“Here’s the cash.”
Merlin opens the door and I toss the pack in his lap.
“How do I know this big, bearded fucker isn’t going to gut me and leave me by the side of the road?” He jerks his thumb toward Rooster.
“You don’t!” Rooster shouts. “That’s what makes it so exciting.”
I snort-laugh, flip a thumbs-up at Rooster, and slide behind the wheel again.
Murphy climbs into the back seat and slams the door with a harsh thump. “Let’s go.”
Grinder, Jigsaw, and Dex take off ahead of us on their bikes. Wrath and Z follow in Wrath’s truck. Rooster goes next and I pull out of the parking lot last.
“We should’ve brought his toe,” Murphy says. “Coulda brought him to Ironworks Emergency Room on the way home.”
“I think a toe is the least of Carter’s concerns right now,” Rock says.
That kills the conversation for a while.
It’s a long fucking ride to Vermont.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Teller
“What the fuck is this?” Rock mutters. “Looks like an abandoned garbage dump.”
“Smells like one too,” Z says, pinching his nose.
I step out of the shadows of the grove of ancient maple trees giving us cover and scan the vast area. “A backwoods meth-making camp.”
“This is why making meth is bad, m’kay, kids,” Wrath says in his best Mr. Mackey voice.
“Jesus.” I step up onto a large, flat bolder and lift my binoculars, searching for any sign of Carter. Nothing but old, rusted campers and trailers dotting an open field of overgrown weeds and hilly slopes. Piles of trash and empty cans tangle in long blades of grass. Circles of dirt and fried grass mar the land like mangy spots on a dog. Piles of burned logs and rings of stones indicate they risk using some areas of their campground for bonfires. Glass from shattered bottles glitters in the dusky light.
Twigs and dried brush crackle under my feet as I jump off the rock and return to the safety of the trees. “One spark and this whole camp will go up in flames.”
Wrath pulls a lighter out of his pocket. “Let’s save that for later.”
“You see anything?” Murphy asks me.
“Nothing useful. There have to be ten or fifteen trailers set up. No way to tell which one Carter might be in. Or where they store the pregnant chicks.”
“Shit,” Rock mutters, turning toward the circle of dirty and broken blacktop where we’d parked our vehicles.
“Pretty much,” Z says.
Rock snarls at him.
“Easy.” Z holds up his hands. “I want him back too, Rock.”
“I didn’t see any movement,” I continue. “I gotta imagine they left at least one person guarding Carter.”
Rock glances at the seven of us. “Let’s split up into two teams. We’ll do a sweep and clear each trailer. See if we find anyone we can pry Carter’s location out of.” He pulls a hunting knife from my glove compartment and flips it in the air, catching it neatly by the handle. “Using any means necessary.”
“I’m down with that,” Murphy agrees.
“What do you want to do if we find the girl?” Z asks.
“If she’s hostile, leave her ass here,” Rock says. “Carter’s my main concern. If we find her, and she wants out, we’ll take her.”
Wrath’s gaze strays to the open field again. “She shoots at me, I’m shooting back.”
“Let’s try not to shoot unless we know what we’re shooting at. I don’t want Carter catching a bullet.” Rock glances toward the camp again. “And we don’t want to strike anything that might light this place up.”
Wrath nods.
We’re all aware of how flammable the chemicals used to make meth can be. And how unstable the people making the shit are after having their brains rotted out on the fumes.
Rock taps my shoulder, then points to Murphy. “We’ll go right. Wrath, you stay here and cover us.”
Wrath scowls.
“You’re the most accurate under these conditions.” Rock sweeps his hand in a circle, then nods to the rifle in Wrath’s hands.
They stare at each other for a few tense seconds, then Wrath responds with a tight nod.
Z points at Jigsaw and Grinder. “We’ll take the left side. Meet you in the back.”
I return to my truck and fill my pockets with ammunition. The shotgun gets strapped to my side in a single-point sling.
The first structure we encounter looks like an old RV from the seventies. At one time it was probably brown with orange pinstripes. Now, it’s some version of a faded tan with white lines breaking up patches of rust and dirt. Over time, the wheels seem to have rotted into the ground.
The thick stench of shit and piss assaults my nose as we creep closer.
Rock pulls his T-shirt up over his nose and motions for me to keep moving.
“This smells like their outhouse,” I grumble.
“Yeah.” He glances around. “Watch where you step.”
“Fucking great.”
Behind me, Murphy gags. “Give me diaper duty over this, any day.”
Rock chuckles, then coughs.
The smell intensifies. My eyes water and beg for mercy.
The door has a board screwed to it to keep it closed. Rock and I flank each side. I reach out and flip the board up. The door screeches open. Heat and stench roll over us in waves.
“Stay there.” Careful not to touch the door, Rock steps over the rusted metal pieces that probably used to be a short staircase and lifts himself into the RV. “Carter?”
Yellow glow from Rock’s flashlight briefly sweeps the interior, revealing the stuff of nightmares.
Murphy slaps my shoulder. “This makes that shitty poor kid camp we went to that one summer seem like a four-star resort.”
I snort at the vague memory. “Yeah, you pissed in the lake every day ’cause you were scared of the latrines.”
“Fuckin’ A, I was. Those asshole counselors kept telling us stories about the toilet monster eating a fat ginger camper every summer.” He shakes his head. “I wasn’t risking it.”
A louder snort of laughter bursts out of me.
Rock jumps out of the RV and slams the door shut. The board falls into place with a quiet thump. “Fuck, that’s disgusting. No one’s in there.”
“Puts ‘filthy biker’ into a whole new perspective,” Murphy says.
“Got that.” Rock sweeps his hand in front of us. “Let’s move to the next one.”
A tall metal container stands in front of us. About the size of a short school bus. It doesn’t have any windows. Just a door with a secure latch at one end.
“Looks like a fuckin’ death trap,” Murphy grumbles. He quietly twists the handle and the door falls open with a rusty sigh. We stand to the sides of the door. When no bullets come flying, Murphy pokes his head inside and shines his flashlight. The light briefly illuminates what looks like a cozy living room. Cozy for a shipping container.
“It’s all one room.” Murphy steps inside. “There’s a bed all the way in the back.”