Road Trip, Volume 1 Read online

  “Look. Why don’t you just fucking let me go? I’m not worth dick to you, and I have somewhere to be.” The guy stood, rolling his shoulders.

  “So do I. Too bad, thanks to you, I can’t get there.” He got up too, tossing the bean can in the trash. “You can at least piss.”

  He’d found the Winchester earlier, and he grabbed it up, chambered a round, and pointed to the door. “I’m a good shot.”

  “Good for you. I’m not an easy target.” The tension in those shoulders eased as the guy muscled through the door, heading for the edge of the clearing, working his canvas pants open with surprising ease for a cuffed guy.

  “Don’t have to be.” Sonny kept a close eye on the bastard and on the surrounding woods, just in case the guy had someone looking.

  The son of a bitch wasn’t in any hurry, pissing like he had all the time in the world. Who the fuck was this asshole?

  Sooner or later, though, every man ran out of territory markings, and the flow stopped. “Come on, back inside.”

  The guy zipped up, turned to face him, dead-on. “I’m tired of following fucking orders, man. I’ll get off your goddamn property, but I’m not going back in there.”

  Growling, Sonny shot a round a few feet from the guy’s toes, his frustration boiling over. “You’ll get your ass in there now, or I’ll fucking shoot it.”

  “What is your fucking problem, man?” Christ, the man was all fury and not a bit of fear. It was fucking unnatural. “You listen to ‘Dueling Banjos’ one too many times or something? You think I’m a fucking bomber? Call the cops. You think I’m here to rob your…. Oh fuck. That’s priceless. What? I’m going to steal a motherfucking can of beans?”

  “At this point, I don’t give a damn what you were here for. I just wanna kick your ass again for shits and giggles. And I want you to get back inside!” He roared the last of it, chambering a new round and pointing with the Winchester toward the door. “You’ll be my guest until I say you can go.”

  The son of a bitch walked right up to him—fucking strutted—before elbowing the barrel aside and spitting between his boots. “I’ve been threatened by better, asshole. Don’t give yourself unwarranted credit.”

  Then the little bastard headed for the door.

  Damn. Torn between laughing and using the butt of the gun to beat the man into soup, Sonny followed, then closed the door behind them and latched it. He checked his watch. Fuck. He had hours with this shithead.

  “So do you play Scrabble? Tiddlywinks? Musical chairs?”

  “Are you trying to tell me you’ve kidnapped me because you were bored?”

  He chuckled. “Come on, Precious, you’re not that stupid. You stumbled on something you shouldn’t have. Literally.”

  “Did you notice the fog? You know, white stuff? Hides things? Christ, five minutes more and I would have been happily out of your hair.” Man, the combination of sore throat and pissed off made for one hell of a growl.

  Almost as good as Sonny’s was naturally. Almost.

  “I did notice the fog. Only thing that kept me from shooting you outright. Still gotta keep you for at least another day, though.”

  Just until he could move his operation. Just until they cleared the road. He’d already dismantled the stills.

  “Is that when the aliens come?” That blue eye closed, just for a second. “Look, man. I don’t know your business, your name. Nothing. I just want to go to the beach and not look back.”

  And he probably would too, but Sonny just couldn’t take the chance until he’d stripped the cabin, gotten the road open to ship the shit out, and gotten out himself. Damn it. “Soon. All right? You have my word.”

  “I can’t begin to tell you how much better that makes me feel.” The guy stood up and headed over to the disassembled pack without even looking at him again.

  God, what a pushy little prick. When his head started to hurt from the way his teeth were grinding, Sonny took a deep breath and started moving around the cabin, rifle in the crook of one arm, the other hand busy stripping shit down and packing it up.

  The pack was put back together, one granola bar left out. Then the guy settled, stared out the tiny-assed window, just as still as could be.

  Tilting his head, Sonny went over, not quite close enough to be in arm’s reach. “What’s out there that’s not in here, man?”

  “I’m not the world’s biggest fucking fan of being cooped up. Especially with crackhead, rifle-toting rednecks. Call it a character flaw.” There was real fucking stress in the man’s voice, though.

  A light dawned, and he realized why the guy had been so determined to piss for an hour. Now, did Sonny torture him or help him out? Decisions, decisions. He moved around carefully and opened the window a few inches.

  The stress around those shoulders eased enough that he could see it. Well, goddamn. Okay, then.

  “Be nice and don’t yell, hmm? Never know when some yahoo will be out… hunting. Or hiking.” Chuckling, he moved away, let the guy eat.

  It was fucking creepy, the silence, the stillness. Sonny wasn’t sure if the guy was sleeping or dead or plotting. Or all three.

  The whole closed-in space thing didn’t get to him. The utter dead silence did. He broke it. “You got a name?”

  “I have a number of them. MJ works.”

  “Yeah? What’s it stand for?” Damn. Sonny usually wasn’t one to chatter, but really, that was unnatural.

  He got a confused sort of look. “I haven’t told anyone that in twenty years. I’m not breaking my record. How about you? Should I call you something besides asshole?”

  “Sonny.” It was a nickname anyway, so he didn’t care about telling this guy that much.

  “Sonny.” He’d bet if it wouldn’t hurt like a son of a bitch, the bastard would’ve grinned. “I can remember that, Sunshine.”

  “You do that, Precious.” Sonny sighed. He was never going to make it through the whole day without killing this guy. Maybe he should whap him over the head again. Give himself some peace.

  “You going to take the cuffs off, man?”

  He held up his hand, his gauze-wrapped thumb out. “You gonna come after me again if I do?”

  “You have the rifle, man. I’m a poor, unarmed beach bum.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll undo your hands, but you try to run, and I’ll gun you down. I just need you to be patient for a few more hours, Precious.” Just a few more endless fucking hours.

  “I won’t run. Just undo the fucking straps.”

  He moved slowly and carefully, as the Winchester would do no good up close. In fact, he left it behind, taking MJ’s own knife to cut the twisted plastic right down the middle, moving away quickly.

  “Thank you.” Those too-pretty-for-color-TV eyes lit on the knife. “That was handmade for me, and I want it back.”

  “You can have it when you go, s’long as you don’t stick it in me again.” It was vicious sharp too. It had severed skin and muscle like butter. Had to admire that.

  “Fair enough.” MJ stood, stretched up—well, as far up as the little shit went—bones creaking some.

  He watched, maybe admired a bit. Even beat to hell, the guy was not hard to look at, not one bit. And he was stuck there. Nothing wrong with entertaining a few fantasies. The guy changed out his socks, the action giving Sonny a glimpse of black ink spreading across tanned calves.

  He pondered just throwing the guy down and fucking him right into the floor. It was a goddamned pleasant image, full of what some might would call violent, territorial psychosis or something, but really, it was all about the pretty.

  “So, what? Do you run a meth lab out here?” He got a look. “You don’t look like a meth-head.”

  “I’m not.” Asshole. Sonny included a gag in his fantasy. Maybe a black leather one, like that time in Miami Beach. Oh hell yeah. “And you don’t look like a hiker. But then again, I’m not sure you look like a demolitions man either.”

  “I look like what I am. A beach baby.”
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br />   Uh-huh. Right. Sure. And he was the queen’s nephew. Sonny shook his head, looking out the window to check the light. Goddamn it. Oh, did he say that out loud?

  “You want me to go out and run around in circles? See if I can’t attract whatever you’re hoping to see?”

  “If I was hoping for bear or man-eating mountain laurel? Sure. I’m waiting for dark, Precious.” Sonny sat on a campstool, having packed just about everything that wasn’t being sat on by someone else. “Whatever will we do to pass the time?”

  “You could nap. Sounds like you’re going to have a long night.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll be happy to stand guard. You have any idea how many yahoos with rifles will be out combing these woods, looking for you?” Jesus fuck.

  “Me? Now why on earth would anyone be looking for me? I’m just on a sightseeing tour.”

  With explosives.

  “Look, cut the crap, okay? You don’t have to bare your soul, but I’m not an idiot. I told you what I found in your bag. You oughta find it ironic that you’re stuck here because of it.” Somehow, Sonny found himself standing, looming over the guy, hands clenched into fists.

  “I’m stuck here because of you, Sunshine.” The little guy stood right up, pushed into his space, not giving an inch. “You hadn’t been a paranoid fuck, I’d be ten miles from here.”

  “And I’d still be stuck here with my shipment because you closed the logging road! I think it’s a fine thing that I got a piece of you.” He drew up even taller, just snarling. Fuck, this one got his blood up.

  “You get far with that whole puffed-up thing usually? Because I have to tell you, I’m feeling a lack of terror.”

  He drew back his fist, about to let fly, when the crackle of a branch had him turning toward the window, grabbing MJ, and pulling him down below eye level. To the asshole’s credit, MJ moved easy and didn’t say a fucking thing, muscles beneath his fingers taut and ready to spring.

  The murmur of low voices, at least three distinct ones, floated in through the open window. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Sonny moved low, crawling across the floor to get the .22 and his own pack, looking at everything he was gonna leave behind. He’d have to burn the fucker down.

  MJ got those boots on, backpack on his back, eyes fastened on the window the whole time.

  He could hear them wandering, looking for the shipment, looking for the still, and cursing his name.

  Goddamn it. Sonny motioned to MJ, tossed the knife soundlessly to the man, then pulled out the .38 next and passed it over. MJ might just make a run for it, or he might help. Either way Sonny would bet the man wouldn’t be a hindrance.

  One last look around gave him his torch. The bit of ’shine left in the mason jar. Add a piece of cloth from the bunk and light it with his lighter? Yeah. He looked at MJ, miming what he was about to do. The man nodded, scooting toward the edge of the room. As Sonny watched, the propane stove was turned over, that knife piercing the top, liquid fire pooling. The stove igniter was ready, just needed a click and boom.

  Good man. Yeah. Now they just had to slip out the back door, which wasn’t so much a door as a short… tunnel. Lord, the surf bum was gonna hate that. Really, it was just wiggle like a worm and pop out the other side. Surely he could handle that. Sonny made his way to the back of the cabin, moved a stack of boxes aside, and jerked his head.

  MJ slipped over, face going sheer honest-to-God gray when he saw the door, head shaking just a bit.

  Sonny put his free hand on the man’s shoulder, squeezed. It was their best chance. He’d heard Lloyd Freeman’s voice. That son of a bitch’s father owned the logging camp. He’d as soon shoot them as look at them.

  Sonny thought for sure MJ was gonna balk, but those lips were moving, mouthing “Okay, okay” over and over. Then MJ moved, pushing fast like the hounds of hell were after him.

  He had to trust that the man was smart enough not to pop out like a weasel and run. They needed the distraction. He made a split-second assessment. Set it before he left, or toss the cocktail through the window…? No. Set it before he left. He splashed the ’shine across the floor, using the cloth as a wire to set it off. Then he wiggled out through the hole backward, flicking his damned lighter at the very last minute.

  The fucking cabin went up in a crackle and a whoosh, the surprised hollers turning to screams right off. Goddamn, but that motherfucker could burn. He didn’t bother looking back, just followed that fast son of a bitch away from the scene.

  There was no way he could get to his shipment now.

  Thank God he had a reserve of cash in a safe deposit box in Asheville. He’d set up shop somewhere else. And he’d damned well take this failed mess out of MJ’s hide as a reward for his good behavior.

  GODDAMNMOTHERFUCKERPRICK.

  Asshole.

  Fuck.

  Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

  MJ moved through the fading sunlight like death itself was on his heels, which, theoretically, it was, but thinking that way blew the hell out of that whole power of positive thinking thing his mother was always going on about, and he couldn’t fucking have that.

  Hell no.

  Positive thinking.

  He was going to get his happy ass out of this forest.

  He was going to get to his ’stang.

  He was going to run that big, pushy bastard over twice without damaging the axle.

  Then he was going to the beach.

  In Maui.

  For a fucking month.

  Positive thinking.

  Positive thinking wasn’t what was bearing down on his ass, though. Or what was shooting at them every so often. Thank God it was easier to run through these fucking pines than it was to ride a four-wheeler.

  A pine tree branch very nearly took his head off. Sonny grabbed the back of his neck and pushed down, keeping them moving into the lower branches, which was a good tactical move but hell on the skin. Man, he’d thought working water jobs was a bitch.

  Hell, if he’d planned this part of the job, he would’ve at least cut a firebreak around the cabin. God knew how many endangered species were getting crispy-fried.

  “Come on, Precious. Pick ’em up and put ’em down.” Okay, shooting or no, he was going to kill this man.

  The thought soothed him, from his sore throat, to his aching head, to his back. Yeah. First MJ’d beat him with a tire iron. Then the ’stang. Then maybe set him on fire. After fucking the grin out of him.

  Whoa.

  Where the fuck did that come from?

  Okay. Okay, man. So going to Maui.

  Just about the time he thought that, the world went out from under his feet and he went ass over teakettle, rolling down a pine-needle-and-rock slope. He landed at the bottom against a damned tree. Sonny landed on top of him.

  Ow.

  “There is no way I’m only taking fifteen for this fucking job.” He shoved Sonny off, wincing as pine shit poked him half to death.

  “No, you need to get enough to pay me for my fucking shipment.” Cussing up a storm, Sonny sat up, a cut on the side of his bald head bleeding freely. “You’d best have transport somewhere, Precious.”

  “I told you I had a car. I’m not the one who blew that place to kingdom come.” Asshole. Like he was sharing his take. He was more apt to pistol-whip the bastard.

  “Good.” The asshole got up, and damned if he didn’t go pale under the days of stubble and the tan. “Oh fuck a duck.”

  “What?” Oh man. He knew that look. Knew it. The bastard was hurt or he’d eat powdered rhino horn.

  The expression hardened. “Not a goddamned thing. Come on, Precious. Let’s go. I’ve got an appointment with a shower and a branch of NCNB.”

  “I got pain meds in here, when you get tired of faking it.”

  Sonny started moving again, all tall, dark, and unpleasant. “Fuck you.”

  Oh, he didn’t think so. “I don’t bottom, asshole. That’s your job.”

  Oh great. He was down to jabs about fucking.


  “Nope. The last guy who tried to get me to, ate his teeth. I top, Precious. Period.”

  Well, at least now he knew which way that wind blew. Leave it to him to find the only gay redneck in the forest. “Well, they taught an ape to do sign language. There’s still hope for you and your ass.”

  Wait. Did that make sense? Shit.

  Whether it did or not didn’t matter when a shot pinged over their heads and dug deep into a tree about six feet away. Jesus, those assholes were determined. Sonny zigged instead of zagged, and MJ just managed to stagger out of the way as the man’s left leg crumpled, sending him down hard.

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  MJ shoved Sonny over, grabbed a roll of netting from his pack, and draped it over the writhing form. “You fucking stay still, or I will kill you where you lay.”

  Then he stripped off his shirt, crouched, and waited, sidearm at the ready. He was not going to be taken by a bunch of fucking hillbillies. That was not how this shit was going to end. Sonny went absolutely still, not even a breath to give him away. Good. That was good.

  The sound of a gunned engine came clear and angry, like a swarm of bees, and sure enough the ATV broke the ridge, bumping down toward them.

  He waited for his shot, relaxed, easy for the first time in too long. The first bullet took the driver in the shoulder; the second took the left front tire. That was all it needed. That little ATV went rolling, men looking like rag dolls as they were bumped and thrown.

  Man, someone was going to be sore in the morning. Sore or dead. Whatever.

  He snorted. They all were. Sonny popped up from under his net like a jack-in-the-box, face set in hard lines of pain but looking determined. “Out. Let’s get the fuck out.”

  MJ grabbed his net and his shirt, rolling them up as they moved. “Do you know where the fuck we are? I’m parked near Stoney Creek, where 52 meets 74.”

  Squinting those near-black eyes, Sonny looked around, nodded. “Then we need to go about a mile and a half. That way.”

  Uphill. Of course.