Lifeless (Lawless Saga Book 2)

by Tarah Benner

  Five hundred yards behind the house stood a big green barn with a large enclosure for horses, and to the left of that were two tin-roofed buildings that looked as though they housed more livestock. Five or six fat hogs were meandering around the pen farthest from the house, and a dozen or so chickens were pecking at the dirt. Off in the distance, Soren heard a gentle moo.

  A little way down the road stood an old grain silo. It was clearly obsolete, but Soren caught the flicker of a shadow on the railing. If he had to guess, the group used the silo as a lookout tower to see intruders approaching from the road.

  One thing was for certain: These people had gone to a lot of trouble to ensure that no one got the drop on them.

  At that moment, Katrina and the lumberjack seemed to reach a decision. Their faces were set in the same grim expression, and they were walking back toward the truck.

  “What do you want to do with them?” asked Thompson. She still hadn’t taken her eyes off of Axel, and her scowl of disgust told Soren exactly what she wanted to do with them.

  “Dad’ll wanna talk to them before we do anything drastic,” said Katrina.

  “Before you do what?” Axel blurted.

  “If it were just up to me, I’d have killed you the second you walked into the diner,” said Thompson roughly. “But Walt always gets the final say.”

  A feeling of dread itched its way up Soren’s throat.

  “Help me move them to the barn,” Thompson said to the lumberjack.

  Soren glanced at Lark, who looked just as defeated as he felt. Her hair was tumbling out of its careful braid, and she had a few new cuts and bruises.

  Denali had disappeared, but Soren couldn’t help but feel that it was a good thing. Katrina had already made it clear that she would shoot Denali if he bothered them, and he’d nearly ripped Thompson’s throat out.

  The short march to the barn was the longest walk of Soren’s life. He was so preoccupied with their pending execution that he could hardly appreciate the warm sun on his face and the gentle breeze lifting his hair. It whipped over the field and through the tall grass, carrying the scent of sawdust, hay, and manure.

  Those familiar smells hit him like a punch to the stomach. They reminded him so strongly of his grandfather’s land where he and Micah had played as children that, for a brief moment, he had to remind himself where he was.

  His visceral response was snuffed out by the feeling of Thompson’s rifle against his spine. She herded them into the barn, and he blinked several times to force his eyes to adjust.

  Sunlight was trickling in through long cracks in the wood siding. The floor was covered in straw and goat pellets, and the walls were stacked with enormous shrink-wrapped boxes. The boxes were printed with familiar brand names — everything from Tums to toilet paper.

  A dozen questions burned on Soren’s tongue, but a sharp strike to the back of his head shattered any hope that he might get them answered.

  “Get down!” yelled Thompson, shoving Lark forward and giving Soren the overpowering urge to deck her. “On your knees.”

  Glaring after her, Soren obeyed. There was no point in refusing. Katrina had gone to get Walt — whoever he was — and both Thompson and the lumberjack were heavily armed.

  Things didn’t look good. They were a bunch of escaped felons who’d followed Katrina home from the diner, and if Axel so much as opened his mouth, they were screwed.

  “If you’re gonna kill us, just git it o’r with,” groaned Axel.

  “Shut up!” snapped Thompson at the same moment that Soren delivered a sideways kick to Axel’s calf.

  “We’re gonna die,” Simjay muttered. “We’re gonna die.”

  Soren didn’t know what to say. He felt terrible. He’d told Axel about the girl from the diner, knowing full well that Axel always had to settle the score. If he’d only stopped him from following her in the first place . . .

  “So,” said Thompson, walking around to stand in front of them. “Who wants to talk?”

  Nobody said a word.

  “You’re not doing yourselves any favors, you know. You want to live . . . We need some answers.”

  Soren glared at her.

  Thompson took a step forward. “I want to know why you followed Katrina.”

  Nobody spoke.

  She looked from one to the other expectantly, as if they were children who’d been caught misbehaving. “Well? Who’s gonna tell me?”

  Silence.

  “How about you?” asked Thompson, bending over to look Simjay in the eyes.

  At that moment, Simjay certainly looked like the weakest link. He was breathing so fast that he seemed in danger of hyperventilating, and Soren had the strong urge to kick him.

  To his credit, Simjay didn’t say a word. He just shook his head slowly, lips pursed as if he were trying not to vomit.

  “No?” Thompson moved down the line to Soren. “How about you?”

  Soren stared straight ahead, unwilling to acknowledge her or give any sign that he’d even heard.

  Thompson waited for a moment, her irritation simmering just beneath the surface. “Fine.”

  But she didn’t sound fine. She strode around behind them, her boots disturbing the layers of straw, and every muscle in Soren’s body tensed. His heart was pounding so hard that he could hear the blood thumping in his ears.

  He closed his eyes and waited for it all to be over, but instead Thompson shoved Lark in the back so forcefully that she toppled face-first into the muck.

  In one jerky movement, Thompson dove on top of her, eliciting a yelp as she threw her weight onto Lark’s bent spine.

  Soren didn’t think. He just lunged to the side, knocking into Thompson and groping for her throat. There was a flurry of movement from the lumberjack, but Thompson didn’t need any help. She swung her gun around and pistol-whipped Soren so hard that black spots flashed before his eyes.

  He felt his fingers slip from her throat, and when he finally came to his senses, Thompson was straddling Lark from behind, grinding her face into the ground.

  “Don’t fuck with me,” Thompson muttered, shooting Soren a deadly look.

  Lark let out a furious scream, and an inferno of rage blazed through Soren’s body. It was so strong and all-consuming that he temporarily lost the ability to think. He just knew he wanted to cause Thompson as much pain as possible.

  “Why — are you — here?” Thompson yelled.

  “We wanted to steal enough supplies to get to Mexico!” Simjay cried, looking as though he were the one being suffocated in five inches of straw and manure.

  Thompson swiveled her head around to look at him, and Soren saw all the color drain from Simjay’s face.

  “Go on.”

  “His brother lives in Texas,” Simjay blubbered, glancing nervously at Soren. “We were going to get him on our way to Mexico.”

  There was a long pause as Thompson processed this information. Then she sighed and forced a smile. “Thank you. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “Please let us go.”

  Thompson opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment, the heavy wooden doors slid open, flooding the barn with light. Soren squinted against the sun, trying to make out the two figures standing in the doorway.

  “Jacqueline!” bellowed a voice. “Stop this!”

  Thompson looked up. At first Soren wasn’t sure who “Jacqueline” was, but then a light-pink flush crept up Thompson’s cheeks, and Soren realized that Jacqueline must be her first name.

  There was a brief uncomfortable pause, and Thompson lowered her gun.

  As Soren’s eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness, he saw a wizened old man standing next to Katrina. He was lean but capable-looking with leathery brown skin and dazzling white eyebrows. He was dressed in a blue collared shirt and worn denim overalls. Most of his head was engulfed by an overlarge USMC trucker hat that read “NEVER RETIRED — ALWAYS A MARINE,” and he was carrying a revolver on his hip.

  “These are the scumbags th
at followed Kat home,” said Thompson. “They sicced their dog on us when we got here, and those two attacked me.” She nodded at Lark and Soren. “The fat one almost suffocated Kat.”

  Axel wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  “That was only after you blew out our tire and tried to kill us,” Soren growled.

  The old man frowned, studying each of them through a pair of thick bifocals. “Where did they come from?”

  “They said they came from the prison,” said Thompson. “San Judas.”

  The man continued to stare at them, scrutinizing their wardrobe and their many visible tattoos.

  “Kat and Mitch thought you’d like to talk to them before we . . . took care of things.”

  “Thank you,” said the man in a grim voice, putting his hands in his pockets and studying each of them in turn.

  Soren couldn’t explain why, but he felt very weak and insignificant under the old man’s gaze. This had to be the “Walt” they’d been talking about.

  “Well,” said the old man. “What do you have to say for yourselves?”

  “We don’t want any trouble,” said Soren. “We never wanted to hurt anyone . . . We just wanted some answers.”

  “Answers?” said Walt, sounding amused. “Boy, we all want answers. Seldom do we ever get any that are satisfactory, but that’s life.”

  Soren fell silent and sat with that statement for a moment. He wasn’t sure if the old man was screwing with him or just rambling. He didn’t have a chance to find out.

  The man sighed and drew the revolver from the leather holster on his belt. “So . . . Who should I shoot first?”

  Soren felt the blood drain from his face. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He’d half expected the old man to be the voice of reason — the merciful leader who reined in his hostile children and determined trespassers’ fate with a fair and steady hand. Clearly he’d misjudged him.

  With one gnarled, arthritic hand, Walt raised the revolver and squeezed one eye shut, aiming the gun at Axel.

  “Whoa!” cried Axel. “What the hell?”

  “Boy, you are in my barn kneeling in my goats’ shit after attacking my daughter. It would behoove you to show a little goddamned respect!”

  “Fuck this,” said Axel, stumbling to his feet and taking two bold strides toward the man.

  The lumberjack whipped up his gun, but Walt gave his head a slight shake.

  Soren held his breath, but Walt didn’t shoot. He just stared Axel down.

  Axel kept moving forward until he and Walt were practically nose to nose. “If I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die like a man,” Axel breathed. “Not cowerin’ in the dirt like an animal.” He stuck out his chest and gritted his teeth. “Go ahead, old man. Do your worst. If you’re gon’ shoot me, why don’ you jus’ git it over with?”

  Walt stared at Axel, his gaze narrowing in what Soren interpreted as an expression of intense dislike. But then his eyes gave an unexpected twinkle, and he let out a harsh bark of laughter.

  “Well, I gotta say . . . You’ve got some balls, boy.”

  Axel drew in a deep breath. Soren knew that Axel, like him, was wondering if things were ever going to turn around for them.

  “I’m still gonna shoot you first,” said Walt in an apologetic voice.

  Axel blinked furiously, puffing out his chest a little more. “No disrespect, but I wouldn’t do that f’I was you.”

  “And why the hell not?”

  “’Cause I’m dead useful to have around, that’s why.”

  A look of surprise flashed across Walt’s face. “A fat lump like you?” He raised two white eyebrows. “Now, I’ll believe that when I see it.”

  Axel swallowed, but if he was beginning to panic, he didn’t let it show on his face.

  “Well, sir . . .” he began.

  Soren grimaced. He had the impression that Axel was talking out of his ass to delay their execution.

  “You might like to know that one of them hogs out there’s got the mange. That’s why he’s been rubbin’ up against the fence like ’at. If you don’ treat it, it’ll just git worse.”

  There was a brief pause as the old man turned this information over in his head. His face didn’t give anything away, but then he let out a low chuckle.

  “Well, I’ll be goddamned. Maybe you aren’t a useless pile of peanut brittle after all.” He shook his head and laughed. “I never have been much of a hog farmer, but I picked those ol’ girls up for a song when my neighbor left.”

  Axel blinked stupidly for a moment, seemingly amazed by his own good luck.

  Walt turned to survey the rest of them. “Ladies first?”

  The bottom dropped out of Soren’s stomach. The old man was pointing the revolver at Lark.

  “Don’t!” Soren choked, staggering to his feet and positioning himself in front of her.

  The lumberjack lurched toward Soren, but the old man just raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t shoot her,” Soren repeated. “Please. She isn’t a threat to you.”

  “According to Jacqueline, she is,” said Walt.

  “No,” said Soren, his voice shaking a little. He was wracking his brain for some way out of this and coming up empty. “Please. Don’t hurt her. Shoot . . . Shoot me instead.”

  This seemed to be exactly what Walt had been waiting for. His interest in Axel’s hog knowledge evaporated at once, and all his attention was suddenly directed at Soren.

  “Come with me,” he said briskly, turning toward the door and beckoning him out.

  “No!” Lark gasped.

  Soren turned to look at her. Her eyes were shimmering with tears, and she was slumped forward in a wilted position, as if all the energy had been drained out of her at once.

  Walt didn’t look back, and Soren didn’t hesitate. He followed the old man out of the barn and into the sunshine, glancing once over his shoulder at Lark and wondering if that would be the last he ever saw of her.

  Walt made a show of closing the barn doors behind them and led Soren out toward the paddock, where two chestnut horses were pulling little tufts of grass out of the dirt. A third horse, a palomino, was cantering gracefully around the pen with its mane blowing in the wind.

  “Sorry about all that,” Walt sighed. “Sometimes I have to resort to the whole bad-cop routine to get some real answers.”

  Soren froze.

  “I used to use it on my children, to mixed results, but it works surprisingly well with adults.”

  Soren stared. He couldn’t get a read on the old man, and he wondered fleetingly if he was dealing with a psychopath or simply an overprotective father.

  “I apologize,” he said. “I never had any intention of shooting your friends. I just had to turn up the heat to figure out which of you I could trust to be straight with me.”

  “Is that why Thompson tried to kill us?” asked Soren, his voice coming out testier than he’d intended.

  “Oh, no,” said Walt. “I’m afraid that was the real deal. Given her experience, I thought it best to put her in charge of the protection detail. Sometimes she can get a little carried away.”

  “Her experience?”

  “Jacqueline used to be a beat cop for the Denver Police Department. She held out in the city for as long as she could, but when things went south, she and Theresa came to live here with us.”

  Soren’s confusion must have shown on his face, because Walt added, “You’ll meet Theresa later, I imagine. She and Jacqueline are sisters. Delightful girl, Theresa. A little strange, I suppose, but a kinder soul you never did meet.” He lowered his voice. “To be perfectly honest, the last girl Katrina dated back in New York was downright nasty. Ivy League education — owned one of them fancy art galleries — but boy did that girl have a chip on her shoulder. Now, Theresa . . . She’s as crunchy-granola as they come, but she’s got a good heart.”

  Suddenly he stopped and shook his head. “Look at me blabberin’ on . . . I’m sorry, son. I don’t think I ever got your name.”
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  “Soren.”

  “Nice to meet you, Soren,” he said, sticking out a hand. “I’m Walter Bailey. I think you already met my kids, Mitchell and Katrina.”

  Soren nodded and took Walt’s hand out of habit. The old man clasped his hand firmly with hard, calloused fingers and pumped enthusiastically. Halfway through, Walt paused and pulled Soren’s hand closer, as if he were about to read his palm.

  “Marksman?” he asked.

  “I hunt.”

  “Compound bow?”

  Soren shook his head and took back his hand, suddenly uncomfortable. “Longbow. The only weapons we had on the inside were the ones we could make.”

  “Ah,” said Walt. “Well, I imagine you’re a good shot.”

  “I guess.”

  Although his initial distrust was beginning to wane, he still felt uneasy.

  “You like horses, Soren?” asked Walt, drawing in a deep breath and staring out at the paddock.

  “Yeah,” said Soren. He could still remember the last time he’d ridden. He’d been seventeen years old on his grandfather’s farm, and he’d asked him if he and Micah could come live with him.

  “You ride?”

  “I used to.”

  Walt didn’t dig any deeper. “Sorry to say I haven’t been giving these beauties the attention they deserve. They were my wife’s first love.” He pointed to the palomino, which was staring at them from across the paddock as if he knew they were talking about him. “See that one out there?”

  Soren nodded.

  “That’s Pertinacious,” said Walt. “Pertinacia is the Latin word for defiance . . . stubbornness.” He shook his head and chuckled. “It fits him, I’ll tell you that. That horse has not let anyone ride him since Shelley died.”

  Soren didn’t know what to say to that, so he kept quiet.

  “There’s nothing like losing your soulmate, son. You cannot imagine . . . You go into marriage knowing it’s inevitable for one of you, but you can never prepare yourself for when that day comes.” He sighed. “I think a part of me died right along with her. It’s been years, and I still can’t let go. Hell, I can’t even let go of her old place.”