Defiance (The Defending Home Series Book 1) (10 page)

Dale held a fist down by his side, a signal for Duke to stay back and stay quiet. The intruder with the AK moved into the kitchen while the other came around through the living room. They were separated, which was good, but they were about to catch him in a pincer. If that happened, Dale wouldn’t have a chance.

The gunman was in the kitchen and didn’t have an angle. Dale sprang up and aimed the barrel of his shotgun at the other guy and fired a deafening blast toward the light on his head. The man with the pistol barely had time to react before his head disappeared in a fine red mist and the rest of him went tumbling to the floor.

His ears still ringing, Dale caught the sound of a man shouting in Spanish, heavy footsteps charging his way. But before he could swing the shotgun around, a machete-wielding attacker bore down on him from the rear. Within three strides, Duke was leaping through the air, locking his powerful jaws around the hand with the blade. The attacker screamed and fell on his back as Duke shredded the man’s tendons.

Both of them were still out of sight from the guy with the rifle, but that didn’t stop him from shooting wildly, blowing quarter-sized holes through the wall that separated them. Dale racked his shotgun and rolled out from cover.

In spite of the blinding headlamp, the flash of his rifle illuminated his face and Dale saw for the first time that he was Mexican. Dale pulled the trigger on the shotgun, hitting the vent above the stove, creating an explosion of sparks. The man with the AK had a bead on him when the rifle clicked empty. A quick look of panic flashed across his face as he ducked behind the counter and wrestled a full magazine out of his pocket.

Duke still had the man with the machete down on the floor and Dale gave him the command to attack the new target. It was a drill they’d worked on before, the possibility of facing more than one opponent at a time. Right on cue, Duke released the squealing man’s wrist and charged the assassin behind the counter. Springing to his feet, Dale loaded a round of buckshot and charged in to help.

He arrived as the guy with the automatic weapon pulled a knife from his vest.

Dale put the barrel to his forehead and fired. The sight was sickening, but he wasn’t going to let him take a stab at Duke.

Just outside the kitchen, Machete was reaching for his blade again, this time with his other hand.

“Duke, finish,” Dale ordered, pointing. The dog charged, his claws scraping along the slick linoleum before his teeth closed around the man’s throat. The man made a brief gurgling sound, his arms flailing. A moment later he stopped struggling.

More shots rang out from the other side of the house and Dale was suddenly aware of Shane and Brooke. It sounded like they were in trouble.  

“Heel,” Dale ordered and the dog released his prey and moved to his side.

Hurrying toward the sound of gunfire, Dale quickly fed three rounds into the shotgun and racked it.

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A
s he passed through the living room, Dale caught the clatter of fire from upstairs. It was Walter’s AR and he was shooting at someone outside. How many were there? They’d only started beefing up the property’s defenses before the attack and Dale could see how woefully underprepared they were.

With Duke by his side, he swung around the corner and spotted Shane and Brooke pinned down near the bottom of the stairs. Wedged behind a thin wall, they were exchanging fire with two men who were trying to enter through the garage. The attackers were taking cover and would be difficult to hit. If he could make it outside through the pair of double doors to his left and circle around the house, he might be able to flank them. The risk of course was getting shot by one of the men sniping from outside. It was dangerous, but it was a chance he was willing to take.

“Shane, cover me,” Dale shouted.

His brother leaned out and emptied half his pistol into the garage while Dale used the momentary distraction to run to the double doors. He flipped the lock and let himself out, making sure to stay low and move fast. Duke was right on his heels.

More shots from inside. He had to hurry before Shane and Brooke ran out of ammo. Dale rounded the back of the house and came to the garage door, which was open. Just then came the crack from a rifle and splintering wood as the bullet thudded into the side of the house. Someone was in the bush, firing at him. There wasn’t a good enough line of sight for them to be very far. In fact, Dale could hear a man maybe twenty yards away, working the bolt action on his rifle. Even though his human senses struggled to locate the man, he knew Duke already had a fix on him.

Dale ducked, pointing in that direction. “Duke, attack.”

Duke let out a single bark and tore off into the brush. Dale waited for Shane to stop firing and then ran into the garage right behind the two men. One of them turned and said something to him in Spanish, thinking he was with them. Dale let his shotgun reply, chewing a deep hole in the man’s shoulder and back. The other one was five feet away, tucked behind the stack of weights Dale had bought on a whim and never used. He reached out and fired with a pistol, the round passing so close, Dale could feel the wind kiss his cheek. Dale pulled his own trigger and threw the man onto his back, his face unrecognizable.

A howl of pain from outside suddenly reminded him of Duke. He ran from the garage and into the brush, calling the dog’s name. A moment later, he found Duke tearing at the man’s right arm. Dale called him off and finished the intruder.

When he returned to the house, the others were already gathered near the garage.

“Are there any more?” he asked.

“I took one down from the upstairs window,” Walter said, sounding proud that he still had it in him after all these years. “Watched another tear off on an ATV.”

Shane checked his watch. “We won’t know for sure until the sun comes up. Another six hours from now.”

“Then we close up as best we can and wait it out,” Dale told them.

Brooke slid her pistol into a small holster on her belt. “Dad, you think these men were with the sheriff?”

Dale studied the two dead bodies in the gloom. “For his sake, I sure hope not.”

“Headlights coming this way,” Randy shouted, his head poking out the garage. “It looks like a patrol car.”

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T
hey readied their weapons as the cruiser stopped just shy of the first barrier. A figure emerged and began running up the driveway. Dale stared down the length of his shotgun, tracing their approach when he shouted, “That’s far enough.”

“Dale?” the voice asked and at once he recognized that it was Sandy. “There are men heading here―”

“They’ve come and gone,” Dale said. “At least most of them have.”

The others inside the house and garage now came out, many shouting angry recriminations.

“I had no part in this,” she told Dale’s family. “I tried reaching you on the shortwave but no one answered.”

Shane slid the pistol into the seat of his pants. “Yeah, we were kinda busy getting shot at.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Come inside,” Dale told her. “More of them might still be out there.”

They retreated into the house, Sandy eyeing the two bodies sprawled in the garage.

“There’s something you need to know,” she said.

He looked at her quizzically. “What is it?”

She told him about her conversation with Keith. That Keith had just finished telling her that Mayor Reid wasn’t bribing raiders from across the border to not attack but was in fact doing the opposite. That Reid had hired these men to kill Dale’s family and anyone else on the property. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why. They wanted the same thing as everyone else.

“So those three Mexicans the other night?”

She nodded.

Dale went to one of the bodies and searched their pockets. He came out, holding fifty dollars in cash. Then he went to the body by the weights and found the man was carrying the exact same amount. Without needing to look, he knew he’d find the same thing on the other dead bodies.

Dale couldn’t decide what was worse, that these men had been willing to kill for such a small amount of money or that they didn’t yet realize those strips of green paper were practically worthless.

“And what about Sheriff Gaines? I’m guessing he’s in on it too?”

“Looks that way. Seems I was the only one kept out of the loop and it may be because...” She paused. “Well, you know why.”

He did and in many ways he wished that things had gone differently for them. But that was long ago and things were so much different now.

“Randy and Mayor Reid have been using those hired henchman to muscle people out of their resources and in some cases off their land,” she told him.

“By the looks of it he separated them from more than just their land. Many have been separated from their lives. And we were nearly among them.”

“Believe me,” she said mournfully, “if I’d caught even a glimmer of this earlier I’d have been the first to tell you.”

“I know you would have,” he said and meant it. She was the only person outside of his family he trusted. “If what you’re saying is true then it isn’t safe for you to go back there. You should consider grabbing what you can from your house and moving in with us.”

“Here?” she said.

“If either of them catches wind that you tried to warn us they’ll kill you without hesitation, deputy or not.”

“I know there are risks,” she said. “But I can do more good from the inside than I can from out here. If the situation becomes too dangerous then I’ll consider your offer more seriously.”

“Well, as much as I would love you to stay,” he told her, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be seen here. Someone’s bound to have heard those shots and who knows if Randy or one of his men are on their way to inspect their handiwork. I wouldn’t want him to see your cruiser sitting out front and piece together that you’re on our side.”

“You’re right,” she said, turning away and preparing to leave. She stopped and looked back at him. “There’s something else I heard right before I left,” she said, the strain on her face unmistakable. “A piece of bad news I think you should know.”

“What is it?” he asked, barely aware that his hands were tightening into fists. The adrenaline had only just started to dissipate from his system and now some of it was trickling back in.

“It’s about Clay,” she said.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

She nodded, sadness and a touch of fear on her face.

Dale glanced back at the doorway leading into the house. Colton was standing there without a shirt on, a bandage tied around his midsection. Everyone stood in silence, each wearing the same worried expression. If things had been bad before, Dale knew they were about to get a whole lot worse.

Zach

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Z
ach awoke the next morning in the old couple’s guest room. The bed, which probably hadn’t been slept in for years, was now neatly made. Much like the owners of the house, the decor was from a bygone era. A cherrywood chest of drawers and mirror were pressed against the opposite wall. Next to it stood a lime-green chair with thin black legs. Harold and his wife must have decorated sometime back in the early sixties and decided they’d had enough.

He’d opted not to sleep in the master bedroom, on account of the wife’s blood-soaked body sprawled across their bed, a single bullet in her head. The way Zach saw it, he’d put the old bird out of her misery. Life in a world like this was only going to get tougher. This was a new land where the fearful and the weak bowed down before the strong and the ruthless.

Zach stared at himself in the mirror, adjusting his short-cropped blond hair. Deep grooves from a difficult life etched the contours of his face. A few of them were scars, but most were simply the product of age and self-abuse. He had been something of a catch back when he was younger, had his pick of the girls around him. Even before he’d been put away, close to ten years ago now, he’d seen how Colton was quickly following in his father’s footsteps—at least in the looks department.

Zach’s gaze returned to the mirror and his reflection, holding Harold’s revolver, dressed in Harold’s clothes, sleeping in Harold’s bed. There was something freeing, almost poetic about a life spent taking by force what one wanted. Something almost medieval, like a lord riding through his domain, kicking down a peasant’s door and claiming whatever he wished.

Zach took his time getting ready. He wasn’t worried about the police showing up, especially not when the few left had their hands full scaring off looters.

Making his way across the hall, he passed into the couple’s bedroom and folded the blanket over the old lady’s body. He didn’t want her sightless eyes watching him as he went through her drawers hunting for anything of value.

As it turned out, most of her jewelry was junk, although he did find a stash of gold coins in an underwear drawer along with a jam jar stuffed with five hundred in cash. Zach trotted down the stairs and placed a leg on either side of Harold’s dead body. Gripping him by the belt, he turned the old guy over and fished out his wallet. Wasn’t much inside besides two tens. But in his front pocket Zach found what he was really looking for. A set of car keys. The ride wasn’t ideal—a Buick, probably old and greedy with fuel—but it was definitely a step up from the ambulance.

Zach spent the next hour in the garage, loading the car with a duffel bag filled with some extra clothes, compliments of Harold, as well as a few cardboard boxes of food and beverages. While the six cases of Ensure weren’t his first choice, he figured anything with as many nutrients couldn’t hurt. Rounds for his .44 Magnum were harder to come by. The box of Winchesters he’d found on the top shelf of Harold’s closet was only halfway full.

The Buick was a log-brown two-door Skylark. Zach filled up the back seats and used his bare hands to yank up what had once been an electric garage door.

Not ten minutes later he was on the outskirts of town when he spotted the cruiser swinging out from a side street, lights flashing, siren blaring.