The Abandon Series | Book 2 | These Times of Retribution Read online

  These Times of Retribution

  Ryan Schow

  Copyright

  The eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy so that you may read it with a clear conscience and not one day end up in hell over a shitty technicality. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  THESE TIMES OF RETRIBUTION

  Copyright © 2020 Ryan Schow. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this eBook, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, cloned, stored in or introduced into any information storage or retrieval system, in any form, or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this eBook via the Internet or via any other means without the express written permission of the author or publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents—and their usage for storytelling purposes—are crafted for the singular purpose of fictional entertainment and no absolute truths shall be derived from the information contained within. Locales, businesses, events, government institutions and private institutions are used for atmospheric, entertainment and fictional purposes only. Furthermore, any resemblance or reference to an actual living person is used solely for atmospheric, entertainment and fictional purposes.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Cover Design by Milo at Deranged Doctor Design

  Visit the Author’s Website: www.RyanSchow.com

  Contents

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  A Look Ahead: These Times Of Cessation

  Free Ebook: The Last Light Of Day

  Also by Ryan Schow

  About the Author

  Preface

  Most of this story takes place in Nicholasville, Kentucky with some scenes at NKU and in the small towns of Silver Grove and Melbourne. In the spirit of crafting a compelling story, I have altered some aspects of the real towns and taken a few very minor geographical liberties. Thank you for understanding an author’s creative license.

  Chapter One

  Walker McDaniel

  Fourteen days before the event… Forty-five-year-old Walker McDaniel sat in his nine-hundred and sixty-four square foot rental house in Harrodsburg, Kentucky wondering how much time he had left. It had been three weeks since he received word that Diesel Daley was officially hunting him, but only minutes ago he heard Diesel had found him.

  Walker checked the GPS tracking app he had put on Diesel’s phone right before he stole his fortune and his vintage Colt Single Action Army—the gun that supposedly belonged to Billy the Kid, a.k.a., William H. Bonney. The gold and silver bars were one thing, but what would have rubbed Diesel raw, what would have flayed him right down to the bone, was that Walker had stolen his gun, the prized family heirloom.

  If the tracker was accurate to the minute, and he felt it was, his former Spec-Ops buddy was around twenty minutes out. Is he coming alone, or bringing the cavalry? Only time would tell. He imagined the man wouldn’t come alone, though.

  Walker took a shot of bourbon, noted the time. Three minutes to nine on a Tuesday morning. “Everything bad happens on Tuesdays,” he grumbled to himself.

  He tilted the Four Roses bourbon generously, filled his shot glass to the rim, then set the bottle down and stopped short at the sight of his trembling hands. They never shook that bad. He squeezed both hands, packed a puncher’s fist, then released them and fought to slow his hammering heart.

  On the antique wooden side-table lay the Heckler & Koch VP9, Diesel’s personal handgun. Yeah, Walker took that, too. The semi-automatic striker-fired pistol wasn’t the best gun out there, but Diesel’s father gave it to him the day the Ohio native joined the Army. Diesel’s old man was killed by a drunk driver when Diesel was overseas and waiting to come home. Walker was with him on that particularly tough day. And on that day, Walker would never have imagined they’d ever be anything other than thick as thieves. Now they were mortal enemies. Looking at the VP9 he’d stolen, he wondered if the gun just might save his life. Then again, knowing Diesel, he could very well use it to stamp out Walker’s life.

  He tipped the shot glass, let the alcohol burn a trail down his throat. He settled into the warm afterglow and sighed. Reclining in his chair, he ran a hand through his hair, then looked around. Considering his life, what he’d made of it, whether he lived or died by Diesel’s hand, or anyone else’s hand, really didn’t matter. He’d run the gas tank dry on this existence so it wasn’t a big thing to think of it coming to an end. The truth was, he was dead a long time ago. It’s just that no one told God yet.

  Instead of pouring that next shot of bourbon, he slid the VP9 around the bottle, kept it close. There were lots of weapons nearby. All throughout the three-bedroom two-bath house, he made sure he was stacked, racked, and ready to roll.

  Another few minutes passed, his eyes once more finding the bottle and locking in on it. He poured himself a healthy slug, drained the shot glass, then tried again to relax into the warmth that the bourbon brought. But not this time. This time the liquid burned like acid in his gut, a foretelling of his future, perhaps. As in life, the thing you expected to save you—the death of either himself or Diesel, in this case—could very well be the event to bring you the most pain.

  There was no getting out of this predicament unscathed.

  Sitting there in an unsettled state, counting down the time, he ran a mental inventory of his arsenal. The VP9 had a full magazine and one in the chamber. It was a good handgun, not his favorite, but it would start things off just fine. He also had two Remington 870 Tactical shotguns and a Sig Sauer MPX Carbine with a thirty-round mag ready to tap dance. These were his personal weapons. The guns he felt most comfortable with.

  The MPX sat by the street-facing window with a spare mag; the shotguns were strategically placed in the kitchen and his bedroom; the handgun was at his side, ready to go.

  Another shot, more acid in his gut. He laid his head back and thought of his brother Colt, Faith, Leighton, Rowan, and Marley.

  So many mistakes…

  He glanced around to where his guns were hidden and thought of them as the last of his family. Some might’ve said the former Green Beret was fetishizing his weapons, but he wasn
’t. To the normal citizen, that much firepower would be overkill in a home-defense scenario. But not for Walker, and not for what he expected was coming next.

  In just a few minutes, he would be outmanned, outgunned, and living on stolen time. Not all was lost, though. Walker had fifty good years behind him. If there was one thing he was thankful for, it was that he hadn’t been slaughtered in some third-world cesspool, his body desecrated by enemy combatants to make a point. Maybe that was good enough. Maybe that was more than he deserved.

  Either way, he dragged himself out of the chair, walked over to the pantry, and took his body armor off the hook. He put it on, pulled the straps tight. The PT-Armor wasn’t the fit he was used to as an operator, but the vest was tactical and technically built for Spec-Ops use. Even though he stole that, too, and even though it was a good vest, it left more of his chest and arms exposed than he wanted.

  Diesel and his guys were going to come in strong, aim for a shoulder, try to sneak in a shot to the upper chest, or even nick a leg. They’d want to slow him down, get information from him, then punch his clock. Of all the ways he could die, the most likely scenario was that someone would give him a third eye. But he wouldn’t make it easy for them. In the end, whoever killed him was going to have to work for it.

  The phone rang, startling him. He looked down at the screen and saw the number: Jessamine County Sheriff’s Office. His friend, Sheriff Lance Garrity.

  “Yeah,” he answered.

  “They’re coming,” Garrity said.

  “I know.”

  “Figured you might.”

  He sat back down, closed his eyes, and shook his head. He’d been waiting for this day for weeks now. Maybe longer.

  “Alright then,” Walker said. Garrity stayed on the line, didn’t hang up. He drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, sharply. “I guess it’s time, then.”

  “Who do you want me to deliver to first?” Garrity asked.

  “Leighton gets the package first,” he said, eyeing the bourbon, but holding off because his gut still burned, “that way you’re not seen, tracked, or followed.”

  “I can get up there tomorrow.”

  Walker’s youngest niece, Leighton McDaniel, was in school at Northern Kentucky University in Highland Heights, a hundred miles north. He wished she was closer, but she wasn’t. He hoped he wasn’t putting her life in danger, but just being who he was had put his whole family in danger.

  “When I get back from NKU,” Garrity said, “I’ll head up to Colt’s place.”

  “If you don’t have your head on a swivel and extra iron with you at all times, then you learned nothing in the Army.”

  “Already got it covered,” Garrity said, a slight tremor in his voice. “If these guys are as bad as you say they are, then I’ll be loaded for bear as soon as we hang up.”

  “I’ll call you tonight,” Walker said, rubbing his forehead. He hadn’t slept a decent night in weeks. “But if you don’t get that call, then make the delivery first thing.”

  “I know the drill.”

  Walker poured another shot, tossed it back, relaxed. It was time to stop drinking. But maybe he’d take one more for the road.

  “You have fifteen minutes, Walker.”

  “I know,” he said, choosing the gun over the bottle. “Like I said, first thing in the morning.”

  “Walker…” Garrity said, almost like he wasn’t sure what else to say.

  The history between them was too much to quantify. Their friendship started with football, carried through to the Army, then held strong until that day, no matter the trouble Walker stirred up for himself.

  “When I’m gone,” Walker said, “this is on you.”

  “I wish it wasn’t like this.”

  “It could get ugly.”

  “I know.”

  “Stay frosty, brother,” Walker said.

  “Roger that.”

  He hung up the phone without saying good-bye. If there was one thing he was bad at, it was good-byes.

  Walker stood, went out back, and took a deep breath of fresh air. His thoughts turned inward. Diesel Daley is on his way. The reality of that thought sunk in deep.

  He checked his phone.

  Ten minutes.

  Drawing another breath, he holstered the VP9, went back inside, then took a post at the street-facing window. There he removed the screen and opened the Levolor blinds.

  He checked the carbine again and tried to still his nerves. For a second, he thought he was going to be sick.

  Down the street, he heard a motorcycle.

  He recognized that engine.

  Diesel.

  Steadying his hand, releasing his air, he picked up the carbine and leveled it on the street. The motorcycle turned the corner, cruised up his street.

  Walker didn’t see anyone else.

  Is it just Diesel?

  The second the motorcycle pulled up out front, he heard someone breaching the back door. He fired a three-round burst into Diesel, taking him down. But the dead man who fell off the motorcycle wouldn’t be him. He would be a decoy. Walker spun around, swept out, and fired on two guys who had broken in through his kitchen door.

  A fleet of vehicles closed in on the house at once. Others were now entering his home. When the first gunman appeared, Walker put two rounds in his face, ducked back in the hallway, waited for the next guy.

  To his back, gunfire tore up the front door, lancing his neck and arms with large wooden splinters. Ducking down, forced back into the living room, he fired on the next guy, a lackluster Marine who had thought a shredded door was his opportunity. He was wrong. The only opportunity he made for himself was the opportunity to die. A tight, three-round grouping to the throat had the kid staggering sideways. Walker launched his body at the former soldier, shoulder checking him on his way by.

  In the kitchen, he saw four guys. They shot at him, but he was faster, more precise. The instant he took two rounds to the meat of his shoulder and lost most of his left ear, he realized he wasn’t fast enough. The pain was sharp and immediate, but he was still operational.

  Out in back, three more trucks entered his one-acre yard. He emptied the rest of the carbine’s mag, peppering the vehicles and the guys inside them. The second he fired dry, he dumped the first mag, loaded the next, then fell back into the living room where his front door was being breached. He was too late. Guys were already fanning out.

  In Spec-Ops, he trained in close-quarters battle (CQB), house clearing, and even two-man teams. But a one-man CQB against an army of Spec-Ops trained anarchists? Yeah, it was definitely—

  He took three rounds to the vest, felt a bullet skip off his cheek, dizzying him. He dropped down behind the couch, half-falling, half-wheezing in the process. He reminded himself that this was what he was trained for—crap situations like this one.

  He rolled on his back, scooted to the edge of the couch, started shooting knees first, then bodies second. When the carbine finally fired dry, he dropped it and grabbed the VP9. Ducking down, tucking his head, gunfire lit up the couch. Stuffing blew out everywhere.

  When the shooting finally ceased, he sat up as fast as he could, fired six rounds, hitting two targets and wounding a third. Unsteady, but getting up anyway, he made an awkward run for the back room. Tracer rounds followed him fast, one catching the back of his vest hard enough to spin him sideways.

  He knocked off the wall, stumbled over a pair of bodies, and fired on one guy at the end of the hall. He caught the scumbag just above the left eye.

  He’d been aiming for his throat.

  When he reached his back bedroom, he switched out mags and holstered the VP9. He then grabbed the Remington 870, racked a load, and turned on four guys at the center-fed door. He could hardly breathe, but his body was working the way he was trained.

  Gunfire erupted, the lead punching his vest hard, knocking the wind out of him. No stranger to pain, he fired a load, caught the side of one shooter. The other three ducked out of the room. He rac
ked another load, finished off the first guy. He listened for a moment, then fired two more shots into the walls, hearing a satisfying scream on the impact.

  He dropped the shotgun on the bed, pulled his handgun, then hobbled forward, working the corner angle. He saw an elbow and a knee. He shot the knee, then fired on the shooter’s head the instant it popped out in response.

  The man went down hard; his buddy fled the scene.

  He grabbed the shotgun again, fed in three more rounds despite the monstrous shake in his hands, then went after the other one. The second he cut around the corner, someone from the hallway shot him in the back. Body arched forward in response, he felt like he’d been hit by a bus.

  He staggered forward, dropped the 870, fell to a knee. Whoever did shot him with a shotgun. Sucking wind, he knew what that meant. Five more 9mm rounds lit up his vest, filling him with an ungodly pain and leaving him to wonder how many ribs were cracked or broken. He tried to take a breath but couldn’t. He was locked up tight.

  He fought to get up, but someone grabbed him by the hair, yanked his head back, and said, “You really are something else.”

  Diesel Daley.

  He still couldn’t breathe.

  Seeing this, shaking his head in disgust, the beast that was Diesel Daley dragged him through his house by the hair, pulling his battered body through the carnage he had created.