by Rachel Aukes
Bounty Hunter
Lone Gunfighter of the Wastelands
Rachel Aukes
BOUNTY HUNTER
Bounty Hunter series, book 1
Copyright 2020 Rachel Aukes
All rights reserved.
Waypoint Books LLC
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by Francois Vaillaincourt
Edited by Thalia Sutton and Kriegler Editing Services
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Epilogue
Message from the Author
Available to Pre-Order Now
Also by Rachel Aukes
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
The world went down the crapper a long time ago. It all happened before Joe Ballast’s time, and he only cared about things that impacted him now, like who was going to try to shoot him next…
Joe crossed the crusty dirt road, and a couple passing nearby hastened to put distance between them. He paid this no heed—he was used to drawing such attention when he was working. After all, a bounty hunter in a helmet and full body armor stood out when most could barely afford a pair of shoes. However, common folk tended to overestimate their sins; they feared Joe was there for them, when the truth was that they had nothing to worry about unless they found themselves on the wrong side of someone rich enough to buy the services of a hunter.
Today’s target, though, had managed to do just that.
Narrow Pass looked identical to every other one-tavern town he’d been through. The saloon was the place to go for information, and Joe was always in need of information. Fortunately, in the wastelands, there was no such thing as a no-tavern town.
He stopped in front of the dome-shaped tavern. Old pictures of Earth showed vibrant greens and blues; they must’ve been altered because Earth was now just three shades: rusty, dirty, and filthy.
He stepped inside and headed straight for the bar. Three men playing poker watched him, though he was careful not to look at them directly. He’d learned it was always better to ignore locals.
The bartender didn’t look up from pulling a draught. “What’ll ya have, buddy?”
“A beer,” Joe replied.
The bartender grabbed another glass and slid it under the tap as soon as the first was full. The hunter waited, casually keeping his eye on the poker table in the mirror behind the bar. The cards were laid flat on the table—the three players’ expressions said they most definitely weren’t going to ask him to join in for a hand.
He was used to being on the receiving end of acidic glares. For most, the bounty hunter guilds were the closest thing to law enforcement in the wastelands, but the hunters were often barely a step above—and just as often a step below—the criminals they captured. He’d met more than a few hunters who used their licenses as an excuse to kill. But he’d met plenty of semi-decent bounty hunters as well. He placed himself somewhere in the middle, though he had to admit to himself that was being generous.
The bartender set the beer down and gave Joe a once over. He scowled and pulled the beer away. “Sorry, we’re all out of beer.”
“Oh really?” Joe eyed the one he’d just set behind him.
The bartender nodded toward the poker table. “That’s for one of them.”
“Then I’ll take a whiskey,” Joe said.
“We’re out of that, too.”
“Then I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”
“We’re all out of everything. You might want to check the next town over…” The bartender crossed his arms over his chest. He squinted his gaze on the nameplate emblazoned on the front of Joe’s armor. “Havoc.”
Joe heard the chairs slide away from the poker table. He dropped one hand to his holster. With the other, he pulled out a picture of his target and slid it across the bar with a coin. “I’m looking for someone.”
“You guys always are,” the bartender said with ice hanging from each word.
“This particular someone goes by the name of Edward Sikes. He’s been seen at this establishment more than once in the past week.”
The bartender glanced down at the picture. Recognition flickered in his eyes, but he shut it down fast. “Sorry, I can’t help ya. I’ve never seen that fella before in my life.”
Joe set another coin on top of the first and tapped them. “You sure about that? Sometimes folks don’t recognize someone until they recognize someone.”
The man’s eyes returned to the picture.
A hand grabbed the hunter’s shoulder.
Joe didn’t turn around. “I just polished that, and sure dislike getting fingerprints on it, so I’d remove that hand if you want to keep it, friend.”
The hand stayed. “A hunter with a red cape who went by the name of Havoc took my brother four months back. You remember Nate Gillett?”
“Nope. Can’t say I do. Should I?”
Joe did remember: Gillett was an alcoholic and a wife-beater. It was one of those tickets the hunter would’ve preferred to bring in dead, except that the dead only brought half-price.
“Nate’s innocent, yet he’s still stuck in that stink hole called a prison camp down in Cavil.”
Joe chuckled. “Every person I have a ticket for has said they’re innocent. Most are liars. Like your brother.”
He heard the sounds of blasters being pulled from their holsters. Being a bounty hunter was like being a rabbit caught in a den of wolves, only this rabbit had armor and a blaster.
The grip on his shoulder tightened and swung him around. As Joe spun, he brought up his own blaster and fired the instant he faced the G
illett brother. The energy beam shot right through the center of the man’s chest; he was dead before his brain even registered that he’d been shot. The other two men seemed surprised, and Joe burned holes through their chests before either man could reclaim his senses and fire.
Some folks would call Joe a murderer for killing men who hadn’t fired and maybe never would’ve. As his war buddies used to say, a shot in time saves nine…or at least one in this case, with that one being Joe. He’d much rather have people think poorly of him than be dead.
He turned and set his blaster on the bar, barrel pointing at the bartender, whose eyes had gone wide with fear.
“Let’s try this again. Where is he?” Joe tapped the picture.
The bartender’s arm seemed like it weighed a hundred pounds considering how he struggled to raise it. He pointed a shaky finger to the back hallway. “K-kitchen.”
“There. Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Joe pocketed the picture. He could’ve taken the coins back, the bartender wouldn’t have stopped him, but Joe left the credits, considering the business he’d just lost. People didn’t like to socialize around dead bodies unless they were at a funeral, though Joe never understood the rationale behind that. Dead was dead in his book.
He took cautious, deliberate steps down the hallway. Chances were, his target had heard the commotion—it hadn’t been much of a “fight”—and taken off running. But, approaching the kitchen brought music, a folksy dance tune with heavy drums to help keep the beat. A man was singing along to the words, though it was more like he was punishing the air with his vocal cords.
Joe grimaced. What was it about the worst singers being the loudest? His target deserved to be arrested if for no other reason than assault to public ears.
Joe slowed to a stop before the open doorway. He listened but could only make out the sounds of one person working. Holding his blaster at the ready, he rushed through the doorway and into the kitchen. The lone man had his back to him and continued to sing/yodel/rap as he peeled potatoes.
Joe took several steps closer before he spoke, keeping his blaster leveled on his target. “Edward Sikes, I have a ticket for your arrest.”
The man turned, saw Joe, and let out an “Eep!”
He launched a potato at Joe. Joe ducked. “Stop that!”
Sikes didn’t.
Chapter Two
Sikes sprang through the kitchen’s back door into the alley outside. Sikes was tall and wiry and surprisingly fast, and he turned a corner before Joe could take a shot.
Dry lightning flashed in the distance. Joe grimaced. The winds would be kicking up every speck of dust in the next hour or two, making it impossible to find anyone or anything.
“I should’ve shot him in the leg,” Joe muttered to himself as he gave chase. The ticket paid the full amount for targets as long as they were alive, and this one should’ve been easy. Sikes was a simple bail skip; the guy made the poor decision to leave town rather than stand up in front of the local MRC administrator for stealing a measly fifty bucks from a general store.
The MRC—Monuments Republic Command—started off as loosely connected rebel groups who united and won the Revolution against the Zenith State. After the war, the murcs—the term used for anyone and anything associated with the MRC—ended up as the new government across the wastelands. Though, the term “government” was a loose one, as the murcs did little more than charge taxes and install administrators (the politically correct term for their tax collectors, judges, and juries) in each town.
Funny thing—it took fewer than five years for the rebels to become the corrupt government they’d replaced, without changing a single philosophy.
Guys like Edward Sikes weren’t fighters—they’d turn tail and run any time the cards weren’t in their favor. It was stupid of Joe to think the guy wouldn’t have run, and he scolded himself for not being better prepared.
Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned to see Sikes make his way through the town’s general store. Sikes could’ve gotten away if he’d stayed hidden. Moving made him dumber than a cow. Joe sprinted to the store and swung open the door. Sikes saw him and turned to run again.
“If you run, I will kill you,” Joe growled.
Sikes cringed like he hadn’t considered that possibility. “Please don’t shoot me.”
Joe walked toward the other man, keeping his shocker leveled. He glanced at the store owner, who held up her hands.
“Just take him and go,” she chattered.
“That’s my plan,” he stated firmly, turning back to his bounty. “Edward Sikes, like I said before, I have a ticket for your arrest.”
“I didn’t do it. You have the wrong guy,” Sikes pleaded.
“So you didn’t skip out on your judgment date for robbing a store?”
Sikes gulped. “No?” His response sounded more like a question than an answer. As he found his courage, he added, “It was all just a misunderstanding; you have to believe me. I tried to tell the clerk that, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“That’s for the murc to decide.” Joe pulled out a pair of restraints. “Hold out your hands.”
Sikes did as instructed, but he continued to talk. “I have four kids at home. I’m all they’ve got. If you take me, they’ll starve.”
“Oh yeah?” Joe asked in a conversational tone. “Your sheet says you’ve got no kids.” He grabbed one of the man’s wrists and wrapped the restraint around it.
“That’s because they’re my brother’s kids. My late brother’s kids.”
“Your sheet also says you’re the only kid of Edward and Jane Sikes.” Joe pulled the other wrist behind the target’s back and cuffed it.
“They’re my illegitimate late brother’s kids,” Sikes added.
“Sure they are. What are their names?”
“Their names?” Sikes paused. “Annie, Brady, Katie, and Tommy.”
Joe smirked. He gave the skip credit for ingenuity, but he’d heard better stories while on the job. He pushed Sikes. “Walk.”
As they passed the counter, Joe stopped. “Hold on.” He then reached over and grabbed a teddy bear wearing a big hat. He held it up to the store owner. “How much?”
“Just take it,” she said.
Joe shook his head and motioned to Sikes. “He’s the thief, not me.”
She swallowed. “Th-three credits.”
He pulled out three small coins and dropped them on the counter. He slid the doll into his belt and pressed Sikes forward.
“Who’s the bear for?” Sikes asked. “Is it for your kid? What’s their name?”
Joe didn’t answer.
“What’s it like having kids and being a bounty hunter? I bet it’s tough when you’re never home. I bet it’s even tougher on the missus. Or mister, whatever works for you.”
Joe scowled. Nervous talkers were nearly as annoying as the ones who were constantly trying to escape.
Sikes looked over his shoulder. “Havoc? That’s your bounty hunter name, right? Did you get to pick it, or did it come with the suit?”
They exited the general store, and Joe led them to his cutter, which he called Monster. A few townsfolk had come outside to see who was being taken. In a town the size of Narrow Pass, he suspected gossip traveled at roughly twice the speed of sound.
“Why do you bounty hunters cover yourselves from head to toe? Is it because you’re scarred or something?” A moment later, Sikes perked up. “Oh, I get it. It’s protection for your families. I could see some bad fellas out there who might not be too keen on you all. Not that I’m one of them. I’d never think of hurting your family.”
“It’s armor, plain and simple,” Joe stated shortly. Too bad his helmet didn’t include a feature to mute everything around him. He herded his catch to the back of his vehicle.
“Armor? Yeah, that makes sense. Is your armor blaster proof?”
Joe opened the back of his rig.
Sikes saw the cage, cringed, and turned to
face Joe. “How about I ride up front with you? I promise I won’t try anything. You have my word.”
Joe holstered his blaster, swung, and knocked Sikes out cold. “That’s for making me run after you.”
Chapter Three
Cat leaned back onto her desk, arms crossed over her chest. The old gunshot scar in her knee had been throbbing for the past three hours, which meant a storm would be coming through soon. She didn’t acknowledge the pain—she knew better than to show any hint of weakness in front of bounty hunters, especially ones from another guild.
She gave a nod to the pair of hunters who worked for her. Both wore full exoshields—the armored suit worn by hunters for protection—though she’d seen their faces before. The smaller man’s armor was polished to a golden sheen, while his partner’s armor was as rough as his personality, and their callsigns were boldly printed on their chest plates. Their armor bore the Haft Agency logo on their biceps, but everyone in that room knew they really worked for her.
