by Dahlia West
Hook and Red argued about the rest of the club members. Who would stay, who’d get kicked to the curb. The fewer men left, the bigger the cut, they decided. They were too busy to care what happened to Jack now.
“Move,” Haze ordered and shoved Jack forward just as he staggered to his feet, causing him to stumble but not lose his footing. The distance between them was too far to go for the Glock and getting wider with every step as they headed closer to the Badlands.
Jack was heading straight for an arroyo just a few feet ahead. When he reached it, he decided he’d turn, make one last play for survival. Once he got the gun away from Haze, though, he couldn’t head back toward the road. Hook and Red were there. He’d have to head into the canyons, draw them in, and hunt them down. They’d probably follow him. Not Haze, though. Jack could make sure of that. He’d pump one bullet into the man, to save on ammunition, right between the eyes. Then he’d run like hell.
Before Jack could pivot, a shot rang out and fire ripped through his left arm. He felt Haze’s heavy boot on the back of his knee as he pitched forward and tumbled down into the rut.
He cried out and gripped his arm to stop the flow of blood there. Pressing down hard, he rolled to his back and looked up at the dark shape of the man looming over him at the edge of the ditch.
Haze raised the gun and aimed it down into the hole, down at Jack.
Once again, Jack felt nothing…well…other than blind rage at the men who’d betrayed him. Once more looking into the barrel of a gun, Jack didn’t feel panicked. But he didn’t feel curious this time, either. This time, he knew he was going to die. He squeezed his arm, feeling blood seep through his fingers.
Jack looked up at Haze defiantly, spitting blood onto the ground. “See you on the other side,” he growled. “Bitch.”
Haze said nothing, only squeezing the trigger a second time.
The report of the gun echoed off the canyon walls around them. A chunk of dirt and rock exploded right next to Jack’s head. It was on the tip of Jack’s tongue to laugh and tell the motherfucker that he’d missed, but even in the moonlight Jack could see enough of Haze’s face to realize the man…hadn’t.
“Don’t come back to Rapid City,” Haze said quietly. In the relative still of midnight, his voice seemed to boom as loudly as the gunshot, but Jack understood that no one else had heard him.
There was a crunch of boots and pebbles spilled down the side of the arroyo and onto Jack’s dirty, black leather jacket as Haze turned and walked away.
Jack wanted to fight, wanted to roar and bellow, and demand that Haze come back and try to finish the job. Jack wouldn’t let him, though. He’d get up out of this ditch, take a swing at Haze with his bare knuckles and he wouldn’t stop until the pussy was good and fucking dead. Then he’d take Haze’s gun, draw the other into the Badlands and finish them off, saving Hook for last.
The mental image of Hook lying bleeding and broken on the ground was immensely satisfying. But as he strained to lift his head from the dirt, it was all too clear to Jack that he was the one who’d been left beaten. He checked his arm and found that Haze had only grazed him. It was bleeding but not badly. Still hurt like hell, though.
He tried to push himself up, but his hands slipped on the loose earth. His head fell back again and fire raged in his gut from the tire iron’s unyielding blows. The last thing Jack saw was the moon, that tiny sliver, nearly fading into the black night that surrounded it. Then Jack himself finally let go and closed his eyes, giving in to his own encroaching darkness.
Chapter Six
‡
Erin awoke early, just before Julio the rooster started nagging her, and practically jumped out of bed. She was eager to get started with King as soon as possible. She threw on a fresh pair of jeans and her boots and skipped breakfast altogether as she banged through the kitchen’s screen door and headed across the front yard.
Her head was buzzing with the training regimen she’d put together. She wanted to do a first-day assessment so she’d need to set up the video camera in the small round pen. She could skip the weights for now, she figured, and try to use them tomorrow.
Erin grabbed the handle of the large barn door and tugged it open, just enough so she could fit through. She paused, though, frowning as she stepped inside.
Hank was standing in front of King’s stall with his hand on the latch.
“What are you doing?” she asked him, striding forward.
Hank jumped and then shrugged casually. “Nothing,” he replied smoothly. “He’s kicked a few of the boards loose in the corner there. I was just going to see how bad it is.”
As if for emphasis, King’s hoof shot out and hit the wall behind him. Hank would have to be insane to go in there. Insane…or drunk.
Erin was about to point out how dangerous it was to go near a stallion, when she spotted a bulge in Hank’s jeans.
“What’s in your pocket?” she asked.
It wasn’t big enough to be an apple. And Hank would have to be rip-roaring drunk to think he could hand feed King, anyway.
Erin stepped closer, sniffing the air for alcohol.
Hank turned on her with a lascivious grin. “Maybe you want to reach inside, find out for yourself.” He grabbed her by the upper arms and pushed her against the stall.
Behind them, King snorted and kicked the wall again furiously.
“Or…” said Hank, “I could do all the work. And you could just stand there. Like a good little mare.”
His voice had turned hard and sharp on that last part.
Erin was pretty certain he was describing his view of the way things were at Thunder Ridge. And if he was, screw him! She wasn’t just standing around! She was working her ass off, doing her job, and she paid Hank to do the rest. That was his job. And she resisted the urge to point out that he wasn’t very fucking good at it.
There were a lot of things she’d like to say to him right now. Starting with the fact that he needed to get his hands off her. But the bottom line was, she wanted to know what he’d been doing at King’s stall gate.
And what was in his pocket.
Erin pushed on his chest and eyed his bulging pants meaningfully. “Seriously, Hank,” she demanded, letting him know that she wasn’t the least bit distracted by this sexually charged bullshit he was spewing. “What is that?”
“Nothing,” he snapped and let her go. He started to turn away, but Erin reached out, snagged the edge of the pocket, and yanked hard.
His jeans were old. Not just faded but wash-worn as well. Erin pulled as hard as she could and the sharp rip of the denim echoed off the barn’s walls.
“Hey!” he bellowed and gave her a shove.
Erin stumbled back against the half wall of the stall. Her eyes probably bulged as large as Hank’s pocket had just seconds before. Lying on the dirt floor of the stall was a small ping pong ball, slightly dented now. And though the tiny object was white, all Erin saw was red. “YOU SON OF A BITCH!” she screamed as she launched herself at him.
She shoved him hard and did manage to knock him off balance. Hank went down on one knee, hands scrabbling in the dirt to keep himself off the ground. He rallied, though, a little too quickly, and sprang upward, hitting Erin full force at her thighs.
She fell backward as Hank struggled to keep his foothold. For a moment, she thought he’d come to his senses, but he seemed to have snapped and he lunged for her again.
Erin pushed herself away, out of his reach, and jumped to her feet. She reeled away, gaze falling on the latch to King’s stall. In three strides, she reached it and clawed at it. Her fingers finally slid the heavy gauge steel bolt aside and she flung the door open.
Two thousand pounds of muscled horseflesh surged out into the walkway. Erin backed up, pressing herself against the far wall, making herself as flat as possible. She knew better than to come between the stallion and the man he clearly loathed. With good reason, apparently.
Hank’s eyes widened and something between a sc
ream and a roar tore from the large man’s throat. He spun away, abandoning his pursuit of Erin, and sprinted for the barn door. Erin had left it slightly ajar and he managed to squeeze through it, though just barely. The fabric of his shirt caught on the metal trim and that ripped, too, to match his jeans. He might have caught some skin, as well, because he made another animal-like noise as he yanked his arm free.
Erin couldn’t tell if he was actually hurt or just afraid that he would be.
He disappeared through the open door just as King got there. The horse kicked the door angrily, apparently pissed off to have missed Hank by mere inches. He pivoted, shoulder brushing the large wooden door. It rattled on its hinges.
Erin’s heart dropped to her stomach and she cast about wildly for a way to protect herself. She spotted the pitchfork hanging on the wall just a few feet away and lunged for it.
King matched her movements, surging toward her.
She made it to the wall, fingers grasping at the rough, wooden handle. She yanked hard, pulling it off the hook. “That’s enough!” she cried, brandishing the tines at him.
King stopped short and took a step back. He snorted and tossed his head as he glared at her underneath thick eyelashes.
“Just relax,” Erin ordered in a calmer voice. She was breathing as hard as he was and the pitchfork wavered in her hands. “Easy now. He’s gone. You’re okay. We’re okay. Easy now.”
King stomped his hoof in protest and Erin jumped at the sound. But he gave one final snort and moved away, toward Bee’s stall again. He didn’t kick at the door but rattled it with his muzzle.
Bee nickered again.
Erin quickly leaned the pitchfork against the wall and moved toward King, steering well away from his deadly back legs. She didn’t dare risk a horse fight. Bee would clearly lose to the much larger male. King would kill her, and Erin couldn’t bear to watch that. She opened King’s stall door wide and snapped her fingers.
“Hey,” she called. “Hey! Come on now.”
She didn’t expect him to come—after all, he wasn’t a dog, but she did manage to get his attention. He swung around to look at her. Cautiously but purposefully, she moved toward his head. She reached up, snagged the halter, and tugged on it gently but firmly.
“Come on,” she repeated.
King snorted.
“King,” she replied, her tone a bit sharper. “Let’s go.”
King had either tired himself out or wasn’t quite as interested in killing Bee and Erin as he had been in Hank. He gave Erin one final, irritated head toss and lumbered back into his stall.
As he walked past her, she was relieved to see he wasn’t limping. That, at least, was something to be happy about. She swung the stall door closed and latched it securely. In all the chaos, she hadn’t heard Hank’s truck start, hadn’t noticed for sure if he’d gone. She crept to the half-open door and peered out.
She sighed in relief to see the truck was gone. Dust still hung in the air from where he’d clearly peeled out. His tires had left deep tracks in the driveway. Erin opened the door a bit wider and sighed again, this time in annoyance. “Well,” she said to the horses behind her, “guess it’s just us now.”
Neither of her equine companions had any response to that. Erin figured it was just as well. There didn’t seem to be much more to say anyway.
Chapter Seven
‡
Jack awoke when the first few drops of rain hit him in the face. It made him flinch, like Hook was back with the tire iron. Even that slight bit of movement made his entire body ache. His eyes fluttered open and a clouded sky formed above him. The drops came faster, sounding hollow on the leather of his jacket.
He tried to sit up, failed, and rolled to one side so he could push with his hands. Lightning lit up the ditch and he looked around for any shadows, any shapes that were even vaguely human.
Nothing.
He was alone.
His fingers dug into the dampened earth as he drew himself to his feet. He didn’t know how long the storm had been in its approach, but it was here now, full in its force, raging above him. He had to get out of the arroyo—fast—before it filled up. Flash flooding was always a problem this time of year.
He fell only a few times before coming up to solid ground. Scanning the area, he saw no bikes, no trucks, no vehicles of any kind. Heading cautiously toward the road, he stopped at the edge of the asphalt and looked both ways.
No cars were traveling in this mess, either.
He slitted his eyes and tried to make out the glow of Rapid City, somewhere in the distance. But wherever he was, he was too far away to see it.
The highway sign a few feet away told him that left was North, which was probably the wrong direction, but it also advertised a campground a half mile down the road. He set off on foot as quickly as he could manage.
Ducking down behind some boulders half an hour later, he scoped out the tiny lot where people parked and carried their gear into the canyons on foot. There were only three vehicles—two cars and one truck.
Jack crept up to the truck and tested its driver’s side door.
Unlocked.
He slipped into the cab and shut the door, trying to time it with the sound of thunder rolling overhead, and dousing the light so it couldn’t be seen from anyone out in the wilderness.
He checked the glove box and the console. No gun, unfortunately, but there was a small Maglite. He sighed heavily and wondered if his luck had run out even though he was somehow still alive. He pulled the plastic cover off the dashboard down low, toward the pedals, and inspected the wires.
The tiny circle of light from the flashlight wasn’t much, but it was more than he needed. Hook must have checked his pockets (though the motherfucker hadn’t thought to check Jack’s boots—dumbass). He’d taken Jack’s switchblade, but the owner of the Chevy had a small pen knife in the cup holder.
Jack sawed the wires, gritting his teeth impatiently, and stripped the rubber coating off the newly-exposed ends. He chose the longest one and tapped the copper frays to each of the exposed ends, working methodically through the coiled bunch. Third time was the charm and the truck’s engine chugged to life.
He sat up straight, tossing the flashlight, and put the truck in gear almost immediately. He shot out of the lot, not barking the tires, but making as clean a getaway as he could in case anyone heard the engine and came to check it out.
He checked the rearview nervously, but no headlights caught up with him.
At the nearest intersection, he finally let out a long breath and sagged back into the driver’s seat. This sign said Rapid City was 58 miles to the right. Fifty-eight miles. It seemed so much farther than that.
Jack tested his left arm, trying to lift it. The pain in his side hindered every little movement. His ribs were broken; no doubt about it. Breathing felt like an elephant was sitting on his chest. He had nowhere to go, no one to trust.
Lightning flashed again and a long sluice of water rose up over the edge of the highway and raced down the shiny black pavement.
Much as he might want to, Jack wasn’t getting his revenge tonight. Scratch had sought revenge, gone off half-cocked with a shitty plan and zero backup, and never walked right again because of it.
Jack wouldn’t make the same mistake.
With burning reluctance, he turned the wheel left, away from the city, and put his foot on the gas.
The road seemed okay and visibility wasn’t too bad. The steady hum of the tires lulled him into relaxing a bit. The duct tape in his boot scratched his ankle a bit, but Jack didn’t mind. Not a bit.
Despite his present circumstances, he smiled as he thought of Hook opening the bus station locker and finding a whole lot of nothing. Considering it was his own men who’d turned on him, and thus deserving of a fate even worse than that, Jack found himself wishing he’d left a paper bag full of dog shit or a used condom inside, just to fuck with them. Either that or one of those exploding bank dye packs, exposing their mi
sdeeds to anyone who looked at them.
Better scenarios, more sinister ones, played out in his mind as he drifted down the highway. A pipe bomb, acid, maybe the plague. The better part of an hour passed before the truck gave a little jolt, then another, then began to sputter. Jack tapped the glass dial on the dashboard and the needle went from a quarter tank to just below ‘E.’ “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, pulling the wheel to the right.
He used the last of the fumes to park it in a copse of trees, several hundred feet off the road. With the engine off and the lights extinguished, it was all but invisible in the darkness. He wiped down the interior cab with the hem of his T-shirt.
Leaving the stolen vehicle behind, he stepped out from the cover of the trees and onto the shoulder of the road. Rain pelted him from above, slow but steady. He zipped up his jacket against it and started to walk.
He’d much prefer spending the night in the dry cab of the Chevy, but highway patrol would be out looking for it, if they weren’t already, and Jack needed to put as much distance between himself and a grand theft auto charge as possible.
It was hard not to be bitter as he shuffled along the side of the road, getting farther and farther away from home. Looming up ahead, across the two-lane highway, a wooden arch proudly proclaimed that spot the “Twisted W.” Jack stopped and peered through the darkness and down the long driveway.
There were several outbuildings, a barn and a house, too. A few trucks were parked in a semi-circle in front of the house. Jack wrinkled his nose. Too many people, who’d ask too many questions if he stopped and asked for a lift back to Rapid City.
He could maybe boost another truck, but he wouldn’t get too far, he figured. Not with all of them parked so close to the house.
