Killing Time (One-Eyed Jacks) (24 page)

That had them all looking at him in a new light.

“Look, I’m not on the run. I did my time. Now I’m square. Don’t owe anybody anything. I’m not looking for trouble and I didn’t bring any trouble with me.”

“
She
looks like trouble.” Sawed-off glanced at Eva.

Mike ignored the reference to Eva. Just like he ignored Eva, something he knew instinctively that these Neanderthals would respect the same way they grudgingly respected his show of arrogance. This was men’s business. A woman had no part in it.

“So is Lawson here or not?” he asked Simmons point-blank.

“You still haven’t told us who wants to know.”

“Jesus,” he swore, a man beyond tolerance and weary of their games, then he met Simmons’s combative expression with his own and stepped out on a limb. “The name’s Walker. Dan Walker. But you know what? Forget it. You’re not looking for recruits? Fine. I’m outta here.”

He jerked open the door and moved to get back behind the wheel.

“Hold on there.” Simmons made it clear that he made the decisions around here and he would decide if and when Mike went anywhere. He scowled a while longer, then turned to the driver with a clipped nod. “Call him.”

Inside the shadowed interior of the truck, the driver punched some keys, then held a phone to his ear.

Mike glanced at Eva. She sat stone still, eyes down, hands clasped in her lap. Like a good little subservient of an alpha male would do. It was a nice touch.

A raven flew overhead as they stood there, playing the waiting game. A fly buzzed his ear. The July heat, cut only by the pines that blocked direct sunlight, bore down in evergreen-scented waves.

And time turned agonizingly slowly as they all waited on a conversation that could seal or stall the deal.

Everything hinged on Lawson’s response.

Finally, the driver gave Simmons an almost indiscernible nod and Mike knew they were getting in. It was all he could do not to exhale in relief.

“You carrying?” Sawed-off asked, still perched in the truck box.

“Couple handguns. A Makarov and a Taurus.”

“Turn ’em over.”

Mike made a weak show of looking reluctant, then leaned down to window level and told Eva, “Get the guns out of the glove box.”

“Keep ’em where we can see ’em.” Rifleman felt the need to exert his show of power.

With slow, deliberate moves, Eva handed the handguns to Mike, who handed them to Simmons butt end first, to make sure no one got too excited.

“Now your phones.”

Schooling his expression to reluctant resignation, Mike turned over the burn phone.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“How about I check for myself?” Simmons laid his 16-gauge on the hood and walked over to Mike. “You don’t want to know how sorry you’ll be if you’re lying to me.”

Mike assumed the position and gritted it out while Simmons did a rough and thorough pat-down.

He straightened with a grunt. “Now her.”

Mike had a feeling this would be the first of many moments he was going to regret. He lifted
his chin toward Eva, motioning her to get out of the car.

In the end, he couldn’t help himself. “Touch her the wrong way and you’re the one who’s going to be sorry,” he warned Simmons when Eva got out and stood by the Jeep. “You can see she’s not carrying.”

It was true. It would have been difficult to conceal much of anything beneath the tank top and jeans.

Simmons searched her anyway and all Mike could do was stand there, fists clenched at his side, and wait for the bastard to make the wrong move. Apparently Simmons was smarter than he looked. He kept it businesslike, short and impersonal.

“Make sure they stay right where they are,” he told Sawed-off when he was finished, then started searching the Jeep.

He popped the hood, checked the trunk, inside the wheel wells, under the seats, then rifled through their duffel bags. All the while, Mike acted bored and irritated. If Simmons found their cache of weapons inside the doors, there wasn’t enough BS in the world to talk his way past it.

“Get back in the Jeep,” Simmons said, satisfied with his search. “Stay right on our bumper. Keep both hands on the wheel—
both
of ’em. And tell her to put her hands on the dash where we can see ’em. You only stop if we stop. Got it?”

Mike nodded.

“And stay in the vehicle until you’re told to get out.”

He climbed back into the truck. After a lot of engine
gunning and tire spinning, the driver maneuvered the pickup around on the narrow road.

Mike glanced across the front seat to Eva.

She told him, “You’ve got to get used to things happening to me that make you uncomfortable, or you’re going to blow it.”

He would never get used to some knuckle dragger touching her. “Yeah. I know.”

He shifted into gear, face grim, and tailgated the hell out of the truck’s rear bumper. “In the meantime, looks like we’re in.”

So why didn’t he feel like celebrating?

•   •   •

Up close, Mike could read the name on Rifleman’s shirt—
WAGONER
. With Simmons behind him and Wagoner ahead of him, he walked up seven wooden steps into a log building that looked to be a command center or meeting place.

Double crossbuck doors opened into a wide foyer. The floor was made of rough pine planks. The walls were more of the same, and bare except for two pine picture frames hanging on either side of an interior door that Mike suspected led to Lawson’s inner sanctum.

Both frames were three foot by three foot square. One was a copy of the UWD charter. The other was a photograph of Lawson decked out in standard UWD uniform, posed with an AK-47.
The general in charge of his army.

“Sit,” Simmons ordered, then knocked on the
door, waited for admittance, and disappeared inside.

Mike sat, slipped off his shades, and hooked a bow into the neck of his T-shirt.

Wagoner took a position with his back to the door, the AR-15 cradled in his arms, the barrel pointed in Mike’s general direction.

It was a nice touch if intimidation was the game, and from what he’d seen of these yahoos, their game was all about intimidation.

He hadn’t liked leaving Eva alone in the Jeep with Sawed-off—Bryant—leering at her, but he had no choice. Counting on her ability to handle herself, he steeled himself for the confrontation to come.

He owed it to himself, to his lost team, and to her to keep it together. Yet when the door opened and Lawson appeared in the doorway it took every shred of his self-control not to launch himself across the room and wrap his hands around the ferret-faced bastard’s neck.

On a deep breath, he rose in a show of respect and swallowed back his disgust.

For a long moment Lawson said nothing, only looked him over as if deciding if he was worth the time it would take to draw another breath.

“It would seem you’ve gone to great lengths to find me,” Lawson said finally.

“Yes, sir. I have.” He infused his few words with just enough humility and respect to show he was aware that he was in the presence of greatness.

Apparently it worked.

“Bring him in,” Lawson told Simmons, then told Wagoner to stay outside and guard the door.

“You heard him.” The barrel of the AR-15 lifted, a signal for Mike to move.

So he did, with Simmons’s shotgun pointing dead center in the middle of his back.

Eva drew a deep breath to steady herself. They’d done it. They’d gotten inside the belly of the beast.

She’d watched Mike, surrounded by thugs with guns, disappear into a heavily guarded building an hour ago. She didn’t try to hide the fact that she was worried. She was playing the role of Dan Walker’s wife. And what woman wouldn’t worry if the man she loved had walked into unknown territory so long ago and hadn’t been heard from since?

And it wasn’t entirely role-playing. She wasn’t Mike Brown’s woman, but something was happening between them. Something unexpected and extremely unwise.

“We will finish this . . . When this is over, we will figure this out and we will finish it.”

She had no idea what that “finish” was going to look like, or even what she
wanted
it to look like. She knew how he made her feel. Very much like a woman again, alive and vital.

But they were a long way from getting out of here
alive. The full-body pat-down Simmons had given her had almost prompted Mike to hurl himself at the guard. Now Bryant, who’d been stationed in front of the Jeep to guard her with his sawed-off shotgun, had more than guarding her on his mind, judging by the look in his eye.

And Mike was inside the big building in the center of the “city” square, meeting Lawson.

The heat didn’t help her sense of apprehension. Here in the middle of the open meadow, the sun beat down on the Jeep’s black roof like a blowtorch.

Sweat trickled down her back and between her breasts. She’d been ordered not to move, and other than opening the door to let some air in, she hadn’t.

“Roll down the window,” Bryant had told her when she’d asked if she could open the door.

“It’s broken.”

That was a lie, but with the weapons and ammo hidden in the door, she didn’t dare roll the window down. Since the Jeep had seen better days and looked the part, he’d finally conceded—thank God, or she’d have had a heat stroke by now. So here she sat, one foot propped on the open door’s armrest, arms crossed over her breasts, helpless to do a damn thing but commit the layout of the compound to memory.

The aerial photos, while accurate, told only part of the story. She felt like she was looking at a time-confused scene from
Little House on the Prairie
. She hadn’t expected the compound to be so breathtakingly beautiful. Just a few minutes in, the narrow dirt
road had opened up to a stunning valley. Tall green grass, bobbing white daisies, and soft yellow and pink flowers peppered an expansive, idyllic meadow that cradled the epicenter of the UWD compound.

Half-plank logs had been used for siding on the buildings, which had all the earmarks of a small, crudely constructed village in the middle of nowhere. She kept expecting to see teams of horses pulling lumbering wooden wagons. Instead, ATVs, pickups, and Jeeps lined what passed for streets, parked in front of a motor pool and maintenance shed, a first-aid station, food and supply storage, a guard post, and several residence buildings.

Wooden shakes covered the roofs; piles of split wood were stacked under exterior windows and close to entry doors, which were open like the windows to take advantage of the slight breeze.

At the far end of the town’s center was a huge communal garden plot. Chickens wandered around free, pecking between the rows and at the garden’s edge while women and young girls wearing long dark skirts, blouses, and what looked like prairie bonnets bent over hoes or knelt between rows tending spinach, radishes, onions, and lettuce, along with immature tomato, corn, and squash plants. One girl, so young she could barely be in her teens, carried a toddler on her hip. The sight gave Eva a sinking sensation in her stomach.
Please let that be her little sister.

The sick feeling increased as she watched the women and girls, all moving with purpose, eyes
down, faces somber, always working, rarely resting or even taking time out to take a drink of water under the hot sun. It was as if they were afraid to be idle. Their heads down, subservient, they appeared to be little more than slaves.

Everything she’d read on the UWD movement downplayed that aspect of the culture. But these were the kind of women that men in these movements preyed on. Low self-esteem. Gargantuan need to please and be accepted. Most likely abused, either as children or by a boyfriend or a spouse. It made them weak, yes, but mostly it made them victims. And it made her physically ill.

The boys were an entirely different story. Even though they were also dressed uniformly—jeans, solid-colored T-shirts, and ball caps—the boys were clearly encouraged to be boys. They wandered around kicking rocks down the dirt street, carrying BB guns or fishing poles, or fooling around in a playground that consisted of rope swings, a rope-webbed climbing wall, targets stuck to straw bales, and a wooden teeter-totter.

Holy God. It was Opie Taylor meets the frontier Stepford wives.

•   •   •

Shoulders back, head high, Mike followed the men into what was clearly Lawson’s office. From the bank of computers, the camera monitors, and the whiteboard outlining the duty roster and work schedule, this was also UWD command central. Taking it all in, he
stood at attention as Lawson rounded a military surplus gray metal desk and sat down, a man confident of his power. The desk was a behemoth: utilitarian, expansive, rusted in spots, dented in others. Not one item on its surface was out of place. It was as clean and organized as the room, as orderly as Lawson himself, who carried himself like a little general lording it over his troops. A pennant that Mike recognized as the UWD banner—a solid red background showcasing a closed white fist—hung on the wall behind the desk.

A straight-backed wooden chair faced the desk but Mike didn’t take it. Simmons and Wagoner flanked him on either side, cradling their weapons. He stood military straight, hands at his side, legs planted wide, eyes fixed on the banner, not Lawson . . . the posture of a man who respected his superiors.