"Where's my mama?” the boy asked.
"I ain’t got time for your damn questions," Paul snapped. Catching himself, he realized he needed to take a different tone if he expected this boy to be cooperative.
He looked back behind him and saw the boy pouting as he shuffled along, kicking at rocks. Paul stopped in the road and waited for the boy to catch up with him. He tried to adopt a friendlier manner, but it wasn't his thing. He wasn’t a nice, kind person. He tried to remember situations where he’d seen people be nice before. Maybe he could fake it.
"You mother got shot, Dylan. Those people up at the house hurt her. They’ve fooled you into thinking they’re nice but they’re really not. I managed to drag her off and keep her alive but she's hurt real bad. I can't remember exactly how far it is so we'll just have to keep walking until we get there. Okay?"
The boy appeared satisfied with that and walked alongside Paul for a while. Then the physical proximity seemed to make the boy uncomfortable. He slowed down and allowed some distance to build between them. Paul was okay with that. He hated kids.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Hardwick Farm
Teresa had just gotten to the house as Grace was firing at Paul.
“I’m going after him!” Grace yelled.
"Leave him! You help Mrs. Brown into the house. I'm going to check on the kids."
Grace was hesitant to leave an armed attacker alive on their property. It went against everything she knew. She had him on the run and she should have finished it. Giving him time would only allow him to strategize and come back when it was advantageous to him. Still, she did as her mother asked.
She peeled off the corner of the house and ran back. Mrs. Brown was still struggling to make it across the yard. She'd started strong but was losing steam. She was limping and holding her broken arm.
"Keep going!" Grace said, trying to watch all directions at once, not knowing if the man was coming back to reignite the fight.
She realized that Mrs. Brown needed assistance or she’d never make it inside. Grace ran across the yard to meet her and wrapped an arm around her. She allowed her AR pistol to dangle from its sling and drew her Glock, scanning the perimeter of the property and the corners of the house. She might not make a shot that long but she could make a man duck and cover.
It took the two of them forever to get across the remainder of the yard and up the steps into the house. Once inside Grace locked the door behind her and led a stumbling Mrs. Brown to the living room. She laid the older woman on the couch where she slumped down. Grace couldn't tell if she was even conscious at this point.
“Where are you, Mom?” Grace called to her mother.
"In the hallway!"
“Coming to you.” Grace ran to the hallway and met her mother there.
"There was a woman here—Mrs. Brown's daughter—but I can’t find her,” Theresa said in a rush.
"She may have left," Grace said.
"Or she may be hiding. Let's check the basement."
Grace got ahead of her mother and beat her to the laundry room. She eased down the steps with her Glock raised. "If anybody's down here come out with your hands up. If I find you, I’ll kill you."
Grace didn't hear any reaction to her warning so she headed down. The basement was fully illuminated. Paul and Debbie had left the solar lights on, not having a grasp of conserving power when it came from batteries. The room contained a lot of boxes and storage containers but there were few places to hide. Just to be sure, Grace thoroughly checked the perimeter of the room.
While Grace was clearing the room, Teresa went to the vault door and punched in a code. By the time the door was unlocked, Grace was finished and at her mother’s side. There was a whir of electric motors as the vault door unlocked. Teresa turned the latch. “It’s Mom, Blake,” she said. “Don’t shoot.”
"Okay," came a shaky reply from the interior of the Ready Room.
When the door was open, Teresa hurried inside, Grace on her heels. Blake was standing in the center of the room, a 20 gauge shotgun in his hands. Teresa took the gun from him and threw her arms around him. Grace joined the hug and everyone used the moment to recharge a little of what they’d exhausted over the day.
"I thought you said there were two kids?" Grace said.
Teresa pulled free of the hug and scanned the room. The cots were empty and the curtain around the porta potty was drawn back. "There were. Where's Dylan?"
"He went out the tunnel,” Blake replied.
Teresa face clouded. She tried to crouch to her son’s level but the movement caused her tremendous pain. She winced and stood back up right, clutching at her guts. She swooned, the pain causing a wave of dizziness. She’d seriously overdone it today.
Grace stepped forward and took her mother by the arm, steadying her.
"Why? Why did he go out the tunnel?" Teresa asked.
"The bad man, Paul, who was with his mother. He whispered to us through there." Blake pointed to the PVC vents that extended through the foundation wall. "He told Dylan that his mommy was hurt bad and she was going to die if he didn't come out and help him."
Teresa closed her eyes, fighting back cursing. She shouldn't have left the children. This was her fault. They weren’t old enough. They didn’t have the judgment.
"I'm sorry, Mommy. I tried to make him stay but he wouldn't listen."
Teresa stroked her son’s head. "It's not your fault, sweetie. You're not responsible for Dylan."
"So what do we do?" Grace asked.
Teresa sighed. "We get Mrs. Brown down here to stay with Blake and we go after Dylan."
Anger flashed across Grace’s face. "You're not in any shape to do that. You're probably about ready to collapse right now. You’re a liability out there in this condition, Mom.”
"I'm not letting you go alone," Teresa argued.
Grace fumed but knew her mother would do as she pleased. She couldn’t make her mother stay behind any more than Blake could make Dylan stay.
"Okay. We'll go together but I'm not waiting on you. If you can't keep up I'm going to leave you behind and you can come back here. Are we clear?”
Teresa gave her daughter a hard look but didn’t answer.
After reminding Blake not to leave the room they bolted up the steps. They found Mrs. Brown conscious but extremely weak. Grace was becoming more concerned that the woman may have internal injuries. Without advanced medicine, they had no way of knowing. Even if they knew the extent of her injuries, they couldn’t deal with anything severe anyway.
It was a struggle to get the older woman back down the steps and into the Ready Room. Once there, Teresa made a quick and dirty splint for Mrs. Brown’s arm with a section of foam mattress and duct tape. It wasn’t perfect but it would keep until they could do something better.
Once they had her settled into a bunk, they gave Blake instructions to get her some water and food. They also reminded him that under no circumstances was he to leave the room. Even if Dylan came back and asked to be let inside, he was not to open the door. It could be a trap. He was only to open the door for Grace, Teresa, or his dad.
Before they left the Ready Room, Grace convinced her mother to trade the Taurus Judge for something that would be a more effective across open distances. She decided to give her the AR pistol she was carrying herself. It was light, had minimal recoil, and was able to hit at a hundred yards shots with the current optic. At that distance, the grouping on the targets was not tight when fired from the shoulder, but they would all fit within the torso of an average-sized man. That was all they needed.
Grace picked up a couple of fresh magazines for her Glock 19. She took down an AR-10 from her dad's armory. It was basically a 7.62 caliber version of the AR-15. She snagged one of the tactical vests from a rack and shoved the magazine pouches full of fresh mags for the weapon.
Their gear assembled, the women were out of the room and moving. They climbed the steps, immediately on guard in case there were people hi
ding in the house that they weren’t aware of. When they didn’t encounter anyone, they exited and locked the house behind them. Teresa remembered to take her house keys so she could get back in. She didn’t relish the thought of going back through the escape tunnel again.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Arthur Bridges’ Compound
Arthur sat at the controls of his ham radio equipment scanning frequencies, trying to see if he could pick up any chatter that would let him know what frequency the congressman’s men might be using. After nearly thirty minutes of testing, he came across a strong signal he thought could possibly be the folks down the road.
Arthur saw no reason to bother with call signs at this point. “This is Arthur Bridges wishing to contact Congressman Honaker. Do I have his party?”
There was a pause in the radio chatter, then, “Stand by.”
Robert was standing at the window watching Sonyea. The horse that had run from them had returned and she was outside checking him over. Kevin was sitting on a couch reading a gun magazine.
“This is Congressman Honaker,” came a voice. “Am I to understand I have Arthur Bridges on the line?”
Arthur adjusted a dial on one of the units in front of him. “Long time, no see, Congressman.”
“You can cut the friendly bullshit. I’ve got four dead men this morning thanks to you. Four families that I have to console.”
“Those deaths are on you,” Arthur replied. “The lives of your men are no more important than the lives of my men. If someone had to die, I’d rather it be your men than mine.”
“No one had to die,” the congressman said. “My men had instructions to only fire warning shots when necessary.”
“That’s bad advice on your part,” Arthur said. “There are no warning shots in the theater of war.”
“So this is war? You think you’re up for that? You should take my advice. You should drop everything and leave.”
“That’s not happening.”
“Oh, it’s happening, all right. The only variable is how many bodies we have to bury when the smoke settles.”
“I used to think you were a decent man,” Arthur said. “I thought we had a connection. All those conversations between two country boys stuck in the big city.”
“Times have changed. The country is going to get a lot worse before it gets better. We need a place to weather the storm. I’ve had my eye on your place for some time. It’s perfectly suited to my plans.”
“Do your plans include me personally putting a bullet in your gut?”
“Look, Arthur, we’re only the scouting party. I have more men coming. A lot more men. These men have families with them. Be reasonable.”
“Then there’s nothing else to talk about,” Arthur said.
“We’re in no hurry. We’ll just wait until the next group arrives and then we’ll take you by force. You have no idea of the resources we have at our disposal.”
“You better bring all of it,” Arthur said. “You’re going to need it.”
Arthur ended the communication. He sat back in his chair. Robert and Kevin stared at him.
“That went well, didn’t it?” Arthur said.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Hardwick Farm
Conor was pleased that his GPS took him right to the Hardwicks’ gate. Of a generation that had grown up traveling with maps, the device still seemed miraculous to him. He unlatched the gate, walked his bike through, and parked it deep in the weeds. Once he was certain it was out of view, Conor drew his sheath knife and cut some small branches to lay over top of it.
He dragged his gear out of the trailer and kitted up. He had been in stealth mode earlier, aiming for speed and concealment. While he didn't know exactly what lay ahead of him, he felt it safe to assume that he was in battle mode now. He slid on a pair of camouflage pants over his bike shorts. It did occur to him that the bicycling shorts might have a disarming effect on his opponents. Were they distracted by his outfit, it might buy him an additional second to draw his weapon. His bike shorts could save his life. Despite that, he decided that the benefit of camouflage might be greater. Plus the camouflage fatigue pants certainly had more storage capacity than his bicycle shorts, which barely had capacity for him.
He slipped on his gun belt. It had a Safariland holster for his Springfield Operator 1911 and pouches that held magazines for his weapons. The belt also contained his IFAK, or individual first-aid kit. There was a larger sheath knife permanently affixed to the battle belt and a smaller pouch that held a multitool.
Conor took the opportunity to change shirts. His other was sweaty from riding the bike. This one would soon be sweaty too in this humidity, but for now it would be clean and fresh. Over top of the clean T-shirt, he slipped on a plate carrier. Sleeves in the front and back held armored plates that would stop most rounds. The sides of the plate carrier held soft armor with Kevlar that were not as strong but would hopefully be strong enough. The armor was good Level IV stuff, given to him by a grateful client.
Molle webbing on the front of the plate carrier held an assortment of pouches. There was more ammo for his rifle and his .45. There were also pouches with smoke grenades and other goodies. The smoke grenades were designed for paintball games but as far as Conor was concerned smoke was smoke. If it worked, who cared what the original purpose was? Broken down into two pieces in the bicycle trailer was an AR-9, a 9mm version of the AR-15. The weapon had a Primary Arms optic on it. Conor deftly assembled it, slapped in a magazine, and charged the weapon.
Once he was completely geared up he spread a piece of camo fabric over the gear he left behind and placed foliage on it. He slung a pack on his back, which held his emergency gear. If he came back from his mission and all his gear was gone, he would at least have what he needed to get home.
Conor had no intention of walking straight up the road. There could be traps or sentries. He moved about fifty feet off the shoulder of the family's driveway and began paralleling it up the mountain. The terrain was dense but Conor felt strong from his days on the bicycle. Instead of pedaling bike pedals he was just pedaling dirt now. The adrenaline was kicking in too, and doing its job.
He hadn't gone far when he heard the sound of an approaching engine. So rare was vehicle traffic he wasn’t certain that was what he was hearing at first. When he was sure, he paused to listen. It sounded as if the vehicle slowed at the entrance, then he heard the screech of the gate swinging open. It was definitely coming up the driveway.
Conor crouched in the weeds. Soon, an old dump truck came into view, grinding its way up the hillside. A tag on the front said Farm Use. It was a Chevy Apache from the 1960s, so eaten with rust that the body appeared to be partially made of brown lace.
The cab was packed with people. More were in the bed, hanging over the sides and front. Conor could see a few weapons. If this was the group that had taken over the Hardwicks’ home, they were ragged but armed. He slipped a pair of binoculars out of his pocket and observed them closely as they passed. They looked like a scraggly band. Not soldiers. They didn't even look like backpackers, more like an army recruited from the lobby of a methadone clinic. At least that was encouraging. If he had to fight, he'd rather fight the untrained than the trained.
After the truck passed Conor picked up his pace. He had no idea if there were more of these people at the house or if this was a group that just happened to be showing up when he did. He wasn't in any condition to run up this mountain but he did pick up his pace as best he could. Around the next bend, he found the truck stopped in the road and the doors flung open. He wondered if it broke down or overheated climbing the hill. It wouldn’t be surprising from a truck that old.
As quietly as he could in the dry undergrowth, he worked his way into a position where he could see the front of the truck and try to determine what was happening. When he did, he found an odd sort of standoff taking place. Two men from the cab of the truck were standing in front of it speaking with another man in the company
of a small boy.
Conor whipped out his binoculars again and studied the scene. The little bit of intelligence that he had on the family told him that they had a small boy, though the man with the boy didn’t fit the description of any of the family. Conor was told he would find Robert Hardwick's wife, a young boy, hopefully a young woman, and possibly a physically-challenged man. This guy looked more like the people in the truck.
He had to know why this boy seemed to be leaving the property with this man. He tucked the binoculars away and began to work his way forward.
It didn't take long before profanity and arguing reached his ears. Two things became immediately apparent. One, the man with the boy knew the men in the truck, and two, they did not like each other.
*
“We appreciate the invitation to come stay with you. Your girlfriend was really gracious,” said the man who had been driving the truck. It was Sharon’s boyfriend, Johnny.
“That invitation wasn’t supposed to be for you,” the man with the boy spat.
“That’s not the impression I got from your girlfriend,” Johnny said. “She said a real man would be a welcome sight.”
Where's Debbie?" Paul demanded. "If you've done something to her—"
"What?" the other man from the truck cut in. "What you gonna do?"
"Have you seen my mommy?" the little boy asked Johnny. "We’re trying to find her."
"You're not going to find her," Johnny told the boy. "Paul sent her to me and I’m keeping her."
The boy looked at Paul. "You said she was hurt. You said the people at the house hurt her."
"Shut up, Dylan," Paul said.
“Don’t believe everything you hear, kid,” Johnny said. “Especially if it comes from the likes of him.”
Conor was still confused as to the identity of this boy. Could this boy's mother be Mrs. Hardwick? Was she being held prisoner by this other group? Either way, the manner in which the boy was being treated infuriated Conor.
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