by Tate, Harley
Emma pursed her lips. “I’m sure he has a good reason for being gone.”
Raymond began to argue, but the sound of a car engine stopped him short. He reached for the handgun tucked into his jeans. “Everyone stay low.” He approached the front door as a four-door Jeep Wrangler with knobby tires barreled up the gravel drive.
Emma stole a peek out the window and almost collapsed in relief. John sat in the driver’s seat with a happy Tank beside him. She ushered Holly forward and as soon as the girl glimpsed the occupants, she clapped her hands and almost squealed.
Chapter Twelve
Emma
No one asked where John found the vehicle and he didn’t volunteer. With Holly over the moon at their return, and Raymond begrudgingly thanking him for the extra cargo room, they took an extra hour to load more supplies into the Jeep, finishing as the night set in around them.
With two vehicles, they split up. Holly, Tank, and Emma rode in the Jeep with John, and Gloria, Pringles, and Raymond took the Ford Explorer. Emma didn’t love separating, but giving the only married couple in the group some space seemed like the best idea.
Thanks to Raymond’s map, they avoided most major highways through North Georgia, bypassing the large cities of Ellijay and Calhoun. As they neared a divided, four-lane state road, Raymond turned on it. John straightened up in the driver’s seat. “Keep your eyes out for a gas station or a car dealership. Somewhere we might be able to fill up.”
Emma squinted out the passenger window, barely making out the trees as they whizzed by in the dark. “Do you have any kind of tube? Something we can siphon with?”
John thought it over. “Not that I know of. Did you all pack any?”
Emma shook her head. “If we can find an older mechanical gas pump, I should be able to get it working.”
John raised an eyebrow.
“We had an old pump from the fifties on the farm in Idaho.”
“Is that where you grew up?” Holly leaned forward between the front seats, wiping sleep from her eyes.
“Sorry if we woke you.”
The teenager waved her off. “Tank was snoring like a buzzsaw right in my ear.” Holly propped her forearms on the console. “You don’t strike me as the farm type.”
Emma smiled. “My parents have a couple hundred acres. They wanted me to take over the family business, but you know how that goes.”
Holly nodded. “Are you worried about them?”
“Of course. But my mom and dad are a bit like Irma and Gil. I don’t know how much the lack of power will impact them, to be honest. My mother cans all winter and my dad uses an old-fashioned tractor to prep the fields. They had talked about retiring, decreasing the amount they farmed every year, but I’m sure they are thankful now. With so many unused acres all around, and no neighbors for miles, they are as safe as they can be.”
She smiled. “Besides, my dad can shoot a bottle cap off a fence post. I’m not too worried about him.”
Holly perked up. “I hope Irma and Gil are hanging in there. When it’s quiet, I like to imagine the pair of them bickering about the laundry or the chores.”
Emma laughed. “I’m sure that’s exactly what they are doing.” She hadn’t thought about the older couple who took them in when they first escaped Atlanta in days. Nor had she allowed herself the indulgence of thinking about her parents. They were safer thousands of miles away, with no contact from her at all. If Dane suspected she went home… Emma shook her head.
Don’t go there. She turned back to Holly when Raymond’s brake lights flashed in front of them. The Explorer shimmied on the road before banking hard to the curb.
John slammed on the brakes and Holly fell forward, narrowly missing the dash as the Jeep shuddered to a stop.
“What’s going on?” Emma leaned toward Holly, checking to make sure she suffered no injuries.
John shook his head, expression grave. “Not sure.”
“Maybe they popped a tire?” Holly rubbed her chin where she’d bumped it on the console.
Emma stared out into the darkness. “I didn’t see anything in the road, did you?”
“No.” John pulled up behind the Explorer and shifted into park. “You two stay here, I’ll check it out.”
Emma cast a wary glance at the Explorer before turning back to John. She knew Raymond would be furious with what she was about to do, but despite his misgivings, she trusted John. He wasn’t going to kill her today.
She dug the handgun belonging to one of the dead men they left behind at the cabin out from beneath her waistband, exhaling as the pressure of the cold metal against her back eased. She held it out to John. “You should take this.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Are you sure? If Raymond—”
She waved him off. “Raymond can disagree all he wants. This is my decision. I don’t want you going out there defenseless.”
John opened his mouth as if to argue, but stopped himself. “Thank you.” He took the gun, released the magazine, checked the chamber, and counted the rounds before reassembling the weapon. He racked the slide and reached for the door handle. “Like I said, stay here.” He opened the door and eased out into the night.
As the door shut behind him, Emma hit the lock. Holly wasted no time with John out of the vehicle, scrambling up and over the console before flopping into John’s empty seat. Tank climbed up in her wake, front paws resting on the console as he sniffed the air.
“I don’t like this. Not one bit.” Holly craned her neck first to the left and then the right, frowning at the darkness. “We can’t see anything out there.”
Emma agreed. “I don’t like it either, but John’s right. We’re not going to do any good out there. I trust him.”
“So do I.” Holly reached out to Tank, running her hand down his fur for comfort.
Emma counted down first one minute and then another, trying in vain to tamp down her growing worry. “If he doesn’t come back soon—”
A knuckle rapped on the glass and Holly jumped half out of her skin in the driver’s seat. John stuck his face up to the glass. “I need a flashlight.”
Holly cracked open the door as Emma popped the glove box. She fished around inside, before finding a small, black flashlight. She reached across Holly to hand it through the open door to John.
He clicked it on and adjusted the beam until it shined a tight spotlight across the road. He panned across what appeared to be chain-link fencing, slowing as a sign came into view.
Emma craned her neck toward the open door to read the embossed letters:
Floyd County Jail.
Chapter Thirteen
John
The second the Explorer shimmied, John knew Raymond hadn’t run over a nail or hit a sudden pothole. He turned to Emma and tried to impart the gravity of the situation. “The blowout was intentional. We don’t have much time.”
She cast a frantic glance about her. “What are you saying?”
“No one pops a tire across the street from a jail five days after all hell breaks loose on accident.”
“When you put it like that—”
Two short whistles sounded from in front of the Jeep. One responded from in the rear. John cursed and turned to Holly and Emma. “Get down, both of you. Right now. Lock the doors and stay here until I get back.” He paused. “If I’m not back in an hour, or if it seems like things are going sideways, drive.”
“What? No! We’re not—” Holly began to protest, but John shut the door on her and took off for the Explorer.
Somewhere in the distance, a pump action shotgun racked. Floyd County Jail. From the size of the building looming out of the dark, John guessed it housed a few hundred men, maybe more. How many lurked out there beyond his limited line of sight?
He hoped the place housed low-level, petty criminals and not a gang of murderers. Crouching low, he hurried to the Explorer and knocked on the driver’s window. As soon as it rolled down, John began to explain, dispensing with any pleasantries. “I don’t kn
ow how many there are, but I’ll take them out.”
Raymond reached for the door handle, but John grabbed his hand. “You stay here, keep Gloria safe.”
“Are you sure?”
John nodded once in affirmation. “Don’t get out of the vehicle until I either give the all clear or it’s obvious I’m compromised.” He didn’t wait for a reply, sprinting past the hood of the Explorer toward the trees before Raymond had a chance to respond.
John sucked in a breath as he leaned against the tree trunk and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. It would take twenty minutes for the full effect, but every second that ticked by without him staring into artificial light, the clearer his surroundings became. No visible moon graced his presence, but the sky was clear. It could be worse.
He held the pistol in his right hand, the heft of the Beretta comfortable in his grip. He preferred his Sig Sauer, but he’d take an M9 as a substitute any day.
John eased around the tree as the lumbering shape of an inmate still clad in an orange jumpsuit separated from the darkness. John let out a snort. The night did nothing to conceal the garish hue. John looked down at his all-black gear. Might be a bit dirty, and smelly to boot, but the men who staged this ambush would never see him coming.
He stayed low, running from the safety of the tree to the road, keeping well behind the big guy’s back. Ten feet away and he slowed, rolling his feet on the asphalt, one step at a time until the barrel of the Beretta hung an inch away from the meaty roll of fat lining the back of the inmate’s neck.
He pressed the barrel in close, digging into the pale flesh. “One move and you’re paraplegic.” The man’s whole body shook, oversized belly jiggling as he twisted to get a look at John.
John pressed the gun harder into his skin. “Don’t even think about it. Now hand me the weapon.” The man held up a police-issued shotgun.
John plucked the weapon from thick, stubby fingers. “How many?”
“W-wh-what?”
John exhaled in frustration and enunciated each syllable in slow motion. “How many men in your group?”
“Oh, uh, I don’t know. Maybe eight. Yeah, yeah eight... or maybe nine.”
“Including you.”
“Oh, uh that’d be ten. I think. I didn’t count.”
John grew impatient and shoved the Beretta beneath his waistband before grabbing the shotgun with both hands. “For your sake, let’s hope it’s not too many more.” He slammed the butt of the shotgun into the back of the man’s head in one fast-paced, but effective blow. The big boy went down, landing in a crumpled heap before flopping on his back, spread-eagled on the pavement.
As John turned, an arm wrapped around his neck. Prison cotton rubbed across his skin and he grabbed the forearm threatening his oxygen supply and yanked to no avail. He shrugged and ducked, trying to shove the man off, but his assailant outweighed him by a good margin. John ran his hand up the man’s arm until he found skin. Bingo.
He wedged his fingers beneath the other man’s hand, gripping a knobby finger and pulling until he heard a snap. The other man cried out as first one, and then another, finger broke. As he screamed, John whipped the man’s arm off his chest.
A second prisoner materialized out of the dark, punching too early to do more than graze John’s chin.
John dropped the man with broken fingers to the ground and reached for the new assailant, a thinner man, taller than John, but lacking muscle. He grabbed the man’s arm and twisted violently, not stopping until the man’s shoulder dislocated. Another anguished scream, another enemy down.
Adrenaline spurred John on, and he knocked each man out with a swift kick to the head before rummaging around their persons for any weapons. As he shoved his hand in a jumpsuit pocket, a shot rang out. John pancaked himself against the asphalt.
From the sound of the shot, he guessed a rifle, maybe an M-16. Police departments were flush with used military gear these days. Everything from tactical vests to military rifles and even MRAPs.
It was one of the dirty little secrets of the military-industrial complex. If soldiers or marines in Afghanistan couldn’t use the gear, some police force in small-town USA would buy it.
He rolled four body lengths away from the unconscious men, palms flat on the pavement. Voices filtered through the darkness and John squinted in the direction of the sound, his eyes more accustomed to the dark. Vague movement, no more than a blur. Bang, bang, bang. Three shots in quick succession. Military surplus rifle, confirmed.
John low crawled across the pavement toward the shots and rolled into the ditch lining the road. A huddled mass undulated no more than twenty-five feet ahead. John kept still, breathing in a slow, easy rhythm as he counted the men straight in front of him. Four, in total. They bobbed like pigeons, one rising up to spy over the edge of the ditch before popping back down and making room for someone else.
They thought he was still out there in the dark, hiding as they fired off another random shot into the dark. John stretched first one way and then the other, ridiculous grin spreading across his face. They didn’t anticipate a man like him. He rolled his shoulders and sucked in a lungful of air, finally feeling alive for the first time in days. This, he was good at. Eliminating threats, neutralizing the enemy, utilizing all of his skills. For good or worse, this is what he was meant to do.
At least there was no doubt as to the goodness of the character of the men before him. The orange jumpsuits made sure of that. John thought through his options. Killing would be too easy, and costly. Ammunition and weapons were precious commodities John refused to waste. No, he needed to do this the hard way.
Lucky for him, it was the way he’d enjoy the most. John crept forward, shotgun in one hand, other held out in front to prevent an accidental fall. Twenty feet, fifteen, ten. His foot crunched a twig and the man closest to him spun. John wasted no time, jumping like a sprinter on blocks as he charged the man. Lowering his shoulder, he slammed into the chubby prisoner just below the chest.
They fell to the ground in a heap. John brought his knee up swift and fast straight into the man’s groin. One down.
He climbed past him without hesitation as another man materialized out of the dark. John brought the shotgun up, gripping it in both hands as he swung for the man’s face. The butt of the gun smacked the man’s chin, sending his head flying back. As the man fell, a muzzle flash lit up the night. John dove to the ground, half-burying himself in wounded prisoners.
A hand tore across his scalp, searching for something to pull. Score one for the buzz cut. John elbowed the lump beside him, receiving a grunt of pain in return.
“Shoot him, would ya! Just shoot him!”
“I can’t see him! All I see is spots from when I fired the last time!”
John clambered over the man on the ground as another volley of fire flew over his head. He crashed into the prisoner with the rifle, sending them both to the weed-filled dirt.
The guy screamed like a little kid. “Don’t hurt me! Don’t hurt me!” He shoved the rifle at John, not to shoot, but to give it away. “Take it, man. Take it!”
John shoved himself upright and grabbed the rifle by the stock.
The prisoner on the ground scuttled backward like a crab. “Please!” He held up his hands, a pair of pale blobs against the darkness. “I don’t even know these guys, I swear.”
“Then why were you the one holding the gun?”
“I don’t know. Please! I got a kid out there.”
John ground his teeth together. Ordinarily, he’d put a bullet through the man’s head and be done with it. But ammo was precious, and the idiot had already wasted plenty. He motioned with the rifle. “Get out of here. You and anyone else who’s left. Otherwise, I’ll start shooting.”
The man scrambled upright and took off, orange jumpsuit fading into the dark.
“Anyone else?” John spun around as he offered the invitation. “Last chance. Going once, going twice…”
Footsteps sounded across t
he asphalt, receding into the distance. John exhaled and swung the rifle over his shoulder. He swept the ground with the shotgun, searching for any other weapons. The man he’d dropped in the ditch moaned. John ignored him.
As he canvassed the area, blood pumped through his veins like a transfusion of stardust and energy. He felt more alive, more connected to the world and it unnerved him. Maybe there was no going back. Maybe this was who he was meant to be. Not a killer, necessarily, but a fighter at a minimum. John shoved the thoughts aside, satisfied no more assailants planned to head his way. He crossed the road and rapped on the Explorer’s driver’s side window. After a moment, it buzzed down.
Raymond’s deep voice cut through the dark. “We heard gunfire.”
“Lucky for me, they were terrible shots.”
A snort of disgust came from the dark interior of the vehicle. “You killed them.”
John had half a mind to let Raymond believe the worst, but he shoved the instinct aside for Emma’s sake. “No, actually. Didn’t need to.”
Raymond leaned forward and John caught the wary expression on his face. “I don’t suppose you’ll be dropping those off with me.” He pointed at the guns in both hands.
John laughed. “You’re determined, I’ll give you that.” He glanced down at the shotgun and the rifle. “I’m sorry, Raymond, but we aren’t at your cabin anymore and I don’t need to accommodate your preferences.” But he held out the shotgun. “Here’s an act of goodwill. If you’re feeling randy, you can try to take me out while I’m sleeping. Watch the kick, it can be a doozy.”
Without a word, Raymond took the weapon.
“We need to drive on, find somewhere not far to change that tire.”
Gloria spoke up. “We’ll try to stay straight. Hopefully there’s a parking lot or something not too far.” She leaned across her husband. “Thank you, John.”
He nodded and stepped back, thrown off by her sudden kindness. He turned and headed back to the Jeep. As he opened the door, Tank jumped over Holly in the front seat, diving for John. He nuzzled his chest and licked his face and John used his forearm to ease him back. “Whoa, easy boy. You’re all right.”
