EMP Aftermath Series (Book 3): Retribution Read online

  "Missing, huh? Hmm, haven't heard of anything like that happening," Metz said. He glanced out the window, as if seeking a way out of the conversation. His face flushed a bright red.

  Howell wondered at his reaction but pressed on. "Anyway, look. The long and short of it is that the man's son was incarcerated here, and was supposed to get out somewhere around the time of the EMP. You know how these mountain people can get, the ones that live way back in the woods. It doesn't take much to start a blood feud over something like this. I'm just trying to find some information about this man's son I put away so as to get his family off my back," Howell said. "You take my meaning?"

  "Oh, you don't have to tell me about that," Metz laughed. "I've had my share of death threats from criminals’ families in my time as deputy. I'd love to help you, but Warden Dodson left me a real mess. Tons of paperwork I still have to go through yet."

  "Sorry to hear that. There can't be more paperwork than police work, right?" Chief Howell asked.

  "Ha. You know what, I thought I had my hands full before. Look at all of this," he said, pointing to the stacks of papers on his desk and boxes of paperwork on the floor. "I'm up to my ears in paperwork. Honestly, I haven't even begun to look at all of it. This place was a mess when I got here. My hands are full with the staff and prisoners. It'll be another month before I get to any of this nonsense," Warden Metz said.

  "What kind of issues do you have with the staff? Anything I can help out with?"

  "Oh, you know. The usual stuff. Some of the guards smuggle in contraband: cigarettes, alcohol. That kind of thing. Everybody's trying to make an extra buck on the side," he said.

  "Ha. Well, we all know how that goes, don't we?" Chief Howell said. "I'd say with as many prisoners as you've got here there might be some opportunities for an enterprising individual to reap the rewards. Prison is a hard place to be stuck, away from family, away from the outside world. I imagine that prisoners would pay to experience some of the creature comforts of the outside world."

  The Warden gave him a sly look and grinned. "Well, as you say. You know how it goes." He tilted the bottle and poured two tall glasses of the liquor. "Say, that goes down smooth, and boy does it do the job!"

  The Warden was drinking far too quickly. His face was flushed and his earlier uptightness had disappeared. Years lived inside of a whiskey bottle had left the Chief with an enormous tolerance for alcohol. Two glasses of corn whiskey, four shots worth in reality, had left him with a pleasant buzz. Warden Metz was a featherweight, Howell could tell just by looking at him. Maybe now was the time to press for more information.

  "So tell me, what happened to old Warden Dodson? There were rumors going around about the peculiar circumstances of his death. How'd he die?"

  "Dodson? Well, from what I gather it was a hunting accident. He was out alone in the woods and his shotgun discharged while he was crossing a creek. He probably slipped in the mud. Nothing peculiar about it at all, really," Metz said. He looked out the window again, distracted. His jaw muscles clenched, and his hands trembled as he poured another glass of moonshine for himself and tossed it back quickly.

  Metz was getting touchy, and Howell knew he'd better back off a little and keep him talking. An idea hit him as he watched Metz pour another glass. The man didn't know his limits. If he was unwilling to talk, it might be easier to simply drink him under the table and get the information he needed from another source. The stacks of boxes and filing cabinets filled with paperwork in the office might be chock full of information. Metz had already admitted he hadn't gone through any of it yet. He wouldn't notice any missing paperwork for quite some time, if at all.

  "Well, I don't put much stock in rumor anyway. I say what's done is done. We have to look forward to the future, am I right?" Howell asked.

  Metz perked up at the change in topic. "I'll drink to that. Say, what did you say it was you wanted from me?"

  Howell sipped at his whiskey, slowing his pace. "I was looking for information on that prisoner that was supposed to be released. You know what? I'm not going to make you dig through all of those papers. Tell you what, why don't you just write me a letter saying that Seth Ferguson was released on time. Maybe you could put something nice in there about him. Say... say he was going to travel to Ohio, where he had a girlfriend. Maybe they were going to get married. That should get the family off my back. After all, who knows what happens to these convicts after they leave here. And who cares, right?"

  Metz smiled. "You're a man after my own heart, Howell. Not a problem. I'll take care of that for you right now." Swaying wildly as he backed up his chair, Metz removed a pen and official stationery from his desk and began to write the letter.

  "I can't thank you enough. Now listen, you think that corn whiskey is good? Wait till you try some of this corn moonshine," he said, popping the cork from the bottle. He filled both glasses with the potent liquor.

  "Oh no, now I couldn't--"

  "Come on now, you're not going to make me drink alone are you? What else have you got to do? You going to do that mountain of paperwork over there?" Howell chuckled.

  "Well, I guess one more ain't going to kill me." Metz propped himself up on an elbow, barely upright. He slid the note over to Howell and tilted his glass of moonshine back. "Holy hell that burns like the Dickens!"

  Howell kept him talking and drinking for another half an hour, nursing his own drink. It wasn't long before Warden Metz was slumped over in his chair, passed out in an alcoholic stupor. Howell waited another fifteen minutes and then began to examine the boxes of files scattered around the office.

  The filing cabinets were filled with prisoner records, incident reports, and invoices for services provided to the facility. Howell tried to locate Seth Ferguson's prisoner record, but the file was missing. He took a stack of recent invoices and other financial records and set them aside.

  Wheeling the rolling desk chair carefully backward, Howell moved Metz out of the way and perused the contents of the desk. Shoved underneath a stack of papers in a drawer, a leather bound notebook stuffed with letters caught his eye. Howell snatched it up and hid it underneath the packing material in the crate he'd used to transport the whiskey along with all of the other paperwork he'd lifted.

  Howell tiptoed out the door, cautious not to rouse the snoring Warden from his sleep. Howell was too drunk to read through the files and process the information right now. He'd have to take a look at it in the morning when his head was clear. The room swaying wildly around him. He retraced his steps from the warden's office to the penitentiary's front office and signed out. With great effort, he got on his horse and rode back to the little town he'd passed through earlier in the day. Right now he needed a hotel with a bed and some water. Lots and lots of water. Tomorrow he could look through the documents in the crate.

  Chapter 10

  A full moon was high overhead, casting just enough light onto the street to navigate by. Deep shadows clung to squat brick buildings and warehouses on either side of the road. Railroad tracks inlaid into the asphalt beside the main street branched off at each intersection, leading into enormous loading warehouses designed to house train cars. The air was humid, still, and quiet, making the horse's steel shoes seem impossibly loud as they struck the pavement.

  Kenny sat on his horse, reins held in one hand, his other hand resting on the butt of his pistol as he rode down the middle of the street into the industrial section of Charleston. His mother's horse followed just behind him, lashed to his own horse and carrying her limp form slung over the saddle. She was bound, gagged, and had a burlap sack pulled over her head. Her hands and feet were tied to the saddle, and she gave a convincing grunt of protest and discomfort every once in a while, completing the appearance that Kenny was a kidnapper bringing in his prey in exchange for money.

  A short distance into the industrial section he located the old soda manufacturing plant the highwayman Bill Cheswold had told him about. The building was a hundred feet wide, several hundred
feet long, and tall enough to accommodate a train car into the large open loading bays located at the side of the building. Kenny led the horse down the side street, peering into the shadows for any sign of Bill's contact.

  "Hey, you. Stop," a gruff voice called to him from the darkness.

  Kenny pulled his horse up short, looking around in the darkness, trying to determine where the voice had come from. "Show yourself."

  A match flared in the darkness and lit a kerosene lantern, dispersing the darkness and revealing the faces of two men in Martin Hale Security Company uniforms. They were tough looking. One of them had a scar running the length of his cheek, its pale line standing out in stark contrast to his skin. The other man, who held the lantern, was a huge brute, his eyes dull and unintelligent, yet cruel and dangerous looking.

  "Kid, you'd better turn that horse around and get on out of here. You're going to get yourself into trouble," the scar-faced man said menacingly.

  Kenny swallowed to wet his dry throat. Summoning his courage, he slid down from his horse and gave the man a look of disdain. If he was to play the part of a kidnapper believably, he was going to have to show them that he wasn't someone they could push around. He took the lead of his mother's horse and led the animal into the light, illuminating his cargo. "Why? I'm right where I want to be."

  "Who the hell are you, kid? What are you doing here?" Scarface asked again.

  "Bill sent me. I'm supposed to bring this woman here and collect the pay," Kenny said.

  The Martin Hale men looked at each other, obviously suspicious. The brute cocked his head to the side and pointed his finger at Kenny accusingly. "Tell us what you're really doing here or I'm gonna beat your little ass to a pulp."

  Kenny slid the Glock halfway out of its holster, making sure both of the men could see his action. "Is there a problem here, guys? ‘Cause Bill is going to be pissed off if I have to go fetch him just to convince your dumb ass I'm with the program. Your choice, though," Kenny said.

  "Is that right? I don't recall him mentioning anything about bringing on more people," Scarface pressed.

  Kenny remained silent, staring down the two men, his Glock at the ready.

  Scarface smirked and turned to the brute, "Damn! This kid is ice cold. A stone cold killer. He's cool." Scarface then turned to Kenny and nodded his head with respect. "You're one hardcore kid. No wonder Bill brought you on. Alright, let's take a look at what you brought."

  The two men approached his mother's horse and the big brute yanked the burlap sack off of her head. Amy gave a muffled scream and shook her head wildly. The man opened his eyes wide and gave a crude catcall, the whistle echoing loudly. "Huh. Usually Bill sends us fresh meat. She's... older."

  The scar-faced man gave an evil cackle. "Where'd you find her, kid? She's old enough to be your mother. The hell if I'm paying the usual price for her."

  The brute leaned in close to Amy's face and squinted, holding the kerosene lamp close. "Hey. She looks just like you, kid. What are you trying to--"

  Lightning fast, Kenny pulled his Glock out and had it leveled at the two men before they could even blink. "Don't move. Step back from the horse where I can see you. Keep that lantern up. Both of you raise your hands in the air and don't move a muscle."

  The men backed up, anger and confusion written on their faces.

  With a quick glance behind him, Kenny reached over and helped his mother remove the ropes binding her legs together. With a twist of her wrists, the ropes binding her hands unraveled and slipped off. She slid off the horse and frisked the two men, confiscating two pistols and a long knife.

  "Let's go inside and have a talk," Kenny said.

  The two men turned and entered the building through the open bay door, then walked several feet into the cavernous warehouse.

  "That's far enough. Put the lantern on the floor, and then sit down and put your hands on top of your head," Kenny said.

  His mother pulled the heavy metal bay door shut, which made a low rumbling noise as the door slid along a set of tracks and then slammed shut with an echoing boom. Amy walked over to a mechanic's tool chest parked near a workbench and rooted around, taking a handful of plastic zip ties out of a tray. She moved over to the men, moved the lantern several feet away from them, and then circled around behind them, binding their hands behind their backs with the zip ties.

  Kenny joined his mother and took a deep breath, calming his pounding heart before he began his line of questioning. Sarah's life was on the line. She was everything to him. He couldn't mess this up. He had to get these men to tell him what happened to her and fast. The more time that he let pass, the less chance there was he would find her. He decided the direct approach would be best. There was no time for teasing out bits of information a piece at a time.

  "You," Kenny said, nudging Scarface with his pistol. "We already know that you buy people from Bill Cheswold. He told us all about it. A few days ago Bill brought my fiancée here and sold her to you. You're going to tell me where she is."

  The scar-faced man threw his head back and gave an evil cackle. "Kid, I ain't telling you shit."

  "Her name is Sarah. She's eighteen. She has long blonde hair, and--"

  Brute gave Kenny a vile look and shouted, "We ain't sayin' shit to you. You ain't nothing."

  "Mom, break the big dumb one's fingers. Start with his pinkie."

  The big man cursed and spit on the floor dismissively. When his mother leaned down behind him and took hold of his pinkie finger. "Lady, you ain't going to do shit."

  "Last chance," Kenny said.

  The man remained mute, but the sweat pouring from his forehead showed his fear. A few seconds passed in silence.

  "Do it," Kenny said.

  A sickening crack was followed by the man's scream of pain.

  "Oh, shit!" the scar-faced man cried. His mouth hung open, clearly rattled.

  When the big brute's cries of agony subsided, Kenny squatted down in front of the scar-faced man. "Let's try this again. Tell me what you did with Sarah."

  "Man, I just started here yesterday. I didn't know what was going down. I haven't done anything wrong. I wasn't even here when Bill brought those two in and--"

  "Liar! You just said those two. I only mentioned my fiancée. You were here when Bill brought Sarah and her brother." Kenny turned to his mother, "Start with his thumb."

  His mother leaned down and pried the man's thumb out from his balled up fists as he attempted to keep her from getting at his fingers. With a merciless grunt, she used both hands and jerked the thumb backward.

  The scar-faced man screamed in a loud, shrill voice. His thumb stuck up at an awkward angle, twitching.

  Kenny stood up and then squatted down in front of the big brute. The man's forehead dripped with sweat, his eyes as wide with fear. "Your turn again, big guy. What did you do with Sarah? The girl that was brought here the other day?"

  "Alright. Alright. Please don't--"

  "You shut up and don't say a word. You're going to get us both killed if you tell them anything," the scar-faced man said.

  The brute bit his lip and looked at the floor, his lower lip quivering.

  "Don't be stupid, guys. You're going to tell me everything you know, it's just a matter of how many broken fingers you walk away with," Amy said. She leaned down and seized one of the brute's fingers and snapped it.

  Kenny shouted to be heard over the brute's screaming. "Let's keep going with the big guy. I bet he breaks first."

  "No! Please! No more. I'll tell you whatever you want to know," the big brute said. He didn't look so intimidating now. Tears streamed down his cheeks and drool dripped from his lower lip as he blubbered for mercy.

  "So talk," Kenny said.

  "Bill came in here bragging about a big haul. He told us his gang took out some people that were loaded. He said they got horses, whiskey, gold, and all kinds of good stuff. That young guy he brought, we put him in on a train and sent him down the tracks. The girl... we sent her on a diff
erent train--"

  "Where?" Kenny demanded. "Where was the train going?"

  "To Huntington. I don't know what they do with the girls. All I know is a boat comes to pick them up once a week. I don't know where they go after that."

  "How long ago did you send her there?" Kenny asked.

  "Two days."

  His mother shot him a look of concern.

  Two days was a long time. Too long. She could be anywhere by now.

  Kenny's hands began to tremble, and his body flushed with heat. These men disgusted him. How could you take a human being and treat them like an animal, buying and selling them? He knew Sarah's brother had been sent to a coal mine. Kenny was filled with fear, wondering what they had planned for Sarah. He had to deal with these men and then find her fast.

  "How long has this been going on? How many people have been bought and sent down the railroad?"

  "Don't tell them shit," Scarface said.

  Kenny stood up and kicked the scar-faced man hard in the gut, silencing him.

  "I’ve been here six months. They been doing this a long time before me. I don't know how many people. I just don't know."

  Amy turned to Kenny, stunned.

  It had been three years since the EMP, since the lawlessness started everywhere. Could it really have been that long? How many people had this kidnapping ring taken in the past three years? He would end this right here and now. Nobody else was going to go through what Sarah and her brother had been through. He walked around behind the two men, put his Glock in the holster, and took his knife out.

  "You're selling people into slavery. I can't let you keep doing that. There are families missing their loved ones because of what you've done." He put the knife against the man’s neck.

  "Wait! Please!" Scarface pleaded. "I can tell you--"

  Just then the bay door opened and several men in Martin Hale uniforms walked through the door carrying kerosene lanterns, casting light on Kenny and his mother. The men stopped just inside the door, taking in the scene.