Grace Under Fire Page 15

  Conor stepped over them and placed a follow-up in each man's skull. The pistol was a custom job he’d made in his own shop. He’d taken a Ruger 22/45, a fairly standard pistol that shot .22 caliber rounds, and built an entirely custom top-end for the pistol. The action left no marks on the shell casing that could be traced back to a factory pistol. The barrel had no twist at all and didn’t leave rifling marks. It also had an integral suppressor which reduced the report without adding additional length to the pistol.

  Conor slipped the pistol back in his shorts and immediately regretted it. He cursed and yanked it back out, his flesh already branded. Even with just four shots, hot gases had heated the suppressor. Conor tossed it into the trailer and returned to his business. Not one to dawdle at the scene of trouble, he took the men's camping chairs and dumped them over the side of the bridge. That was followed by rolling the bodies over the rail and pitching the men's rifles in after them. This was not a scavenging mission and taking the extra weight with him would only slow him down.

  “Should’ve chosen curtain number one boys,” he said. “If you’d just let me continue on, none of this would have had to happen. I would have been nothing more to you than a story to tell in the morning.”

  With the path before him cleared, Conor remounted his bicycle and shoved off. He journeyed through the town using the headlamp, continuing to adopt the persona of a cross country bicyclist. When the houses became fewer and more spaced out, he stopped again in the center of the trail, put his tactical vest and gear back on, and replaced the goofy helmet that his daughter had laughed at, dropping his PVS-14 back in front of his eyes. All was right with the world again.

  He whistled a song he knew from his childhood. He no longer knew the words but the tune would never leave him. He found it disturbing that there appeared to be no one else in the town. Despite it being the middle of the night there were no other sentries and no barking dogs. The town seemed abandoned.

  In little more than an hour he passed through the Taylor's Valley community. In the distance he could see men gathered around a bonfire. He pedaled slowly and tried not to alarm them. They appeared to be normal men performing the role of protecting their community. As long as he stayed on his side of the river and they stayed on theirs, he saw no reason their paths should converge.

  He rode another hour, noting that with each passing mile the grade began to climb. Were he just pedaling his bike under normal recreational circumstances he would bear down and pedal harder. These were not normal circumstances. He had the additional weight of his pack, the additional weight of the trailer and the gear inside it, and the weight of the pedal assist motor and the spare batteries, which weighed in at approximately eight pounds all together.

  Between all of it, it was likely he was carrying an additional thirty pounds. There was also the fact that he was neither a triathlete nor a soldier. He was a middle-aged man who spent most of his time tinkering around in a machine shop, although admittedly he had a specialized skill set that made him a little more lethal than most men his age.

  He was pleased with the results of his bike experiment. The assist motor had surpassed his expectations. He pedaled just because it made him feel better, even though he didn’t have to. He made it thirty more minutes past Taylors Valley before the battery finally started to run out. He decided he’d gone far enough for the night. He would stop, rest up, and pick back up in the morning with a fresh battery.

  Even if he pushed himself and traveled on to Grace's house it wasn't like he could just drop in for a social call at this time of night. Those types of calls were usually answered with a gun. He would get up in the morning after a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow he would find his way to Grace’s house and plant himself in a nice concealed position somewhere. He would monitor the house and see what happened. Should he see a happy family, a young girl, and a young man who looked like he just came back from the war, Conor would introduce himself. If he found anything other than that he would have to play it by ear.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Outside of Damascus, VA

  Grace was startled awake by a hand on her shoulder. Her eyes shot open and she reached for her Glock.

  "Easy. It's just me."

  She breathed a little easier, felt her heart rate slowing down.

  "I tried to be gentle," Tom said. “I guess there’s no easy to way to wake a sleeping bear.”

  "When I wake up, the world comes crashing down on me," Grace said. "There's this surge of panic about everything going on and everything I have to do."

  "I'll try to find a gentler way next time," Tom said. "Maybe I’ll sing you a song.”

  “Only if you can sing.”

  Tom’s face clouded. “It won’t be tomorrow morning. You’ll probably be waking up alone."

  She sat up. "What's the matter?"

  He gestured at his track chair.

  "It's dead?"

  He nodded. "Yeah, it was dead last night. I wanted to think that overnight some helpful little elves may come in and replace the battery but it didn't happen."

  "That would've been nice."

  "I've already got the solar charger going but there’s not a lot of sun yet. I don't have a lot of experience charging it with the panel so I have no idea how long it will take."

  Grace saw a mix of emotions on his face. There was disappointment and frustration. There was also fear, but she was certain it was not fear for himself. If was fear for her going on alone.

  "I'm sorry,” he said.

  "No, I'm sorry. I feel bad about leaving you behind. I feel like we’re supposed to be doing this together. Still, I feel like I have to get to my mom and brother."

  Tom scooted closer and put an arm around her. "Don't worry about me. The thing we talked about, about focusing on your mission, that's where your head needs to be right now. I’ll be okay. Trust me when I say that I’ve been in way worse places under much worse conditions."

  Tom could tell Grace was mentally pulling herself together, steeling herself for what she had to do. She returned his hug then stood, stretched, and assessed her physical condition. There was a little soreness in her legs and feet. Too much running with too much gear. She also felt a little dehydrated.

  "I need to fill up my water," she said. Tom held up two quart Gatorade bottles full of water. "Already filtered your water for you."

  Grace used old Gatorade bottles because they were lighter than Nalgene bottles. She usually carried a full one in her Go Bag and any empty one she could fill up if she needed to.

  "I used your Sawyer filter."

  "I appreciate that. How long have you been awake?"

  Tom shrugged. “An hour I guess."

  Grace looked around as if surprised by that. “I must've been tired," she said. "I'm usually more sensitive to noise and light."

  "You blew through a lot of adrenaline and energy yesterday."

  "If I’m that well-rested, I guess I don't have any excuse for not getting on the trail as soon as possible. She took the two water bottles from him, stowed them in her bag, then looked around to make sure she had all of her other gear. "I'm just taking my bivy sack," she said. “I'll leave the tarp and ground cloth with you.”

  “Thanks,” Tom said.

  When she was certain she had all the rest of her gear, Grace slung her pack over her back. She re-holstered the Glock 19 that had been in her bivy sack with her. Finally, she slung her AR pistol sling around her neck and an arm.

  "I guess this is it for a little bit, Tom. I…like you." She wanted to say more, maybe even wanted to say she loved him, but it seemed too soon. Maybe it was just the circumstances and not even real. She didn’t know.

  She bent down and kissed him. Despite it feeling right, it was still an awkward gesture for her. She held her emotions tight to her, and rarely shared much of what she was feeling with people. That she was opening up to this man felt strange to her.

  When she pulled away she noted the look on his face. He also seemed to b
e in unfamiliar territory. She broke the awkward moment by saying, "I'll see you later."

  She double-timed it down the connector trail from their campsite, watching carefully for roots and snags, rejoining the Creeper Trail after about thirty feet. As long as she didn't encounter any obstacles, she could make good time on this flat, smooth trail. Grace often ran in the morning so it felt natural for her to be up and running before she was even fully awake.

  She preferred to run on an empty stomach, wanting to train her body to fuel itself with fat stores rather than from the sugar in her bloodstream after a meal, although she didn't feel as light and carefree as when she ran in school. Normally, back in Oxford, she ran with minimal gear. Beneath her running shirt she wore an elastic belly band with a pouch for a compact .380 pistol. She also carried an iPod, her room key, a water bottle, and her debit card. Together it was enough to get her home in a pinch.

  Now she carried her Go Bag which she estimated to be about eighteen pounds with the two full bottles of water. The spare ammo added significant weight. She also had her Glock with its paddle holster. While the paddle holster was a comfortable way to wear a pistol, it was not particularly a comfortable way to run wearing a pistol. If she ran all the way home, the paddle holster would definitely be leaving some marks. Her hiking boots were heavier than the lightweight Solomon Speedcross running shoes she wore back at home. Then there was the AR pistol. It required two hands to hold in order to keep it from bouncing.

  She ran at a jogging pace for about thirty minutes before she took her first break. It was already humid when she woke up and she was now soaked in sweat. She drank as much as she could tolerate, understanding that she still had a hydration deficit from yesterday, besides what she had already sweated out this morning. She walked while she rehydrated to keep her muscles limber.

  Ahead, she saw the trail sign indicating a side trail off of the Creeper Trail. It was a connector trail that led to the Appalachian Trail or the Iron Mountain Trail, depending on which way you went. She hadn’t considered taking that trail but maybe it would be quicker. It would be rougher than the one she was on now but would eventually lead her to a campground. If she cut through the campground and got on the road there, she might get home sooner.

  Grace tucked her water bottle in the pocket of her pack and turned off onto the spur trail. She accelerated to a steady jog, the slap of her feet on the trail matching the pounding of her heart in her chest. The steady rush of her breathing was almost mechanical. She established a routine of running for several minutes, then slowing to a walk to let her heartrate recover. When it slowed back to within range, she would start running again.

  While she continued her physical training in Mississippi, it was not the same as running back there at home. The Mississippi heat and humidity were devastating, but the streets of Oxford were relatively flat. The trails of Damascus were anything but. Her family’s home was several thousand feet above the elevation of the town. There was no way to get there but up. Any plateaus in the trail merely offered short respite from the climb. The only variation seem to be that the trail was sometimes a shallow incline and other times a steep incline, but it was always going in the same direction.

  Up.

  She had been running for nearly an hour when she approached a campground several miles out of town. In the summer the campground was sometimes the base camp for people that came to the area for mountain biking, hiking, or trout fishing. Grace assumed that under these circumstances the campground would be empty. Anyone staying there would have tried to get home when things got bad.

  She was surprised when she ran up the trail that offered her a vista of the campground to find it was anything but empty. The place looked like a refugee camp. She nearly skidded to a halt. Were these more of the armed backpackers from town?

  She retrieved the monocular from her pack, bracing it against the limb of a tree to get a steadier view and determine what was going on there. She saw a few RVs and travel trailers, but also tents and blue tarps strung up over taut ropes. Clothes hung from sagging clotheslines stretched from tree to tree. Could these be refugees from the town? Had these people been forced out of town when the sheriff was killed?

  Uncertain who these people were, and not seeing anyone that she recognized, Grace chose to skirt the campground as discreetly as possible. She wasn’t carrying much in the way of resources but she still didn’t want it stolen. If she ran into these people, she had no idea if they would allow her to go on her way or if they were the kind of people who would take the things she carried on her back.

  She stashed the monocular in the cargo pocket of her pants and flipped her AR pistol off safety. She had no idea what lay ahead of her but she wanted to be ready for it. Aware that the scuffing of her shoes on the trail might draw attention if she kept running, she decided she would need to proceed cautiously until she was well beyond the campground. She didn’t know who might be out wandering around in the woods.

  Even though she wasn’t running any longer, the muscles of her legs were fatigued. The trail around the campground presented a steep climb with lots of rocks and roots. She topped a nearby ridge, nearly to the main road, and started down the other side. She finally felt safe enough to pick up her pace again. She clutched her weapon across her chest and began jogging. She made it about seventy-five yards down the trail before she heard a loud voice call to her.

  “HEY!”

  She froze in her tracks, her eyes scanning around her, but she saw nothing. Her heart raced.

  “Get back to camp!” a voice boomed. “You’ll scare away the game.”

  The realization hit her like a bucket of cold water. She spun and stared upward. There, in a tree high above her, was a hunter’s tree stand, a man in camouflage standing on the platform glaring down at her.

  When her eyes met his, she saw two things on his face. First, the realization that he did not recognize her from the campground. Second, that she carried a weapon.

  The man threw his scoped bolt-action rifle to his shoulder and tried to find her in the magnified image of his scope. Using a simple red dot optic with no magnification, Grace had an advantage in acquiring her target. She threw her AR pistol up, backpedaling, and placing the red dot on the man’s center mass. She felt for the safety, then remembered she’d already taken it off earlier.

  She double-tapped the trigger just as her foot caught a rock and she fell backwards, her body jolting hard when she landed on the rock. Her head hit something—a rock, the ground, a log—she didn’t know. The pistol fell from her hands, though still secured by the single-point sling, it didn’t go far.

  She struggled to get her hands on the grip of the weapon and get it back on the target. When she had the weapon back in her control and found the hunter in the optic, she was just in time to see the man pitch forward and drop. She was certain he was going to land on her and fought back a scream. He only made it a couple of feet before his safety harness caught him.

  His fall was arrested so hard that blood sprayed from his mouth, falling on Grace like a cursed rain. He hung there, kicking weakly, and bleeding out. He was trying to talk, extending a hand to Grace, but she would be no help to this man.

  She struggled to her feet, slightly dizzy, her adrenaline racing. She fought to get her thoughts under control. Would people come running up the trail after her or would they assume that the hunter just took a shot at a deer? She wasted no more time thinking, launching herself down the trail without even a glance back.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Hardwick Farm

  Paul sat in the living room of the Hardwicks' home staring at the pill bottle in his hand. He was sitting on their comfortable couch with his shoes propped on their coffee table. It was the same bottle he’d taken from Teresa Hardwick’s nightstand. It had her name on it and said No Refills. Every so often he would shake it, disappointed at the insubstantial rattle that came from it. This was not enough pills to keep him and Debbie going. Hell, it wasn’t enough
pills to keep him going by himself.

  He’d dumped out everything in the bathroom, raked out the medicine cabinet, and emptied every drawer into the floor. He’d dumped out everything in the hall closet, gone through every kitchen cabinet drawer. He could not find any more pain pills. Maybe they didn’t have them. Or maybe they were behind that locked door with them in the basement. Then there was the whole issue of that room in the basement. How could he even snort a pill and relax with those folks down there? If he were to get high and nod off on the couch, he could wake up with his throat slit or a gun to his head.

  At the same time, it would suck to leave this house. He’d never seen a place set up so nicely for the current situation. Most of the things in the house seemed to work. The house had something called solar power but he didn’t have any idea how it all worked. He only knew you could watch DVD movies, drink cold beer, and microwave food. Even the bathrooms worked.

  He had a lot to think about. He needed a plan and he wasn’t a man used to making plans. There was a lot of food in the house, though he suspected much of it was locked up in the basement with those people. Maybe he could trade some of the food in the house for better drugs. He’d even considered the idea of letting some folks come live with them if they provided the dope. He would provide the power and a roof over their heads. He could provide food, they could provide the buzz. If Paul couldn’t have a buzz most days, the rest of those things didn’t matter to him. What good were the basics if you couldn’t get high?

  Even though he was a drug user, he didn't feel like you could trust most druggies. They weren’t a demographic known for the trustworthiness. It wasn't like he was a silver-plated example of honor and integrity, but what would he do if he invited somebody to come live with them and they tried to take over the place? He’d always considered himself a lover and not a fighter, so it wasn't like he could just whip out some ninja skills and take them out. He just didn't know what to do.