“We’ll have to be a little more tactical than that, but yeah, we’ve got a chance. Ordinarily, we wouldn’t be able to get this close. They’d have monitors on us, and we’d be staring down armed guards right now. But without monitors, they can’t see us. And even if they could, they’ve probably got all their correction officers on hand—in case something crazy happens.”
Nathan slipped away from the pack and crept to the door. There was no chance of him being to see anything, but he could possibly hear something to give him a sense of what was happening—and what might be on the verge of happening.
The moment seemed loaded with tension. No laughter, no chit-chat. Nothing but an amplified voice barking out instructions that he couldn’t make out. The voice seemed tense, clinging to any semblance of control.
He turned and waved the pack forward. Once there, he whispered to them, “All right, guys. Quick question: how many have friends or relatives in here? Be honest.”
Every hand went up.
“Great. Here’s what I need from you: you see any faces you recognize, pull them aside, tell them to join up with us. Don’t waste time making a sales pitch. They say ‘no’ or start asking too many questions, you move on to the next. We need recruits, and we need them right now. Got it?”
“What kinds of guys are we looking for?” one of the guys asked. “You want guys with a history of violence? Or do you want to avoid the ones with too much violence in their past?”
“We’re not picky,” he answered. “We can’t afford to be. If they’re in here, we want ‘em. Now let’s go!”
They quietly ducked inside, followed the dim light down the hallway, and kept going. Stealing a glimpse of the cell blocks, Nathan could feel the tension all the more intensely. It was clear that the inmates could launch into full-tilt bedlam at any second. All they needed was a spark.
He reached over, grabbed the first rifle he could get his hands on. After lifting it into the air, he pulled the trigger. Nothing.
“You have to cock it first,” Gio whispered.
Nathan sent a scowl to his second-in-command, then tried to yank the middle section back like he’d seen in movies. But instead of making the click sound the movie stars made, it slipped from his hand.
Gio tried to swallow a giggle but couldn’t. “Dude, it’s not a shotgun.” When he got another scowl from his boss, he covered by saying. “And I totally make that mistake all the time myself.” He reached for the rifle. “Let me show you.” He demonstrated by pulling down the trigger guard.
Nathan took it back, then aimed at the ceiling and tugged the trigger three times. The gun jerked back against his body unexpectedly. But it had the intended effect. The low murmur filling the hallways gained in volume and intensity. Laughs became howls. Talking became screaming. Grunts of dissatisfaction rose to loudly shouted demands for vengeance and blood.
The guards backed up without delay, their heads swiveling, their eyes wide.
In the distance, Nathan spotted a guard who hadn’t backed up—and seemingly couldn’t. He was being choked from behind by two lean hands poking through the cell bars. Body shaking from laughter, he said, “Right on time!”
He crept closer and could now see a second pair of hands had reached forward and yanked the keys from the belt in spite of attempts made by other guards to rescue him. When a series of loud clicks filled the air, he said, “Let’s get out of here while we can.”
As the gang took off, Nathan backed away slowly, unable to lift his eyes away from the beautiful chaos he’d helped create. He felt like an artist proudly gazing at the masterpiece on his easel.
13
Hatfield wasn’t sure what to expect when he stepped inside. The riflemen had been cordial with him and his family—but not exactly friendly. They seemed to see him as an important figure by virtue of who his father was, but beyond that, he was just another stranger. The other six—his family and the three VVs—were probably seen as worse than that. Seeing other people as nothing more than a potential drain on resources was often an unfortunate by-product of that lifestyle. His father was no exception, although he generally felt bad about it.
With the rifleman at his side, they all waited in a well-stocked living room. It was sparse and not exactly pretty. Survival isn’t always going to win you a fashion prize, his father used to say. He must have been involved in designing the living room.
At his side, Hatfield heard his wife ask, “Can we see to her wrist now, please?” her voice was strong but careful not to come across as pushy.
The rifleman answered, “In time.”
It didn’t seem like a good sign that the rifleman hadn’t even offered them a seat on a couch. Instead, they just stood there, waiting, not even having been told who or what they were waiting for.
So when the chunky guy in his sixties emerged from the back room, face exploding into a smile, it caught them all off-guard. “Trevor Hatfield!” he yelled, arms spread for a bear hug. “It’s like I’ve known you all my life without knowing you!”
He looked like a Santa Clause in camouflage gear. Long, white beard, friendly face, a paunch hanging over his belt. “And this must be the lovely Hatfield clan!” He introduced himself as Captain Cecil Payne, the homestead leader, then greeted each of the family warmly, his face growing slack with worry when he spotted Tami’s reddened wrist. “Oh, my! Let’s get this thing taken care of, shall we!”
Tami was taken down the hallway, Jess going along.
“How about a tour while they take care of that and get dinner ready for our esteemed guest!”
“Sounds great! Ready for that, Justin?”
“I sure am!”
Cecil walked past the three VVs, no words—only a sour grimace.
ONCE OUTSIDE, the tour began at the barbed wire. “Now, you may be wondering about our fence, and yes, your daddy did always prefer a wooden fence for the sake of privacy. But we always figured this far out, how much privacy do we need? Well, the answer was a lot. So we just planted some buffalo berry seeds. Should break the wind a little, plus shield us away from prying eyes!”
Hatfield was impressed. And he stayed that way through the rest of the tour. They saw their chickens and hogs in the back yard, their worm bins. The infrared dryer with the garden, as well as the weather stick connected to the balsam wood tree.
As they headed indoors, Hatfield asked a question that had been gnawing at him for a while. “Did you know my father personally?”
“I did. And, looking back, I cherish every second of that acquaintance.”
Flooded by memories—both good and bad—Hatfield found himself getting choked up. With a wry laugh, he said, “Sometimes I feel like I didn’t know my father personally.”
Cecil laughed with him. “I hear you. The sergeant was a good man, as wise as they come, but he wasn’t always the most instantly lovable.”
As they walked into the back door, the sound of chaos rising in the distance caught his attention.
NATHAN WATCHED the combat unfold from a safe distance. It wasn’t his job to do the dirty work of hand-to-hand fighting. Let the foot soldiers do that. He was the field general. Patton, Sherman. The leader. He stood there with his binoculars around his neck, rifle raised.
Roughly a football field’s length from him, the gang shouted in victory. Now at least a hundred strong, they raced toward him, pumping fists and screeching into the night.
“Pretty formidable gang we’re building up, guys!” he said.
“Sure is. It’s only a matter of time before this town is ours,” Gio said.