Next World Series | Vol. 6 | Families First [Battle Grounds] Ewing, K. (free ebooks for android .txt) 📖

second pull, the cylinder was spun again, presumably giving him another 2 in 6 or possibly 2 in 7 chance of catching a live one.

“Hold on, neighbor,” said Hanson in a near whisper. Click.

“We’re coming for you, old frie...”

Bam! echoed across the large valley, bouncing off cliff walls, and his body slumped to the side. The dancing men hooted and hollered, with a few trading money on what was surely a bet on this poor man’s life.

Hanson quickly stood up and was nearly dragged back down.

“Not yet,” said Sergio. “When it’s time, you can take your pound of flesh, but we need information from them first.”

Two men headed up the small hill towards what might be their new home for maybe a week.

“When those two go inside, let’s get the others locked down. We’ll have some time,” said Sergio.

“How would you know that?” asked Hanson.

“Their gear’s all down by the river; it would be up at the house if they had already been inside. Since they haven’t, the two men up there now will take their time looking for anything valuable. None of them will trust each other, so they will likely stay up there for a while. We’ll catch them on their way out,” added Sergio.

The three around the campfire were halfway to skunk drunk, cranking up the music and more stumbling than dancing around the fire now.

Another five minutes and Mike was in position, as was Sergio, covered by Hanson and all within twenty feet of the fire. Sergio gave the signal by hand, as he didn’t dare speak. Mike grabbed one of the three by the neck, squeezing him until he slowly lowered to the ground, with Sergio taking the second quietly with a quick blade across the throat.

Hanson jumped out from behind a large oak tree, throwing the third to the ground and telling him to be silent and lay facedown on the dirt. All moved another twenty yards away and into thick brush, with the two not so lucky having to be dragged lifeless.

Hanson’s man was tied and gagged, posing no threat. “Now we wait,” said Sergio.

It was 20 more minutes before the two tomb raiders headed down with their loot stuffed into pillowcases, slung over each shoulder.

“Guys…hey guys,” they called out over the music, still blaring out a Guns N’ Roses tune called “Welcome to the Jungle.”

Mike remembered reading an article somewhere about an interview with the front man called Rose, or something he couldn’t quite remember, but he said he spent the night in an LA park before his big break, and a man told him he was in a jungle. A place offering fame and money, but also poverty and addiction and, above all, an appetite for destruction, as their album was titled. Sounds like this place, he thought.

Mike fired his AR just as the men reached the bottom of the riverbank, shattering the noisemaker and restoring the valley sounds to that of the running river and moaning captive.

“You’re in the Jungle!” shouted Mike, timing their response and adding, “now it’s your time to...”

The thieves made it easy for Sergio, shooting first but missing the mark by some distance, being caught by surprise.

The skirmish was over in seconds, with Hanson proceeding to dump out the contents of each pillowcase onto the ground. Watches, cash, old coins presumedly from a vintage collection neatly displayed in coin books, cans of food, and several pistols rounded out the typical raid these men were used to now.

“All right. You’re the last one,” said Sergio, yanking him to his feet. “Now sing!”

“What…what do you mean?” asked the man once his gag was pulled out.

“I mean, tell us the story.”

“Hey, I know you,” he said to Sergio, “and I’ve seen you too,” he added, looking at Mike.

“Last chance,” announced Sergio without responding to the accusations.

“Last chance,” he said again, adding, “I want to know how long you have been here, how you got here, and when the rest are arriving. I won’t even ask you about Baker’s plans after that because I know he wouldn’t tell a bumbling drunk anything about what he is planning. So, let’s hear it.”

“If I tell you, can I go free?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay. We were dropped off about ten miles back towards town by one of his choppers, so nobody around here would see us land. They gave us a map and some packs to hike in. We just got here this morning, and the homeowner or ranch guy shot himself. I guess he just got scared or something. I tried to stop him but it was too late,” he added, lowering his head, shaking it back and forth, and conjuring up a few tears.

“I’ll bet you did some acting back in the day,” said Mike. “Maybe some school plays or even off-Broadway.”

The man didn’t respond, only looked off into space.

“The thousand-yard stare…I knew it!” exclaimed Mike, as if he had just solved the puzzle on Wheel of Fortune.

“Please continue,” Mike added.

“Uh, that’s it, I guess,” the man replied, “except they are headed here now and as of this morning they...” He trailed off as if just realizing this last piece of information was his final bargaining chip, and once he said it he would be of no more use.

“There are a few things I would like to negotiate,” he continued, regaining some composure.

Hanson was ready to take his head off after the “suicide” of his longtime neighbor comment but held off, realizing the man sitting in front of him was the only thing standing between his family and the thousand crazies headed this way.

“You’re not in a great negotiation spot,” said Sergio, “but let’s hear it anyway. This may be your final audition, so make it count.”

“Okay. Okay. I’ll tell you when they will be here,