Bedlam Page 21

  Silence greeted Kyle’s question, and the local people swung their eyes to J.R., leaving their leader to answer.

  “Well, now,” he said. “The Allsops asked the same question. What happened to all the weapons and personal protection equipment stored in the armory? We told them that back in May—just after the pandemic got started—the army rolled into town and packed it all up and hauled it away.”

  “Is that what happened?” Sara asked.

  J.R. shrugged. “Not exactly. I’m a long-haul trucker. Own and operate my own rig. I was on the road when things got really bad. I drove home with my trailer loaded for a delivery to a grocery store that had already been looted and burned. Mostly dry goods, shelf-stable stuff. After things settled down a bit, I showed Larry the goods. We distributed the food to our neighbors.”

  “Okay,” Kyle said slowly. “What’s this got to do with the armory?”

  “I’m getting there.” J.R. tapped his fingers on the table. “In July, we started to hear rumors about an organized group of men showing up in different towns and taking over. Guess it was early stories about the Allsops from people clearing out ahead of them. Larry and I knew the armory would likely be a target for people like that, so we loaded everything into my forty-eight-foot trailer. Parked it in a barn outside of town.”

  Rocco whistled. “Smart.”

  “You’ve hidden the weapons and equipment,” Kyle marveled.

  “Yep,” J.R. folded his hands over his stomach, smiling. “If it comes to war, Baker City won’t be showing up empty-handed.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Kyle

  Drive casual.

  To lend authenticity to the nothing-to-see-here image I was trying to convey, I rolled down the driver’s widow and rested my elbow on the rubber lip. Arm bent, I tapped my fingers against the roof, like I was keeping time to a song. Nobody who was up to something would adopt such a casual pose.

  By prior agreement, we kept our eyes straight ahead as we drove past Exit 213, the first exit to Pendleton off I-84 west. No crawling slowly past; no raising suspicions by rubbernecking the men blockading the freeway exit. Once out of sight of the off-ramp, I picked up the two-way radio and called J.R., whose beat-up old sedan followed a few car lengths behind my truck.

  “I counted five men,” he said. “All armed.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I saw, too. And three cars blocking the ramp.”

  “Least we know what to expect,” he said.

  Exit 210 approached fast.

  “Almost there. Out.” I shoved the radio into the glove box, clicked on the turn signal, and pulled onto the exit ramp leading to downtown Pendleton, J.R. following close behind. One of the armed men stepped into the middle of the road, holding up his palm, ordering us to stop. Four others took positions behind the parked cars that blocked the ramp, guns drawn and aimed at our vehicles.

  “Showtime,” Rocco muttered from the back seat.

  I killed the engine and raised my hands in the air. Everybody else in the truck followed suit, even Ever. My chest tightened. In what kind of world did a nine-year-old kid know to raise her hands in the presence of armed men? These men wouldn’t hurt her, I was certain of it, but still… This was the last time, I silently vowed. Ever would stay safe within Pendleton until it was time to take her home to Valhalla. Mrs. B. and Sunny, too.

  The man—a guy in his thirties sporting a short goatee—sauntered over to my window, his eyes scanning the inside of the truck. “What do you want in Pendleton?”

  “We need to speak to Marcus Havoc,” I said. “I have a message for him from Finn Rasmussen.”

  His already stony expression hardened further, the name clearly hitting a nerve. “Hold,” he barked, stepping backward. He signaled for the other men to surround our vehicles, then pulled a radio from his vest and made a call. A minute later, he walked back to my window.

  “Everybody out.”

  They jerked open the doors to the truck and the sedan. We unfastened our seat belts and climbed out. The man in charge divested me of my shoulder holster and Glock.

  “I expect to get that back,” I said, doing my best imitation of Ripper’s hard-ass scowl.

  “Yeah. We’ll see.” He snorted.

  “I don’t have a gun.” Sunny’s voice sounded from the opposite side of the truck. Ignoring the headman’s signal to stay put, I strode around the front of the pickup. Sunny stood, arms in the air, as one of Havoc’s men patted her down.

  “You done?” I demanded, frowning as his hands skimmed over her hips and thighs.

  He glanced at me and shrugged, his expression almost apologetic. “Almost. Rules, you know.” He stood. “All done.” Sunny stepped to my side, wrapping both arms around my waist.

  The young man turned to Mrs. B. and Ever. Mrs. B. had hooked her purse over her left arm—like the queen of England—and her demeanor was almost as regal. Sighing, she raised both arms high in the air in an exaggerated pose of surrender. Was she trying to distract him so he wouldn’t check the contents of her bag? Who would expect a little old lady to be carrying a .38 Special in her shiny purse?

  Didn’t work. After patting her down, he slipped the handbag from her arm and opened the clasp. His eyes widened, and he held up her Smith and Wesson revolver, looking between Mrs. B. and the gun. She batted her eyelashes and her bright-pink lips turned up in a charming smile. “You will return my late husband’s service revolver to me, won’t you, dear? After you determine that we’re not troublemakers?”

  He tucked the weapon in his waistband then turned to Ever. Clad in shorts and a tee, the girl obviously wasn’t carrying a weapon. “I’m not a troublemaker,” she said. “But sometimes Finn calls me a little rascal.”

  Finn’s name obviously rang a bell with him, too. His eyes softened. He pointed at the cat Ever held in her arms. “How about your buddy? Is he a troublemaker?”

  “Fitzwilliam is the best kitty in the world,” she proclaimed.

  On the opposite side of the truck, Havoc’s men patted down Sara and Rocco, eyeing the big guy suspiciously, even though he didn’t so much as twitch when they laid hands on him. Behind us, J.R. had handed over his pistol, and one of Havoc’s men gingerly ran his hands over Lori’s torso. At eight-and-a-half-months pregnant, suffering from high blood pressure and fluid retention, she’d decided to accompany us to Pendleton in order to stay close to the doctor and the obstetric nurse.

  The men searched our vehicles and confiscated our radios. Goatee guy crossed his arms over his chest. “Havoc wants to see you. Pick one of your people to accompany you.”

  I pointed at J.R. “He’s here representing Baker City. He needs to talk to the major, too.”

  The headman signaled J.R. to join us. “Topher.” He called over the young man who’d patted down Sunny and Mrs. B. “These two are going to see Havoc. They’ll follow you into town.” He fixed me with a sharp, no-nonsense glare. “You can take your truck, but no funny business. Stay right behind Topher.”

  I almost rolled my eyes. Like I’d try something when I was leaving Sunny and my other friends behind in his care. Topher jumped into one of the cars parked sideways across the ramp. I glanced back at my people as J.R. and I followed his car onto the main road. The top man talked tough, but he was down on his haunches handing Ever a bottle of water.

  These are the good guys, remember?

  My family used to visit Pendleton every September for the big rodeo, so I was familiar with the city. Topher led us downtown, then toward the complex that housed the city hall and public library. We parked in front and walked through the double doors past a pair of armed guards

  “Follow me,” Topher said, leading the way into a conference room that Havoc had apparently turned into his headquarters. Piles of papers littered two conference tables that were placed end to end at the far side of the room. A row of free-standing whiteboards were positioned behind the tables. Several large windows overlooked an interior courtyard, filling the room with light while maintaining secu
rity. Somebody had tacked paper maps of Oregon, Washington, and Idaho to a wall. Thick black Xs covered the words Portland and Seattle.

  “Damn,” I said under my breath. We’d suspected that Pastor Bill’s minions had burned Seattle, just like they had Portland, but as long as a man didn’t know for sure, he could hope. The big X over Seattle dashed that hope once and for all.

  I met the eyes of a dark-haired woman in her early forties who sat cross-legged atop one end of the table. Her hair was shorn in a pixie cut that accentuated her delicate, elfish features. Pale knees poked through holes in jeans that had seen better days, and a Portland Trailblazers tee swamped her tiny frame. She held a pistol in her right hand. She smiled brightly at me when she caught me looking, a smile that promised death if I made the wrong move.

  Marcus Havoc kicked back in a black office chair, ankles crossed and feet resting on the edge of a table. The wary intensity of his gray eyes gave the lie to his nonchalant pose. His eagle-eyed gaze tracked our progress as we crossed the room and stood in front of his makeshift desk. A bowl of walnuts—still in their shells—sat at his elbow. Locking his eyes on mine, he reached into the bowl and snatched up a walnut, then casually crushed it—shell and all—between his fingers. My lips twitched. The movement was too self-consciously macho to be anything other than deliberate.

  Frowning, he popped the nut into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Why’d you say damn?” he asked idly.

  “I was in Portland when the city burned,” I said, tilting my head at the map. “We heard rumors that Pastor Bill’s men started a fire in Seattle, too, but until now, I didn’t know for sure.”

  “You knew Pastor Bill?” He tossed a walnut to the dark-haired woman, who caught it deftly with her left hand. She smashed it against the tabletop, cracking it open. Havoc reached for another walnut and closed a powerful fist around it, the muscles in his forearm—what Kenzie used to call arm porn—clenching.

  Was he trying to impress me with his badassery? Okay. I’d badass right back at him. I shrugged. “My friends and I took care of Pastor Bill and his deacons. Helped put Pastor Derek back in place.” Well, actually, it was Ripper. Ripper killed Bill and his sanctimonious gang of henchmen, but I was there and I helped.

  Me, too. Me, too. What was I, five? Shit.

  “Huh,” Havoc said. “I sent envoys to meet with Derek Heywood. I take it you’re one of Ripper’s men?”

  I prefer to think of myself as a partner, albeit a junior partner, but sure, I’d claim the moniker. “Yeah, I am.”

  He studied me, chewing thoughtfully on another walnut. After a long moment he swung his legs off the table and stood, extending a hand. “Marcus Havoc.”

  Marcus Havoc was freaking huge, as tall as Rocco, but somehow less… squishy. All hard chiseled muscle—his black tee stretched across wide shoulders and a flat stomach—he looked like he belonged on the cover of one of Kenzie’s romance novels. He was, or rather he had been, a major in the US Army, so I placed his age in his mid-thirties. Not sure why I expected him to still be in uniform. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, and a short brown beard covered his face. Not exactly regulation, was it? But then, he was building a ragtag army made up of civilian survivors of the great pandemic. No reason for him to stay in uniform.

  “Kyle Chamberlain.” We shook hands and I tilted my head toward my companion. “This is J.R. Dreyer, representing Baker City.” The men shook hands.

  Havoc pointed to the woman perched on the table. “My second-in-command, Rachel Cross.” She waved, but didn’t speak.

  He invited J.R. and me to take the two chairs facing his desk. “Heywood said that he had no idea what happened to you all after you moved on,” Havoc said. “Where’s Ripper now? He’s a man I’d like to talk to.”

  There was no point in obfuscation. The answer to his question was sitting in his parking lot, a truck with the words Valhalla Ranch emblazoned across the door. Moreover, our association with the Rasmussens would go a long way toward explaining why Finn broke cover and helped us escape Boise.

  “I met Bear Rasmussen early on in the pandemic,” I said. “He told me to come to his family ranch in central Oregon if things went to hell in Portland. They did. We showed up at Valhalla and found out that a group of white supremacists had taken over the place.”

  Marcus Havoc nodded. No doubt he’d heard about the Wilcox Brigade from Finn.

  “We took it back, kicked their Nazi-loving asses. Freed Bear. Now, we all live at the Rasmussen place. Bear has no idea what happened to Finn after the Wilcox Brigade ran him off.”

  “I found Finn in Ukiah, about fifty miles south of here,” Havoc said. “His parents were dead. His ranch occupied. He figured his brother had probably died from the virus. He was recovering from both a gunshot wound and the flu. He’s one tough son of a bitch. Been with me ever since.”

  Finn wasn’t with him now, was he? That was the point of this meetup. “Finn’s in trouble,” I said. “He got caught helping my friends and me escape from the Allsops. I plan to go back to Boise to rescue him, and I’m hoping you’ll send some people along to help.”

  I outlined everything I knew about the Allsop’s occupation of Boise. J.R. chimed in with details about Baker City’s experiences with the organization.

  “Baker City wants to fight, even with the odds stacked in the Allsops’ favor?” Marcus asked.

  “You’re damned right, we do.” J.R. screwed up his mouth, like he was going to spit, then thought better of it, maybe remembering Mrs. B.’s horrified reaction.

  “How many people still alive in town?”

  “Last count, fifty-three. Fifty-six before the Allsops hanged three men.” J.R. paused. “Of course, nine of the fifty-three are kids and old folks.”

  “Got to be real.” Marcus leaned back in the chair and folded his arms over his chest. “If the Allsops send in a couple dozen well-armed, trained fighters, no matter how brave your people are, how willing they are to defend their homes, most likely they won’t stand much of a chance against the Allsop organization.”

  “So we should just give up?” J.R. erupted, throwing his hands in the air. “Hand over our guns? Let ’em take half our young people? Work like slaves to keep ’em fat and happy while we starve? No thanks. I’d rather go down fighting. Besides, we have an ace up our sleeve.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?” Marcus asked.

  “I emptied out the National Guard armory and stashed everything away in my barn.”

  “I like him.” Rachel spoke for the first time. She hopped off the table and approached J.R., pulling a box of mints from her pocket. Flipping open the lid, she held the mints out to J.R. “Take a chill pill, dude.”

  Marcus glanced at me. “She must like him. Rachel doesn’t share her mints with just anybody.”

  J.R. stared at the second-in-command, his mouth hanging open.

  “No?” Rachel shrugged. “Your loss.”

  She walked around the table and plopped into the chair next to Marcus. Shoving three mints into her mouth, she shaped her lips into an O, inhaled and shivered when the peppermint sting hit.

  Marcus turned back to J.R. “I respect a person willing to take a stand to defend their home and their people. That’s the type of person the world needs, the type of person we can’t afford to lose on a fool’s errand.”

  “You got a better idea?” J.R. demanded.

  “Yeah, I do.” Marcus leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Pack up your people. Come to Pendleton. Those who want to fight can join my army. Those who don’t can stay behind our defensive perimeter. We’re taking the battle to Allsop—make no mistake about that—but we’re doing it smart, on our terms. Once the war is won, your people can go back to Baker City and rebuild.”

  “What does victory over Allsop look like?” J.R. asked. “What’s your endgame?”

  “My endgame?” Havoc’s expression grew serious. “I took an oath to support and defend the constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic. If Elliot
Allsop isn’t an enemy to everything the constitution stands for, nobody is. We can reconstruct our corner of the world the right way—reestablish a constitutional republic—or we can stand back and let predators like the Allsops take over.”

  J.R. sat in silence as he mulled over Havoc’s words. “That’s a proposal I can take back to my people,” he finally said.

  “Good.” Marcus slapped the table and sat upright, swinging his gaze to me. “Now let’s talk about your plan to rescue Finn.”

  My plan to rescue Finn? I owed the man for rescuing Sunny. And I’d gladly do whatever it took to bring Bear’s brother back home to Valhalla. But my plan? A nebulous thing at best. Go to Boise. Find Finn. Bring him home. I had no real plan.

  “I’m in over my head,” I confessed to a man who’d probably served a dozen years in the military. “I can handle myself in a gunfight. And I’m willing to risk my life to save Finn, but the truth is, I don’t know how to stage a rescue. I have no idea where Finn’s being held or the best way to get past Allsop’s guards and break him out.” I swallowed, suddenly conscious of everything I lacked, of how ill-prepared I was to plan a rescue mission. If only Ripper were here.

  “A smart man knows his limits,” Marcus Havoc said. “What are you, twenty, twenty-one?”

  “Twenty-two.” My birthday had passed and I hadn’t even noticed.

  “Twenty-two,” he repeated. “You were a college student before the pandemic?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yet in the past four months you helped defeat a cult leader and you brought down a group of white supremacists. I’d say you’re doing all right.”

  I nodded my head acknowledging his praise. “But how are we going to rescue Finn if we have no idea where the Allsops are holding him? Or even if he’s still alive?”

  Marcus Havoc smiled. “Good thing I have a second spy embedded with the Allsop organization, isn’t it?”