Racing the Moon

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

Switched

Copyright © 2005 by BA Tortuga

All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Torquere Press, PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78685.

ISBN: 1-933389-69-9

Printed in the United States of America.

Torquere Press electronic edition / April 2006

Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press, PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78685.

http://www.torquerepress.com

Chapter One

Man, people said the city was foggy. San Francisco didn't have shit on this. MJ was pretty sure that by the time the sun burned all this away, he was going to be a big mass of bruises.

He'd managed to deliver his packages to the Greater N.C. Logging equipment sheds before the fog rolled in, then headed out on foot. That was the problem with using a Jeep to hold a metric fuckton of C-4. The damned things just never handled right after.

MJ grinned and checked his compass. A couple more miles on foot in this up-and-down, full-of-brush bullshit that he was trying to save and he'd reach the little convertible waiting to take him to Wilmington for a couple of days R&R before his next gig. Fucking cool.

He tripped over another fucking root, catching himself on a tree and scraping the living fuck out of his palm. Well, it would be cool in two hours when he could fucking
see
.

Of course, he didn't have to see to know what the sound coming from behind him was. The sound of a round clacking into place was unmistakable.

Fuck. Him.

He went still, sliding one hand back where the little .38 was resting at the small of his back. No way it was the loggers. They hadn't even seen the damage yet.

"Don't even think about it, buddy. Just take the piece out nice and easy and put it on the ground." The voice was about as rough as the rifle, like water over gravel. It came from just above and to the right, telling him the guy was maybe an inch or two taller than him and banking on him being right handed.

Well, that was one lucky break. Go him.

"I don't have anything to steal, man. I'm just hiking."

"Hiking at the crack of dawn in the worst fog we've had in near a year?" Okay, there was no way that voice was local, either, at least not originally. It came from the Deep South. As opposed to hillbilly south. Because, obviously, someone like him would know the difference. Christ. "I don't think so. I know you've got a gun. Get the damned thing out and put it down."

He held up his right hand, taking a half turn toward the voice. "I haven't got any beef with you, man. I'm just passing through."

Fuck, he didn't want to start playing Shoot the Local.

A twig cracked, the sound moving to his left. Fuck, the guy was onto him. Maybe the guy wasn't a stupid yokel. "I have a beef with you. Take out the fucking gun or I'll blow your goddamned head off and leave you for the possums and the foxes."

"Fine. Fine. Keep your dick in your pants." He growled. He liked that piece. Of course, he liked his head attached to his body more. Fucker. He slipped the pistol out, kneeling down to set it on the ground, the knife strapped to his calf a comfort.

"Now up, and your hands on the back of your neck." As soon as he complied, the barrel of the rimfire pressed against his folded hands, holding them in place. "What the fuck are you doing out here?"

"I told you, asshole. I'm hiking. Trying to get back to my fucking car so I can visit the beach." If he grabbed the barrel and tugged, he might get the rifle free, but if he didn't, he was deeply screwed. "What? Did I piss on your favorite tree?"

"No. Take three steps to your right." The barrel prodded, so hard that if he moved his hands the guy would know in a split second.

He swore, if he fucking died in fucking North Carolina...

He moved, snarling low, just itching to turn around and look at the man.

"I got a hair trigger, so watch it. Now move. Forward. And watch the rocks. Wouldn't want you to slip and fall backward, would we?" If he guy poked him again, he was going to explode.

"You watch your own footing and I'll worry about mine." God
damn
it.

"Just keep walking, buddy. We'll sort this out, but on my terms." He kept on going, because he didn't have a choice, but he was about to do something pretty stupid when he practically stumbled right into a cabin wall of split logs so fresh they still oozed sap.

He moved his hands without even thinking, going to catch himself on the wall. This was motherfucking Deliverance.

"Now, there's a door on your left. Watch your step going in. Low clearance." The gun backed off, just enough.

Rule number one. Being stuck inside sucked. Rule number two. Being stuck inside with a crazy hillbilly sucked harder.

He took the chance, feigning a move toward the door before he twirled around and got hold of the barrel, shoving it back as hard as he could while stepping toward the asshole. Couldn't shoot him if he was beside the muzzle.

To give the guy credit, the gun didn't go off. Most people would have hit the trigger out of reflex. Instead the guy let go, the heavy, solid weight of the stock dropping and pulling him off balance just enough for the redneck asshole to get a punch in that had his ears ringing as it landed square on his left cheek.

"Bastard!" He took a swing with the rifle while trying to shake the blinking lights out of his eyes. Fuck. Come on. Come
on
.

Bum rushing him, the guy smacked him up against the wall, his head flopping back like a doll's. Shit. He was gonna have a goose egg the size of a third world country. Not only that, but whatever the fuck that was hard and pointy in his backpack that slammed into his left kidney? Was
so
fired.

He tried to get a knee up, hands slamming the bastard on one shoulder with the rifle.

A grunt and another stunning shake were the only answer. Fuck, the man wasn't human. He'd run into Bigfoot or something, sure enough. Smashing pain broke across the bridge of his nose as he got a tremendous head-butt.

"Motherfucker. Let. Me. Go!" He was going to get back to the city and rip Arnold's fucking head off. Bigfoot. Christ.

"Shut up and get inside. If you'd fucking cooperate, it'd be so much fucking easier." They rolled to one side and he fell through a doorway, smacking his head as he stumbled in.

"It woulda been easiest to let me walk right on by, jackass." Fuck, he couldn't even see straight.
Hell, there were probably little birdies flying around his fucking head in circles. Tweet, tweet, fucking tweet.

The birds became a comet trail when the guy lit a lamp, leaving him lying on the floor. When the sparkles cleared, he could see he wasn't with Sasquatch after all. Just a guy, one who had legs up to his neck, dressed in snakeskin boots, shearling jacket and a black cowboy hat.

He sat up, counting to twenty in Japanese so he didn't puke. Kick-ass little chickie in Tokyo'd taught him that. Or was it that little cocksucker Hawaiian in Santa Barbara, that time they were all trying to get Keith out of jail...

Either way, no puking. Go him.

MJ pulled his legs up under his chin so he could reach his blade.

"Don't make me kick you, buddy. I'm already pissed." The voice matched the eyes. They were dark as pitch, watching him with the intensity of a caged animal. Or maybe a hunting dog that had his prey treed.

"Well, you know, I'm not feeling like we're the best of friends, man." Jesus fucking Christ, this was top-level fucked up.

"Neither am I, but I'm inclined to cut you a break now I've taken out some of my spleen on your nose." The man's upper lip curled up in the nastiest damned smile. "You look like crap."

"I don't see you winning Li'l Miss Appalachia. Not unless you've got some talent beyond mugging hikers."

Oh, that one was pretty funny. Probably going to get him killed, but pretty funny.

"You keep trying the hiking excuse and I
will
kick you." But the guy was starting to grin; this time the smile reached his eyes. The hat came off, tossed onto the tiny cot behind him, and the guy reached back to close the door, the .22 resting casual-like against one leg as the guy lit a cigarette. "Now. What. Are. You. Doing. Here?"

He could feel his leg start jittering as the door closed all the way. Damn. "Going to get my car. It's off Highway 52. Then I'm going to the beach, and you're not invited."

"No. That tells me what you were doing after you left here. Try again, buddy." The jacket came off, too, smoke starting to circle the guy's head.

"Well, when you attacked me, I was walking. Walking. I'm sure you learned that once you fell out of the trees. You know, stand up. Left, right, left. It's a fascinating experience."

And before that he was blowing up ten million dollars worth of logging equipment. Before that? Sabotaging a whaling ship. Being helpful.

One snakeskin boot lashed out and caught his hands, knocking them up and away from his boot, bruises blooming under the kick. "Be nice, asshole. You're the one on my land."

Oh,
Jesus
that hurt. He was about fifteen seconds from launching himself up and throttling the tall motherfucker to death. He had a date with a bottle of tequila and a $15,000 bank draft. "There wasn't a fucking fence."

"We generally don't need them up here. Folks know that we all police our own. You're on my last nerve." The cigarettes and lighter landed at his feet. "Care to?"

"I tell you what; you keep your smokes and your last nerve. I'll leave the way I came, by noon, and we can forget we've ever seen each other."

"Can't." There was a fine tension in that long body, a tension that made him wonder if he was gonna leave there at all, ever. "Not until after tonight, at any rate. You're either stupid or unlucky, buddy."

"I suppose that depends on who you ask. Right now, I'm leaning toward unlucky." Of course, if this was it, MJ bet he could bury his knife in the son of a bitch's stomach before he died...

"Turn around and put your hands behind your back, thumbs up." The guy stubbed the cigarette out on the floor, covering it with the toe of his boot.

"No fucking way."

"We can do this easy or we can do this hard. You be nice and let me tie your hands and you can take a nap until tonight. You make me do it the hard way and you might not wake up." The guy was good. Suddenly, he seemed to be taking up twice as much space.

"I'm all about the easy." He wasn't a big man, but he was quick as shit. He got hold of his knife and launched himself across the floor, managing to catch the guy in the breadbasket with his shoulder, pushing them both off balance.

The guy grunted, the rifle spinning away toward the wall, sliding under the bunk. Big hands closed on him, one on his wrist, the other on his throat as they struggled.

This was getting just a little old.

Really.

He fought to keep hold of the knife, fought to breathe as his free hand looked for purchase. What the
fuck
was going on? The world started to go gray around the edges as he lost air, his hand scrabbling against nothing, his fingers getting weak as hell.

He heard the guy grunt once as his knee connected with something, the huge fucking fingers loosening just enough to get one good breath in, push the knife blade against the man's thumb, before they went rock hard again.

He got a roar, but he wasn't sure if it came from his attacker or if it was just the rushing in his own ears as finally the knife fell from his nerveless fingers, the whole world going black.

Well, fuck him raw.

Chapter Two

Sonny cursed viciously.

It had been one of the worst days in recent memory. First, he'd been out to finish gathering the latest yield from the still to pack it up for the run tonight. Then he'd damned near lost his thumb to the freaking "hiker" with the .38 and the blade big enough to skin a fucking elephant.

And then the goddamned logging shed had blown up, blocking the red dirt road he used to move the product out for a ridge run, leaving him stranded with two days of pork and beans before he had to walk it out, and a failed run that would lose him nigh on five thousand dollars.

Fuck a goddamned duck.

He needed a drink. And maybe to beat Sleeping Beauty to death. The guy was sacked out on his cot, where Sonny had dragged him despite the throbbing and spurting of his damned hand, looking like some weird, displaced surfer dude with his sun-bleached hair and tanned skin.