Somebody rapped on the door.
“Yeah?”
“You wanted to take off before the sun went down,” Levi called. “We should go now.”
“Be right there.”
Mac wrapped her arms around my waist and squeezed, as if she could keep me here if she held on tight enough.
“I’ll be back after first light.”
Nodding jerkily, she let go of my waist and stepped back. She smiled, but her lower lip trembled. “I’ll see you in the morning, Ripper. You in the mood for pancakes again?”
“Sounds good.” This separation pushed all of Mac’s buttons, and she was hanging onto her self-control by a thread. A prolonged goodbye would make it harder for her. Brushed my lips over hers—like this was no big deal—then opened the door and followed Levi to the front room.
Levi and I packed our gear, weapons, a compass, a walkie-talkie, night vision goggles, binoculars, granola bars, and bottles of water. Took us about an hour and a half to hike back to Valhalla. Had to climb over barbed wire fences twice, past signs that read “Valhalla Ranch, No Trespassing.” We hunched down under a juniper tree at the top of one of the small hills that overlooked the ranch house and barns.
With the night vision goggles, I scanned the property for signs of life. If they were smart, after running us off, they’d expect an incursion and place patrols around the house and outbuildings. After forty minutes I saw no sign of patrols, so I handed Levi the binoculars to keep watch while I committed the layout of the buildings to memory.
A sprawling, L-shaped ranch house with a wraparound porch anchored the property. I know nothing about ranching, so I had to guess the purposes of several of the buildings. I saw one large barn and two smaller ones. Did they keep cows and horses in separate buildings? Not a clue. Maybe one was a hay barn? My lack of knowledge let me down. Another building had a steep metal roof and was open on two sides, kinda like a carport. Tractors occupied the three bays. A round metal building—either a grain bin or a missile silo—sat next to one of the smaller barns. My money was on grain bin, despite the resemblance to a silo. A windowless, cinder block shed sat some distance from the other buildings on the west side of the big barn. I spied a chicken coop and a large greenhouse.
“Nobody’s in sight. I could sneak down there and try looking in through the windows,” Levi whispered, lowering the binoculars.
“No. Not worth the risk.”
Levi made a face. “Seriously, dude. I’m fast. I won’t get caught.” He rose halfway to his feet before I clamped a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down.
“What’s your deal?” he protested, rubbing his shoulder.
“Ain’t a democracy, Levi. You go on a mission with me, you follow orders.”
“I’m not a moron. I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Swear to God,” I said in a low voice. “If you say ‘You’re not the boss of me,’ I’m gonna hog-tie you and carry you back to camp. This’ll be the last mission you go on until you grow up and learn to respect the chain of command.”
“Who died and left you in charge?” he huffed.
I cocked my head to one side. “Three years as an Army Ranger. Five years patched in with the Janissaries, the past two as an enforcer for the club. I got the skills and experience to get shit done and to make the hard choices. Can you honestly say the same?”
He scowled, but kept his mouth shut.
“We good?” I asked.
Levi nodded.
“I’m not a petty tyrant, not like Pastor Bill,” I said in a hushed voice. “Only thing I want is to keep everybody safe. You all bring something to the table and you all have a voice, but when it comes to security, I have the final say.”
“Okay. I get it.”
Sound travels at night, and the bang of a screen door hitting a wall drew our eyes to the house. I raised the night vision binoculars to my eyes. Two men stepped onto the covered porch. A stocky older woman stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, silhouetted against interior lights.
“If you want to smoke, you’ll do it outside. I won’t have you stinking up the place. Or exposing Libby to the smoke.”
“Yes, Aunt Jerrilyn,” both men said.
Jerrilyn. The Widow Wilcox. I recognized her from news stories after her husband’s murder in prison. She’d wailed and called him a martyr to the race wars.
She slammed the door shut, leaving the men to light their cigarettes. We couldn’t hear their murmured conversation as they paced back and forth on the porch.
“Still think it would’ve been a good idea to peek in the window?” I said under my breath.
“You were right,” he conceded, his voice grudging. “I didn’t think anybody was still up.”
I took that as a good sign. Instead of pouting or serving up more backtalk, he admitted when he was wrong. We could build on that.
Soon as the two men went back inside, we retreated behind the crest of the hill and crept to a similar position on the other side of the cluster of buildings. The fresh perspective offered nothing new. No movement, no sign of patrols. The members of the Wilcox Brigade apparently were all settled down inside the ranch house.
Levi and I took turns keeping watch. He dozed, resting his head on crossed arms, during his break. When he spelled me, I allowed my muscles to go slack and my eyelids to form slits. Not asleep, but not entirely awake, alert enough to spring into action if necessary.
As dawn approached, both Levi and I kept our attention focused on the ranch house. Smoke began to drift from a chimney, signaling that people inside were stirring, probably fixing breakfast. Swore I could smell summer sausage frying in a pan and fresh brewed coffee. My stomach growled.
Levi grinned. “Jerky?” He offered me a beef jerky stick.
The front door opened and a woman stepped outside. Wasn’t Jerrilyn, but a much younger woman with waist-length, dark blond hair. Yawning, she stretched her arms over her head, then pressed her hands against her lower back. She turned, and I caught sight of her pregnant belly. Was this the Libby that Jerrilyn didn’t want exposed to cigarette smoke? Probably. I was no expert, but I recalled that when Nicole was that big—and complaining that she hadn’t been able to paint her toenails for months—she’d popped within weeks.
Well, fuck. This was an unwelcome complication. No matter what went down here, we’d have to do what we could to keep the pregnant woman out of harm’s way.
The young woman picked up a basket and ambled toward the chicken coop. Ten minutes later, she made her way back to the porch, carrying the now-full basket of eggs.
After a while, the door swung open again, and three men emerged from the house.
I recognized two of the men, the smokers from last night, Jerrilyn’s nephews. Searched my memory for their names. The two had been arrested for throwing tennis balls off a freeway overpass. They’d written Free Eben on the balls with a black permanent marker. Somebody had posted video of the two lobbing tennis balls into traffic and cars swerving out of the way of the bouncing balls. Had no clue what they hoped to accomplish with the stunt. It had confirmed my suspicion that members of the Wilcox Brigade were dumb shits, one and all.
Dwight and Darryl Wilcox: the names finally came to me.
The third man shuffled across the porch and down the steps, his progress hampered by the set of leg irons that connected ankle to ankle. He was taller than the other men and well built, with wide shoulders and muscular arms. Sunlight glinted off his blond hair as he stumbled toward the largest barn. Dwight—or maybe it was Darryl—kept a shotgun trained on his back.