Pure Dynamite

by Lauren Bach

  I won't miss that either.

  Adam bent to pick up the trash in front of him: a soggy newspaper half covering a blue, three-pound coffee can. He grabbed the can, its top covered by a snap-on plastic lid. It was heavy, full, but not with coffee.

  He lowered the can into his bag, adrenaline kicking up as he checked the contents. There was no turning back now. Apprehension sank fangs into his spine as he thought of what was at stake, of what could go wrong. And how easily the line between right and wrong blurred.

  He glanced at Lyle, nodding once. This was it. If the kid blew this, he'd strangle him.

  Lyle moved, then stumbled and fell. Rolling onto his back, he grasped his ankle, yelping in pain.

  "On your feet, you little wimp!" Wallace ordered.

  "I... I can't. I think I broke it." Lyle grimaced. "In that goddamned gopher hole."

  Wallace motioned to the driver. "Check McEdwin. The rest of you men: Down."

  Careful to keep a safe distance away, the driver eased closer and nodded toward Lyle's ankle. "Let me see."

  Biting his lip, Lyle reached for the hem of his pants. But instead of raising it, he twisted and sprang forward, clearing the distance to take the unsuspecting driver out at the knees.

  The driver's shotgun dropped. The two men rolled around in the muddy clay as each man struggled to retrieve it.

  Wallace's response was immediate, as if he'd expected it. Almost gleefully, the senior guard raised his shotgun, trained it on Lyle and the driver as they wrestled. His finger moved to the trigger. "Prisoner, freeze! Or I'll shoot!"

  Behind his back, Adam yanked out the Beretta nine- millimeter that had been planted in the coffee can. He pointed it at Wallace. "Drop it."

  The look on Wallace's face shifted from Kodak-moment to Stephen-King-nightmare. He swayed slightly, uncertain whether to keep his weapon trained on Lyle, or to come about and face Adam.

  The guard clearly had difficulty comprehending two facts: first, that Adam had a weapon, and, second, that Lyle—of all people—was his accomplice.

  At that moment, Lyle leaped to his feet, leaving the driver sprawled on the ground, face down and unmoving. Triumphant, he scooped up the shotgun, jacking a round into the chamber before swinging it toward Wallace.

  Wallace opened and closed his mouth, then shouted the driver's name. "Get up, damn you. I need help!"

  The driver didn't respond.

  "Lay your weapon on the ground and step back," Adam ordered.

  "Easy, there." Wallace's voice remained surprisingly calm as he slowly lowered his weapon and moved away. "You don't want to do this, Duval. He's made you an accessory to murder. They'll fry you."

  "Murder? Bite me." Lyle moved in and kicked Wallace's shotgun out of reach. "He ain't dead. Just out cold thanks to my special sleeper hold."

  Unable to hide his irritation, Adam glared at Lyle before nodding toward the driver. "You forgot to secure him." Sleeper hold or not, the driver could regain consciousness at any time. "And hurry."

  Red-faced, Lyle stepped back and quickly cuffed the driver's hands using the handcuffs from the man's own belt.

  "You won't make it far. Not with that dipshit for a partner." Wallace eyed his voice-activated radio, smug. "Besides, they've heard every word. Probably got back up coming already. You're both gonna regret this. I guar-an-fucking-tee it."

  "Afraid not." Adam held up a wafer-thin transmitter that had been taped to the Beretta's grip. "Radio's jammed. They're only hearing static. By the time they send someone to check, we'll be long gone."

  "Yeah. So hit the ground and kiss dirt," Lyle added.

  Wallace's self-righteous smirk melted as it dawned on him that no help was coming, no rescue was imminent. The balance of power had shifted, leaving him trapped in a guard's worst nightmare. He was probably recalling every wrong act he'd committed against a prisoner.

  And while he wasn't as barbaric as some, Adam knew first hand how the man misused authority.

  Once the guard was flat on his stomach, Lyle leaned close and knocked Wallace's hat off before securing his hands. Then he drew back and kicked the guard hard, in the ribs.

  "How does it feel to know nothing can stop me from blowing you away?" Lyle dropped to one knee and shoved the end of the barrel into the guard's right ear as he ran his hand along the shotgun's stock. "Bet you never figured I'd be the one to off you."

  "Leave him," Adam ordered.

  When Lyle made no move to comply, Adam shifted closer. So far no one had been injured. He damn sure wanted to keep it that way.

  "I said—"

  "I heard you." Lyle withdrew the shotgun, then bent down and snatched the guard's cigarettes from his back pocket. "Guess I'll catch you next time. And give Huggins this message for me: Tell him to watch his back."

  Ned Huggins was another guard, known for being exceptionally cruel, especially to the prisoners he considered weak. It was no secret that Lyle had been Ned's favorite target.

  Adam turned to the other two inmates who were on their feet now. "It's every man for himself. You don't have much of a head start so I'd think twice before wasting time with them." He nodded toward the guards.

  Potter moved forward. "Fuck that. I'm going with you."

  "No, you're not." Adam raised the nine-millimeter. "And I'll shoot anyone who tries to follow us."

  Potter stepped sideways. "I'm taking his gun, then."

  Adam moved closer to Wallace's shotgun, blocking Potter's access. "You heard me. It's every man for himself."

  Snarling, Potter raised his fist, shook it. "We'll meet again, Duval. And remember: payback's a bitch." Spitting, he turned away and took off running with the other inmate.

  "Shoot him," Lyle urged. "Show him who's boss."

  Adam stooped to pick up Wallace's shotgun. "I already did. Let's go."

  Motioning for Lyle to lead, Adam threw one last look at the guards, then took his first step toward the woods.

  Toward freedom, justice ... and retribution.

  Adam didn't stop running until they'd reached the car—a stolen Ford Taurus—hidden in a dense copse of hickory trees a mile away.

  Letting the shotgun slide to the ground, Lyle collapsed against the car's hood panting. "Did you see the look on Wallace's face? He thought he was seconds away from getting his head blown off. By me! What a fucking rush!"

  "Rush? You think killing people is a joke?" Adam yanked the younger man to his feet, and spun him around. He wanted to throttle Lyle, shake some sense into him. Except there wasn't time for that much shaking. "We agreed up front—no shooting unless absolutely necessary."

  "Hey, back off! I wasn't really going to shoot him. Just fire a warning shot next to his head. Make him piss in his pants. He did it to me plenty of times."

  "We weren't that far from the main road. Someone could have heard." Adam released him. "I ought to leave your ass right here, right now. I didn't want company to begin with and I don't need someone who can't stay focused on the big picture."

  Lyle straightened his shirt. "I thought the big picture included settling old scores. Hell, I've heard you talk about it plenty of times."

  "That comes later. The first priority is to get away. Which means sticking with the plan until we're safe."

  "Well, this couldn't wait," Lyle defended. "Wallace has been on my case since I got there. Circling like a buzzard, hoping to collect the reward on my kin. I hope he's shaking in his boots wondering what my pa will do to get even."

  "Fine. Once we part ways, you and your family can do whatever you want." Disgusted, Adam stepped away.

  "Wait." Lyle's brow wrinkled. "Ah, hell. I'm sorry. You're right. And I swear, after we hook up with my family, you'll forget all this talk about parting ways."

  "I doubt that." Adam's snort was authentic. "You place too much stock in your family, kid. Family will screw you just as easily as a stranger off the street."

  "Mine won't. Mark my words. Besides, you need me—my connections. Remember?"

  Adam
stared at the ground, pretended he was weighing options he didn't have. Lyle's connections were indeed vital.

  The two men had shared a cell from the first day Adam landed in prison. Initially wary, they forged an uneasy alliance when Lyle hid contraband for Adam during a search.

  Adam repaid the favor by showing the younger man several effective self-defense moves, which improved Lyle's fate with the other prisoners if not with the guards. This last act also elevated Adam's status to hero.

  When Lyle guessed Adam planned an escape, he begged, pleaded, to be included. Adam flat out refused. Until Lyle promised that his family would hide them once they were on the outside.

  His offer had been impossible to refuse. Willy McEdwin, Lyle's father—and his three older brothers, Nevin, Tristin, and Burt—held the top four spots on the FBI's most-wanted list. Dubbed the Four Horsemen in the right-wing press, they were responsible for the deaths of more law enforcement officials than anyone in history—a number they had sworn to double.

  If anyone could hide two fugitives, it was Willy McEdwin and sons. Famous for striking and disappearing without a trace—and despite rumors of family rifts—they had eluded capture for over four years. And while Lyle had had no contact with his family in the nine months he'd been incarcerated, Adam doubted Willy would leave his youngest out in the cold once he'd escaped.

  However... until they connected with the McEdwin clan, Adam wanted to make damn sure Lyle played by the rules. His rules. "We also agreed: I'm in charge until we part ways."

  "Whatever. You da man."

  Lyle lit a cigarette, then blew smoke rings and tried to poke a finger through one, reminding Adam that he was barely twenty years old. Still a kid—albeit a stupid one.

  At thirty-four, Adam felt ancient.

  "Now can we celebrate?" Lyle asked.

  "Not yet. If the guard doesn't check in soon, they'll dispatch someone to investigate. We need to vanish. And I cashed in all my chips making arrangements for two." He looked pointedly at Lyle. "Which means the ball's in your court. I held up my end, got us out, got us wheels. Bat we need a destination. As soon as we're on the road, you need to contact your family."

  Unloading the shotguns, Adam pocketed the shells and tossed both twelve-gauges into the brush.

  "Are you crazy?" Lyle started after them.

  "We don't need them. And I damn sure don't want any souvenirs from that hell hole."

  Adam moved to the back of the car and opened the trunk. Inside were civilian clothes, non-perishable food, a few hundred in cash, a handheld police scanner, a cell phone with charger, and a second handgun, this one a Smith & Wesson.

  Eyes wide, Lyle made a grab for the gun. "You're right, we don't need their stinking shotguns."

  "Cut the John Wayne act, kid. I mean it. We're stowing both weapons under the seat." Where Adam could keep track of them. "Let's change up and go. I want to put some miles on this car—fast."

  "You won't regret this," Lyle said. "I promise, by nightfall, we'll be somewhere safe and sound."

  "Yep, like the county jail."

  Both men jumped and turned at the new voice.

  About thirty feet away, Adam spotted a man crouched beneath a tree, an old double-barrel propped at shoulder level.

  The man's overalls and worn John Deere cap indicated he was a farmer, probably the owner of the submerged fields surrounding them. And judging by the comfortable way he held the shotgun, he wasn't fond of trespassers.

  Adam raised his hands. "Easy, Mister. We don't mean you any harm."

  "You can tell that to the sheriff when he gets here," the farmer said. "Now tell your friend to get his hands where I can see 'em."

  Chapter Two

  The Bay Meadow Urgent Care Clinic in Durham, North Carolina, was one of the few smaller medical facilities open and operating. The widespread flooding had paralyzed the eastern half of the state, shutting down schools, shops, and most businesses.

  As utility companies scrambled to get water systems and power plants back on line, the Red Cross shelters filled as fast as they opened. After three days, most basic resources like food, drinking water, and batteries were scarce as dodo birds.

  Government officials urged everyone to stay home and off the roads, especially because more rain—and inevitably more flooding—were forecast.

  Dr. Renata Curtis, who had just finished her third year of residency, was in charge of the facility's Disaster Response Program. She tackled the job enthusiastically, grateful to be in a position to help others—versus needing help herself.

  While the clinic was running with only a skeleton crew, they were prepared to field excess traffic from the emergency room, which at times like this could expand tenfold because people couldn't get in to see their regular doctors for minor medical problems.

  They were also prepared to handle requests for provisional refills of common prescriptions—insulin, blood pressure medication, inhalers, and so on—that people couldn't get because local pharmacies were closed. Likewise, over-the-counter drugs—aspirin, decongestants, anti-diarrhea aids—were in high demand, too.

  Renata's morning had started off hectic with the delivery of a baby in the backseat of a car in the clinic's parking lot. Afterwards, the mother and her new daughter were transported by ambulance to the hospital along with the father, who suffered a concussion after fainting and striking his head on the car door.

  "First baby?" the paramedic had asked.

  "Last baby," the mother responded.

  In contrast, the late afternoon had been surprisingly quiet. Except, of course, for the regulars, the ones they saw weekly, such as the patient Renata dictated notes on; Caucasian male, age unknown. She had guessed by his prepubescent build that he was thirteen. Fourteen, tops.

  He'd had a broken wrist, multiple contusions, two bruised eyes and a long, shallow laceration across his chest that was consistent with a knife slash. The boy claimed he fell off his bicycle.

  Renata suspected his injuries had been received in a gang-related dispute. She had recognized the scar on his right wrist. A small circle of cigarette burns. Skin graffiti—body tags—marked local gang members. Colors were passe; tattoos expensive.

  The Bay Meadow Urgent Care Clinic was located near one of Durham's roughest neighborhoods. Consequently, they saw an above average number of regulars with injuries linked to unlawful activities.

  In conformity with the clinic's policy on crime victims and unaccompanied minors, Renata had called the police, but the young man slipped out before they arrived, a scenario she saw all too often.

  "Soon," she muttered, "that's going to change."

  Thanks to a study Renata had worked on over the past two years, the clinic had been awarded a landmark grant targeting health care issues for preteen gang members and their families. Treatment and follow-up would be coupled with preventive education aimed at disrupting the patterns of physical violence.

  And she'd just been offered a key position in establishing the pilot program. To see her long hours—most of them volunteered—bear fruit was gratifying. She had accepted on the spot.

  A voice from the hallway broke into her thoughts. "Mrs. Bolton, you need to give me the pepper spray."

  Renata frowned. Mrs. Bolton was another of the clinic's regulars. But what on earth was she doing with pepper spray?

  Besides being old enough to be Moses' great grandma, Mrs. Bolton was diabetic and half blind. She lived a block away and came into the clinic several times a week after misreading her blood sugar or forgetting to take her insulin. Or when she got lonely.

  Renata stepped into the hall and found Mrs. Bolton arguing with their receptionist, Janet.

  "It's mace, not pepper spray," Mrs. Bolton was saying. "And my nephew said I should bring the can up like so—"

  Renata moved forward before the older woman's finger found the spray button. Gently but quickly, she took the canister.

  "Why don't we let Janet hold this while I examine you?"

  Mrs. Bol
ton looked dubious. "I'd feel safer if I could keep it in my pocket. Bad enough we got flooding, but now with those escaped prisoners on the loose ..."

  Renata looked questioningly at Janet. "What escaped prisoners?"

  "Is that what this is about?" Janet grinned and patted the old woman's hand. "Pfft. I just heard a blip on the news. They captured them. You don't have a thing to worry about, Mrs. Bolton."

  Dusk had fallen on the City of Medicine, Durham, North Carolina. Home to several famous hospitals, nationally recognized medical teaching facilities, pharmaceutical conglomerates, and Research Triangle Park, the largest university-related research park in the world.

  Or at least that was what the last radio commercial had claimed. But Adam wasn't in town to play tourist. He snapped the radio off.

  He and Lyle had managed to outmaneuver the farmer after luring him closer by pretending to surrender. Adam had blindsided him before he could fire a shot.

  In the end, the farmer had been more furious at Adam for throwing his shotgun in a nearby creek than for tying him up. That he could have been injured— or killed—didn't seem to faze the old fart.

  Adam and Lyle had sped off, driving due north. If the farmer had indeed called the sheriff's department, they wouldn't have much of a head start.

  They had to backtrack twice. Driving was treacherous, as many secondary roads remained under water, forcing them onto the main routes, where cops were concentrated. And if that wasn't bad enough they had problems getting a clear cell phone signal. They got through briefly once, but the signal dropped before Lyle's brother, Nevin, gave them instructions.

  Uncertain of which direction they were to head to meet Lyle's family, and wary of traveling in broad daylight, Adam pulled into a state campground. Though most of the park was high and dry, it was closed because of the flooding.

  After hiding the car in the woods, he broke into one of the bathhouses. They showered and changed clothes, which made Adam feel almost human.