by Andrew Allan
DG appeared intrigued.
“Fastest route to get you back west.” Ornel looked at me, “So you can take care of those sonsofbitches hassling you.”
“Why you doin’ this?” said DG. There was no charity in his world.
Ornel shrugged. “I like you. Could tell you’re the real deal. Besides, I don’t want you hanging around here. No biker likes lingering strangers, do they?”
“No,” said DG. “What else you want?”
Ornel tilted his head as if considering how to phrase his request. Then, he smiled and pointed to Ilsa.
“A little slice of that pie before you go.”
Say, what?
“That won’t be happening,” I said.
Ornel frowned. His boys frowned and straightened, ready to fight.
“Sorry. Can’t do that. Not with what they’re going through,” said DG.
But, it would be fine at a better time? DG and I needed to have a talk.
Ornel sneered.
“I’m just messing’ with ya.” Ornel smiled.
Rip pulled a gun and fired it at Ilsa.
She screamed and dropped.
DG kicked Rip’s arm. The next shot went up in the ceiling.
Topper and I looked at each other. Neither knew what was going on or what we should do.
“There!” Ornel pulled a gun from somewhere and fired out the front window. “See if there’s more.”
Topper turned from me and pulled his own pistol. He took cover and aimed at the front window.
I ducked by the couch and stole a glance out the window—a man outside with a gun, denim clad, dashed behind a pine tree.
“You know them?” said DG.
Ornel shook his head. “Anyone chasing you?”
DG looked at me. Ornel caught it. “Who are they?”
“Long story,” I said.
“How we know you ain’t the bad guys,” said Rip.
“These are the motherfuckers who blew up my house twice,” said DG. “Have at ‘em.”
“Why’d they do that?” said Rip.
“They were trying to kill me,” I said.
“Musta pissed them off pretty bad.”
“Yes. Yes, I did.”
“Another over here!”
Topper fired out the back door. Two, three, four shots.
Ilsa crawled to me.
“There’s one,” said DG.
Rip and Ornel fired. A man yelped outside.
Ornel said to Rip, “Check the back rooms.”
DG said, “Don’t look like Kith.”
I said, “They’ve been hiring people. Militia assassin types. Got one in Georgia.”
Ilsa gave me a look. Had I killed someone? I shook my head. Not what you think.
Ilsa said, “How did they find us?”
“I’m sure it’s Walt’s fault,” said DG.
Gunshots blasted in the back room.
Bullets blasted out the small front door windows.
I pulled Ilsa into the hall closet.
The door kicked in. A man jumped in with a shotgun. Ornel blew him back out the door. His pistol clicked.
Another man jumped in. I tackled him against the wall. DG ran over and put his neck into some kind of lock.
Rip yanked an extension cord out from behind the TV and looped it around the man’s neck. He pulled tight and held the slack like a leash while the invader’s face purpled.
Definitely a Kith hire—thunderbolts on his arm. Hate on his face.
Ilsa kicked the front door closed.
“He’s just like the one I dealt with in Georgia and Ocala,” I said. “How’d you find us?”
“Found ya boat, boy.”
DG gave me a look. No time for arguing.
“How many more you got outside?” said Ornel.
“Enough.”
Rip yanked the cord. “Talk!”
The captive gagged. “We got a bounty on him.”
DG said, “You ain’t gonna collect it.”
I said, “Those people you’re dealing with. They’re going to kill you soon as you kill me. That’s how they work.”
Ornel gave me a look. For true?
I nodded.
Ornel said, “It’s not too late to parley. You call your man in, maybe we settle this up without anymore killin’.”
The captive looked away like he was done talking to this bunch of cretins.
Rip tugged the cord. “Choke or talk?”
Ornel snapped a fresh magazine into his pistol and stood over the captive. “Call your boy.”
The captive waved surrender.
Rip loosened the cord.
DG looked to me then the front door. Make a run?
The captive rubbed his neck, coughed.
Ornel put the gun to his head.
“They got us, Clint. We gon’ talk it over.”
No response.
Topper watched the backyard. “I don’t see him.”
From outside: “Let me see you, Kenny.”
Topper tried to place the direction of the voice.
Ilsa huddled close.
DG looked out the kitchen window. “Gotta be behind the shed.”
“Better not shoot my bikes.” Ornel cocked the gun.
“Ain’t a joke, Clint. Hurry. They took out Denny and Hoke. I got a gun to my head.”
Everyone watched for movement in the yard.
“There he is,” said Topper. “He’s runnin’ away. Look.” He pointed to the distance.
DG saw it.
Ornel walked over to the window and laughed. “That how you patriots gonna defend our country?”
Kenny the captive looked pissed.
Rip re-cinched the rope.
Ornel said, “He could be runnin’ to get more help. Means you better clear out.”
“What about him?” I said.
Ornel ignored the question. “Top, take these people to their truck and show them how we get to Dunnellon.”
Topper nodded. “Come on,” he said and hurried down the steps.
As we walked out the door, Ornel kicked Kenny and said, “We gon’ teach you some visiting manners, boy.”
DG fetched his truck. Topper opened a gate and let him drive onto the property and over to a back road. We climbed in and Topper climbed onto his own 1970s modified Harley. He roared off, and we followed.
The Coffin Kicker’s distribution route began with a series of alleyways behind houses. Topper turned into a patch of woods. I presumed these were foresting roads. But, the road just kept going. And soon, we were making tracks. Due to the woods being so dense, the trail was clear save for small, scattered branches and leaves. Yes, trees had fallen. But, rather than lie flat across the road, they leaned against their counterparts, keeping our path clear. It was brilliant.
Everyone in the truck sat quiet. We were still unsettled by the attack at Ornel’s. I was spooked by the fact the Kith seemed to be able to find us just about anywhere.
We reached Starke, a short ways northeast of Gainesville. It was still home to Florida State Prison and not far from where I battled the Kith’s demented executioners to the death. Death loomed.
Topper pulled over and DG pulled even.
“Keep heading that way,” said Topper. “You’ll cross 301, then it’s farm roads for the next forty some miles. Just look for the coffin markings.” He pointed to a small wood marker staked into the side of the road. There was a coffin on it, just like the logo on their vests. The marker was defaced by years of biker graffiti. But, the message remained clear: Keep on smugglin’.
“Thanks, brother,” said DG.
Topper nodded. He revved his engine.
DG revved his.
And, off we went.
50
WE REACHED THE outskirts of Dunnellon.
DG pulled over.
The three of us agreed that Dunnellon was going to be under heavy surveillance. County cops, state authorities, and maybe even Feds all swirling. And, presumably, Stokely was o
n the hunt.
But, were they watching the river? That was where the lockbox holding Ilsa’s phone was hidden. And, the part of the river where it was submerged wasn’t far from DG’s house. A place we felt certain they’d be keeping an eye on.
DG said the river was the one place he trusted to keep certain valuables that he couldn’t deposit in a bank and which he didn’t want around the house. And, that would be if he trusted banks, which he didn’t. So, he had created this system years ago. Said it worked to perfection. Authorities would never find it. And, enemies could never get to it.
I asked why it was so important to put Ilsa’s phone in there. He said he didn’t want the cops getting anywhere near her phone. He believed the water prevented any kind of tracking. He didn’t know. Besides, he had other shit he needed to put in there and he had her phone and that was that.
Now, we needed to raise the watertight box off the riverbed and get to Ilsa’s phone. I’d forward the blueprints to Stokely and follow up with a call.
“You swim right?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Hold your breath long?” said DG.
“Long enough.”
“Then, down you go.”
“Fine. How do we get there?”
He didn’t have an answer for that.
We couldn’t just take a boat or canoe or paddleboard. We could swim, but we’d have to go at night. And, it’d be pretty cold this time of year. Plus, once we swam downstream, how would we get back upstream to the truck? And, oh hey, how about the dozens of alligators?
Ilsa said, “Why don’t we just take out the police who are watching that area?”
DG and I looked at her with blank expressions.
“What happened to Mrs. Don’t Kill Anybody?” I said.
“I didn’t say kill them.”
There was plenty of acid in her tone to make me realize we were still going to have relationship issues once the Kith dust settled.
“I just mean knock them out or something to give us time to get the box.”
“That’s a felony or some shit,” said DG.
She gave him a like-you-care stare.
“Just saying,” he said. “Look, we might be able to sneak close though the woods, as long as we can get close and not have to walk the entire forest. Best approach is the west side of the river. You know where the old barn is? North of us?”
I did and I nodded. It was a ramshackle structure that still found a way to stand despite years of neglect and Florida weather.
“Let’s park there and I bet we can cut through to the water just up from where I sank the box.”
“That how you normally get to the box?”
“No, I canoe over. It’s just across the water from my house.”
Made sense, except, “West side means cruising down Main Street,” I said. That was very risky.
“It’s our only chance,” said DG.
Ilsa nodded. What did she care? She wasn’t the most wanted man in the South.
“Let’s try it. Even if they catch me, I can point Stokely to the box,” I said.
DG snorted and spit. “Prefer you didn’t. Got a few private things in there. I’ll get the phone and send the picture.”
Water drizzled over the windows, obscuring the view.
“Hey, I have an idea,” said DG.
He peeled onto the highway, sending sod flaps flying. Five minutes later we pulled onto a rural property north of town, just off Highway 41, in what technically constituted a small town named “Romeo.” DG pointed that out. I had never heard of Romeo despite living fifteen minutes away. That’s how small it was.
“Stay here.”
DG got out of the truck and ran up to the house. He knocked on the door. Someone answered and he disappeared inside.
Raindrops knocked against the truck roof.
I turned to Ilsa. “I just want to restate I haven’t killed anyone since this started that wasn’t in self-defense.”
She gave me a bitter look. Was I quibbling?
“I didn’t kill the governor.”
“I know. You told me.”
Silence. Why had she gotten irritated all of a sudden?
“Why would you think I wanted to kill police officers?” she said.
That was why.
“I didn’t.”
“That’s what you presumed. I am not a killer. I just—it was the one time and that wasn’t me. It was.…”
She turned away as a tear spilled out. She was still struggling with her last encounter with the Kith. Overcome with guilt, even though she shot Rogers Aufderheide as he was about to shoot me. She felt remorse even though she saved my life.
Did she feel guilt for saving my life?
That was a heavy thought. It would have prevented the trouble we were in now. She could simply have mourned me and moved on. If I thought too hard on it, I would have come unglued mentally.
“You’re not a killer,” I said.
The words sounded hollow, but they had to be said.
She nodded as she dabbed her eyes. “Are you?”
“No. I’m a survivor.”
DG opened the driver’s side door. “Come on.”
We stepped out of the truck.
DG led us around the side of the house. He shook out a set of keys and climbed into a big, blocky truck. The side of the door had a decal that read Mid-Florida Power & Light. And, there was a man lift on the back.
“Now, that’s fucking brilliant,” I said.
DG smiled. The rascal was back to doing what he did best—pulling fast ones and making things happen.
I opened the door for Ilsa. She kissed my cheek just before climbing in. File under—just what I needed.
A power truck was the perfect cover during a hurricane. It would get us as close as we needed to the river.
“How come he wasn’t out working?” I said.
“He can’t be up in the lift while it’s still storming”
“He’ll need it soon,” said Ilsa.
“He’ll have it back soon.”
DG drove the truck off the property and towards Dunnellon. At the first sign of an oncoming car, I ducked in the seat. Why take chances? The car passed. And, that was the last incident we had on the way to our destination, which was at the back cul-de-sac of a neighborhood that ran along the Rainbow River. It wasn’t far from the headspring.
“Watch this.” DG had excitement in his eyes.
He hopped out, walked to the back of the truck, and climbed into the lift bucket. He fiddled with the controls, and then rose. He elevated a good twenty feet. The lift arm wavered a bit from wind.
“What do you see,” said Ilsa.
DG rotated the bucket, goosing the lift higher to see past trees and houses.
“There.” He pointed southeast. “I see it.”
“See what?”
“Where we need to go.”
DG worked the controls and brought the bucket down. He climbed out, dropped to the ground and looked around. “We can cut that way, down the river. I could see cops close to my house. Not far from the box.”
“Will we be able to get it?” I said.
“Reckon so.”
“How do we get to the river?” said Ilsa.
“This way.”
We cut between houses and walked across connected backyards that ran along the water. We were exposed, a bit much for my taste these days. But, it felt good to be back here. It was motivating; we could enjoy this place if we could stop the Kith.
Getting the blueprints to Stokely would be a major step forward. Finding out where they were building the complex designed in those blueprints would be bigger. But, the answer might come soon.
This storm had been whipping Florida. But, had it caused the kind of damage the Kith required for their plans? If not, would it delay their Rebatina build? Was that good or bad? Would it be better if they were able to start building now so we had a tangible target to aim for? Would that give Stokely more of the proof he n
eeded?
If he still trusted me. I needed to get a call off to him soon.
My wet shoes got wetter as we navigated the thick, mucky grass. Squish, squish. Nobody on the river. An unusual sight.
The dark sky brought out the warm light from inside the houses we passed. People didn’t seem to be paying much attention to what was going on outside. No faces in the windows.
DG stopped and hunched behind a bush. He locked in on something.
“There’s one of ‘em right there.”
“Where?” I leaned in.
DG pointed.
A police officer was perched on a dock wearing a dark green poncho, shotgun in hand.
“Bet they got cops stationed all down the river,” said DG.
“Think there are any the other way?”
He looked back, didn’t see any police up there.
“No. Your house is still like a mile or two down the road. That’s probably all the perimeter they need.”
“On both sides of the water,” I said.
He nodded. “And, around my place.”
“And, where’s the box?”
He pointed to a fallen tree half submerged in the water. “See that tree? In the water? It’s anchored below that.”
It was well within view of the police officer.
“How are we supposed to get it without getting noticed?”
“Let’s cross there. He won’t spot us. Then, we cut over and come up behind the log.”
“You don’t think he’ll see us?”
DG shrugged. “Best I can do. How about next time you don’t put us all in another shitty jam?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said.
“Let’s go.”
We trudged back up the river, away from the fallen log, far enough to let the natural bend in the river obscure us from the police officer on duty. From there it was easy: we dive in, swim across, and climb out on the other side.
DG left his wallet and the keys with Ilsa.
We peeled down to just pants.
Ilsa put everything in a tidy pile.
“See you soon,” I said and kissed her.
“Be smart,” she said.
DG and I climbed down the side of a dock into the water. Cool, but refreshing. Always the case with the Rainbow. 72 degrees, all year long.
The swim was an escape. Floating, not feeling the pressures of my tired body. This water always revived.
