The Silent Order

by Melanie Dobson

  “You should have gone into law enforcement,” Lance grinned. “Oh, wait…”

  They came to another crossroad, and Lance closed his eyes, smelling the air again. “We need to go right this time.”

  The sun dipped toward the horizon behind them. As long as they were going north, toward a phone, and then back to Cleveland, Rollin was happy. He shouldn’t have brought Lance down here without more information about where they needed to search.

  Lance stretched his neck. “You don’t think Mazie will ditch me tomorrow, do you?”

  “Mazie’d be crazy to ditch you.”

  “She is crazy.”

  “All women are.”

  Lance shook his head, his voice as serious as Rollin had ever heard. “My mother isn’t crazy.”

  “Then you are a lucky man.”

  They came to another crossroad, and as they passed through it, Rollin saw telephone poles leading up a long driveway.

  “Maybe they’ll let me use their telephone,” he said.

  Lance turned right and the lane narrowed as they sped up the driveway. On one side of the drive was a flat field and on the other was a dark forest.

  “Slow down,” Rollin said as they bumped over the rocks.

  “This ain’t no buggy—” The last word hung on Lance’s lips.

  A black Lincoln crept out of a clearing in the forest and blocked the road.

  Rollin stared at the sedan in front of them. “And neither is that.”

  Lance stopped the car as Rollin edged his pistol out of the holster and held it beside him.

  “What do we do?” Lance asked, his fingers clenched around the steering wheel.

  Rollin glanced behind them. “You slowly back down the driveway and then take off.”

  Lance slid the gear into reverse as Rollin squinted at the window in the Lincoln to see the driver, but all he could see was a man with a hat pulled low over his forehead.

  These guys didn’t know they were detectives. If necessary, he and Lance could take them down, but perhaps the men would let them go without a fight. Then tomorrow he and Lance would return with backup.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw another flash in front of them as a second Lincoln crawled out of the trees.

  “Not good.” Lance’s voice shook, but his foot was steady on the accelerator, inching the coupe away from the bigger cars.

  The passenger window of the second Lincoln rolled down. Rollin saw a flash of metal at first, and then the barrel of a Tommy gun edged over the windowsill.

  “Get us out of here,” Rollin ordered.

  Lance punched the accelerator, and the coupe jerked backward.

  CHAPTER 7

  Dust plumed across the cornfield like the funnel of a tornado, and tires churned on the gravel road. Her fingers entwined around Prince’s reins, Katie Lehman rolled her eyes.

  Stupid Englishers.

  Simple consideration dictated that those who visited these quiet hills would remain quiet as well, but instead of respecting those who were trying to live a secluded life away from radios and automobiles, these Englishers blasted their radios and tore up the country roads with their machines.

  All her community asked was to live separately from the modern world, in peace and isolation. Yet the hoch Leit—high people—insisted on bringing the world to them. It was almost like they had to muddy these tranquil hills with their own religion of idolatry, including possessions like bright blue cars wrapped in gleaming silver chrome. Frivolous and way too fast.

  Beside her, Henry watched the dust cloud with wide eyes. “What are they doing?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Some Englishers are playing with their toys.”

  “Do you think it’s the men in the blue automobile?”

  “Probably.” She glanced at him, and fear washed over her again at her son’s fascination with the machine.

  A horn blasted across the field, and she groaned. Most men in the outside world never seemed to grow up. They bought their roadsters as soon as they could afford them, revved their engines, skidded on their tires. The years passed, but they never matured. Instead all this frivolity was somehow supposed to make them men, like money and speed equated respect and power. It was a lie, and their mothers should have told them this before they were Henry’s age.

  One automobile or ten of them did not make a man powerful. A man of true power was a man of character, built piece by piece like the slow, deliberate raising of a pole barn. Every beam, every nail, had to be hammered into the right place for the building to withstand the elements that would surely plague the structure over the years. A few missing planks, a handful of forgotten nails, and the entire barn would be useless in the wind and snow and rain. Eventually the building would collapse on itself, just like most men collapsed under the pressure when the storms of life hit.

  “How fast do you think it goes?” Henry asked.

  She let go of the rein to rumple his hair. “A fast automobile does not make an honorable man.”

  “Faster than a whole team of horses?”

  Isaac had talked to Henry on occasion about the worldly machines, but her son never seemed to listen. She needed help from another man. A younger man like Jonas. “Maybe you and Jonas could talk about automobiles today.”

  His eyes shone again. “Do you think he would?”

  She secured the reins in both hands. “I’m sure he would talk with you about whatever you’d like.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “Can I drive Prince?”

  “Not today.”

  “Jonas lets me drive his horses.”

  She took a deep breath. “You like Jonas, don’t you?”

  She felt his eyes on her, but she didn’t look at him. “Why, Mamm?”

  “Jonas and I…” she hesitated. “We have things we must discuss today.”

  “Lucas says you are going to marry Jonas, but I like living with Isaac and Erma.”

  “I do too, Henry,” she said. “But it is good for boys to have a father as well as a mother.”

  When he didn’t respond, she took a deep breath. “Do you want a father, Henry?”

  He shrugged. “Ya, I suppose so.”

  “Would you like Jonas to be your father?”

  It was like he didn’t hear her. “I want a father with a red automobile.”

  How was she supposed to convince her son he could respect a man who drove a buggy as much as he respected those who drove automobiles?

  As the road curved, she saw the lane cut between two cornfields that led to the Yoders’ home. Ruth Yoder spent hours in her summer kitchen this time of year, perfecting her recipes for pies and cookies. People traveled across the county to purchase them from the shops a mile north in Sugarcreek.

  Henry reached over and tugged on her arm. “Can we go see Ruth?”

  Even though Henry wasn’t her kin, Ruth spoiled him like she did every one of her dozen-plus grandchildren. Love seemed to pour out of her heart like April rain, and Henry never turned down the woman’s hugs or her treats.

  “Please, Mamm.”

  “Not today.” Their cart rolled past the path. “The Yoders are preparing for the church service tomorrow.”

  Henry’s lower lip slipped out almost as far as his chest had earlier. “Prince is hungry.”

  She eyed the chestnut gelding that pulled their rig. “He doesn’t seem very hungry to me.”

  “He could eat five pounds of oats.” Henry rubbed his own stomach. “And so could I.”

  Her eyebrows climbed. “Oatmeal cookies, you mean.”

  “Even better,” he said with a grin.

  Ahead of them was another crossroads with trees and thick foliage that trimmed the edge of the Yoders’ cornfield. The road to the left went toward the Village of Sugarcreek, but Jonas’s home was straight.

  She wiped the beading sweat off her forehead with the back of her arm.

  Jonas didn’t own a blue automobile nor was he attracted to the many temptations and distractions offered by
the world. Today she would offer her past and her future to Jonas, and if he would have her, she would accept with gratefulness and grace, like she should have done a long time ago.

  Katie glanced both ways at the crossroads and clicked her tongue for Prince to cross, but the moment her horse stepped into the intersection, tires squealed on the road to their left. Prince flung back his head, stepped sideways in his traces, and Henry hollered as the horse jostled the cart, gripping the seat beside her as Katie yanked back the reins, trying to steady the horse.

  What were the Englishers doing now?

  Turning her head, she saw a flash of blue race toward her. The automobile.

  She jerked Prince toward the side of the road, clutching the reins as the machine flew past them. Dust flooded over them, and Henry coughed, struggling for air. She lifted the reins to urge Prince across the road, away from the particles of dirt, but before Prince took a step, a streak of black raced by them, followed by another car.

  Katie stared at the road in front of them. If Prince had stepped forward, the automobiles would have hit her horse and maybe even killed her son.

  Killed her son.

  She shook her head, shaking herself free from the memories. She had to protect Henry, had to get them both away, but the reins felt like slivers of ice, frozen to her hands. Who were these people and what did they want?

  Her eyes on the road ahead, she lifted her hands to move the horse forward to cross the street toward Jonas’s home, but then began wondering if she shouldn’t go back instead. Forward. Backward. The decision was simple yet she couldn’t seem to make it.

  “Mamm,” Henry whispered.

  “Ya?”

  “We should go to Ruth’s house.”

  In the distance, an explosion blasted through the silence and then another boom.

  It was a gun.

  Henry squeezed close to her side, and she whipped the reins, pushing Prince to turn back toward the path.

  Another shot blasted across the field, and she prayed as Prince raced toward Ruth’s home. Prayed that the men hadn’t seen their buggy. If they had, she had no doubt they’d want to eliminate any witnesses to their crime.

  She clicked her tongue and Prince cantered toward the Yoders’ driveway.

  She didn’t know what kind of hell these Englishers had brought to their county, but she wasn’t going to let them get close to her son.

  *

  The oval window in the rear shattered, but Rollin didn’t turn around. He hated playing cat and mouse—especially when he was the mouse—but these guys refused to relent. Whoever was chasing them wanted them dead.

  “Keep her steady,” Rollin muttered, his head ducked behind the seat.

  Lance didn’t respond, but his knuckles were seared white against the steering wheel, his eyes locked on the road. All joviality was erased from his face.

  In that moment, Rollin was sincerely glad Lance was his partner. If nothing else, the kid was a good driver.

  Another blast slammed into the car, but the Lincolns weren’t getting any closer. He glanced over at the gas gauge. A half tank left. Hopefully the guys chasing them were closer to empty.

  Rollin slid his pistol back into his holster and reached over the seat for his shotgun. Glass shards sliced his fingers as he pulled the gun to the front seat, but he didn’t feel any pain. Ducking, he loaded two shells and locked it. Then he lifted his head again to face their attackers.

  The man riding in the passenger seat edged his gun out the window again, but before he shot, Rollin pulled his trigger. The gun kicked back against Rollin’s shoulder, the blast reverberating in his ear, but he switched barrels and shot again.

  The Lincoln swerved behind them, but the shots didn’t stop them. Another gun blast, and Lance swerved left and then back to the right like he could dodge the bullets. The sedan was only twenty feet behind them now. The hat had blown off the gunman, and his greasy black hair whipped in the wind. Rollin recognized his face. Nico Sansone, one of the Cardano family henchmen.

  “Go faster,” Rollin shouted over the roar of the engines.

  “My foot’s on the floor.”

  “Faster, Lance.” As they started to climb another hill, the automobile behind them edged to the left. “They’re going to ram us.”

  Lance jerked the wheel left. “No, they’re not.”

  Rollin banged his head on the ceiling again as the coupe went airborne, launching over the hill. Time seemed to stop as the auto flew through the air, wind whistling through the window.

  “God help us,” Lance murmured.

  Rollin braced himself for the landing. Was this it? Thirty-one years gone in a flash. He wasn’t like Lance—so full of life and hope for the future. Lance had a dame. And a mother.

  No one would miss Rollin, but Lance was too young to die.

  The car hit the road, and Lance battled the spinning wheel. Rollin held one hand on the door, the other secured against the dashboard. He didn’t know where his gun was nor did he know what had happened to the men pursuing them.

  The car skidded across the dirt, Lance pressing down on the brake.

  “Don’t stop,” Rollin commanded, but Lance didn’t seem to hear him.

  With one hand, Rollin searched the seat for his shotgun, but couldn’t find it. His hand flew to his holster; his Colt was still there. He secured it with both hands as they plowed over a bank, toward a cornfield.

  Metal crunched under them, and the coupe stopped with a terrible jolt. The tires hung on the bank of a ditch. Lance hit the accelerator, and the engine roared back at them, but the car didn’t move.

  Another gunshot exploded behind them, and when Rollin turned around, both sedans slammed on their brakes, blocking them. Steam poured out of the engine, and when Rollin met Lance’s eyes, the horror was palpable. His partner was about to lose it.

  Rollin propped open his door. “We can take them.”

  “No, we can’t.”

  With a quick swipe over the floor, he found the shotgun and shoved it into Lance’s hands. “Yes, we can.”

  A door slammed behind them, and Rollin kicked open his door. Nico Sansone climbed out of the front car, a sawed-off shotgun propped under his arm. Rollin shot twice, but Nico ducked behind the vehicle.

  The other men got out of the cars, all of them wearing dark jackets and hats. One bent down and began inching toward Lance’s open window. Lance didn’t shoot at him.

  “C’mon,” Rollin growled.

  The seconds dragged, the man creeping closer to Lance’s door, but his partner didn’t fire.

  “You’ve got to fight,” Rollin demanded. “We’ll take them together.”

  Lance kicked open his door and Rollin groaned. If his partner ran for the cornfield, it would be almost impossible for Rollin to take down all four gangsters with his pistol.

  Rollin slipped out his door and backed toward the engine of their coupe, expecting to see Lance hightailing it toward the tall stalks. Instead, his partner snuck up beside him, his gun facing the men. “Are we gonna fight, boss?”

  “We don’t have a choice.”

  “All right.”

  Lance lifted his shotgun and fired. The man in the black coat keeled over.

  “Nice shot,” Rollin muttered.

  Nico and another man crept toward them, close to the ground, and Lance reloaded his gun to shoot again. They were two against three now. Two shotguns against one. Their assailants were burly, but Rollin was street smart and as long as Lance stayed focused, they could take their opponents down.

  Bullets pinged off their car, whizzed over their heads. Lance kept shooting, ducking to reload, and then shooting again. Rollin looked over the roof, and the men were close enough now to use his pistol, but they were hiding behind the Chevy.

  Lance stepped out from behind the car, aiming ahead with his gun. A shot rang out, and Rollin thought he’d unloaded the gun, but when he turned, Lance was on the ground.

  His partner met his eye. “Get outta here.”


  Another gunshot blasted as he crawled to his partner. Blood spread across Lance’s chest, and Rollin swore.

  “I’m not leaving you,” he said.

  Rollin glanced up and saw Nico peeking out from the side of the automobile. He picked the shotgun off the ground and shot it. The gangster disappeared behind the car.

  Lance reached up, grasping at Rollin’s collar. “You can’t fight them by yourself.”

  “Yes, I can,” he started, but something hit his shoulder, pain searing his arm.

  Lance coughed. “Run, Rollin.”

  “I can’t.”

  Lance pushed him away, his eyes closing. “You’ll find them later, boss.”

  “Lance…”

  Lance opened his eyes again, intent. “Run!”

  Clutching his shoulder, Rollin glanced over at the cornfield and then back at his partner. Lance had closed his eyes, his chest bathed in red.

  These men would pay for what they’d done.

  CHAPTER 8

  Cornstalks slapped Rollin’s face as he sprinted through the field, guns popping like firecrackers behind him, but he didn’t turn around. The men wanted nothing less than his life, and he wouldn’t give it to them without a fight. He pressed his hand to his shoulder, the buckshot burning his skin. The flamethrowers never stopped him before and the fire wouldn’t stop him now.

  An ear of corn pounded his arm, and the pain raged through his arm and chest, but he didn’t stop running. Acre after acre.

  He should be the one lying at the edge of the cornfield. Not Lance. He should have protected his partner.

  Another gun blasted behind him, but the sound was muted now. Farther away. His mind raced almost as fast as his legs.

  Why had Cardano’s men killed Lance? And why did they want Rollin dead?

  He never should have talked Lance into coming to Sugarcreek, not until he was sure about the odds they were playing against. He always pushed too hard. Risked too much. And now his risk had ended Lance’s life.

  He should have waited until he had more information. Until he could contact Malloy and tell the captain they were coming here today. Now he was out here in the middle of nowhere with no one to back him up. And the only one who knew where they had gone was a librarian.