil, shell casings tumbling out in spinning arcs of brass to litter the ground at his feet.

  On the road, the three men broke apart and sprinted for cover. Ava fired out the front of the store, adding her fire to his. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure crawl up out of the roadside ditch and start running toward them.

  Finn.

  “Finn on your left!” he yelled at Ava.

  Down the road, two of the three men were huddled in the dubious protection of a stalled vehicle while the third peeled off and began running for the crest of a small hill. Finn made the parking lot of the convenience store and Parker peeled off from his position, collapsing back to the store.

  “We’re coming in!” he shouted.

  Ava stopped firing immediately. Moving in front of the door, he lifted the AR and fired twice back toward the road as Finn darted past him and into the store. Up the hill, the men returned fire, but their shots were far off target, skewed as they were by the adrenaline of the moment and the surprise of the sudden fire.

  Parker came into the store and went to the floor to avoid stray rounds. “Nice to see you, Finn,” he wheezed out.

  Finn was having none of it. “Why the hell did you wave me off back in the clearing?” she demanded. “I could have taken that guy. You still don’t trust me?”

  Parker shook his head. “I didn’t know where the others were,” he said. “I thought they were maybe lying in wait or searching to see if you were still hanging around. I wanted to try and take our guard quietly.” He paused. “It didn’t work.”

  Bullets struck the front of the store.

  “They’re trying to maneuver in,” Ava said. She fired three times in a row.