With Just Cause (9 page)

It didn’t take long before they were all
assembled in a basement chamber that looked like a storage
room.

“This is so exciting!” Someone whispered it,
and then laughed.

“Best retreat ever.” Someone else
answered.

Edna wasn’t whispering when she answered. Her
words were even more spine-tingling.

“Stop that. This isn’t a drill. This is fact.
I don’t know how and I don’t know why, but we’ve been overrun by
madmen. You heard them. They’ve already executed one – that coyote
fella – and you know damn well what they’re doing to that nice man,
Len.”

“They’re skinning him alive!”

“Exactly. That’s their plan. And we’re
stopping them. Listen up. We are not shooting anyone unless it’s to
kill. Understand? No wounding. These are bad guys and we’re
protecting ourselves and our property. Exactly as we’ve trained. If
you feel incapable, don’t take up a weapon. Find a hiding spot and
pray we’re the better shots. Rosa? Show us this armory.”

In answer, there was a click and the entire
back wall swiveled, showing a series of tunnels that branched out
into blackness. The entire complex could be the dimensions of the
ranch house above it. They were directed through a door on the
right. Deandra’s wasn’t the only jaw that dropped. She was in awe.
Every bit of wall space was devoted to premium hardware. All types
of guns. They had shotguns - all types and every barrel size. She
scanned twenty-six inch barrels, some longer, reaching thirty, and
some were sawn off. Long-range rifles were displayed next, most
bolt action chambered to .308 and .30-06’s. There was a section of
big game guns such as .338 Winchesters. Small rifles were stacked
in rows, barrel-down. A glance showed most were chambered .223 bolt
action. There were rows of combination guns such as the European
three-barrel “dreilings”, consisting of two 12-guage shotguns
mounted about a long-range rifle barrel. Good rifle for any
condition. Deandra selected one of those and then moved onto the
wall filled with handguns, both centerfire and rimfire, and beneath
the pistol wall were shelves holding all kinds of equipment.
Knives. Holsters. Scopes. GPS units. Night vision goggles.

While the others picked their favorites,
Deandra strapped on a holster and picked up two .22 pistols with
six inch barrels. Then she plucked up a combat knife, still in its
scabbard. A few seconds later, it was strapped to the outside of
her right thigh. A GPS unit went into her pocket where it clacked
alongside the makeup compact. Night vision goggles were next and
she draped them around her neck. And she was ready. After all, they
were only facing fifteen Hunters and one old man.

No. Make that thirteen Hunters now. Her two
frying-pan victims weren’t breathing last she saw.

She got another jaw drop as Rosa gestured
them across the hall to her ammunition cache. Unbelievable. The
place was a warehouse of munitions. She slung a brace of cartridges
over her head, looking a bit like the recently deceased coyote guy
from last night. This place was stocked to survive WWIII, an army
of zombies, or a group of camouflage-dressed lunatics doing
whatever it took to catch and kill a fantasy being. Vampires? Oh,
please. It sounded more fantastical every time she thought it. And
her Grimm wasn’t a vampire. It was impossible. Fantastical.

Please let it be fantastical
.

Deandra tamped down the misgiving, sending it
to churn in her belly alongside the adrenaline rush and shock from
killing two men. She’d deal with all that later, in the aftermath.
Right now they had a situation to deal with. They had to save Len.
They had bad guys to deal with. Insane bad guys. Dangerous. And
armed. As surreal as it sounded, the situation was real and it was
still happening. And bound to get worse. She’d already responded.
She’d taken out two of them. Deandra’s hands shook for the barest
moment before she forced them to still.

She could panic later. Right now, she had to
go take out more.

They hadn’t been quick enough. Len’s cries
added impetus to their feet, wings to hers. Nobody could keep up.
Deandra had to wait at the same hall she’d just left for inside
attack group to catch up. If anyone noticed, they didn’t say. Edna
had divided them. Six of the 2100 Radical Society were outside.
They had thirty-four seconds more to reach their assigned positions
before Edna gave the sign for attack.

“I tell you I don’t know anything! I don’t
know anyone! Ow! You bastard!”

“I already sent both Stevens and Ron to the
Bradley Ranch, Mister Griggins. You might as well give me the rest
of my information.”

Deandra went ice cold. The rifle trembled in
her hands. They knew about the Bradley Ranch? Grimm could handle
two of these guys. If he knew they were coming and what they
wanted. She didn’t know which one had been Stevens, and how
merciless he was. But she’d seen Ron execute the coyote guy in cold
blood. She knew exactly what he was capable of.

“Hans? Put some salve on that. I don’t want
him bleeding out too soon.”

The old guy wasn’t doing well under the
strain or something. His voice shook. She hoped he dropped with a
stroke. Edna wasn’t waiting. Against every bit of training, she
went early, jumping into the room with a shotgun blast toward Len’s
captors.

Damn it! They had to get Len out of the line
of fire first.

Deandra dropped, rolled, and from the crouch
where she ended, shot one leg off Len’s chair with her combination
rifle. She didn’t have time to watch him teeter and fall over. Her
next shot nearly took off the old guy’s arm. He might have been
shaky when he talked, but his screams were loud and shrill and full
of pain. And then someone put him out of his misery with a
well-aimed
coup-de-grace
bullet.

The Hunters might have been surprised and
they might be shocked, but they weren’t amateurs. Some dove for
cover the moment Edna started it, and picked off at least two of
the 2100 Radical Society before they cleared the door and had a
chance to enter. They were deadly shots, too. There wasn’t any
sound coming from either body. Sounded like the group outside was
taking their own heat as gunfire and shouts started infiltrating
the area.

Three of them were using the fire pit for
cover. Every once in a while a hand would come over and pepper
their area with bullets. It got returned, some of it ringing off
the funnel-thing. The builders should have fashioned a real
fireplace. One with a brick hearth. And not one that was suspended
above the ground. From her vantage point, Deandra got three of the
Hunters in rapid fire succession, right in the thighs and lower
legs, and anything else she could pick off. Not waiting to see if
they survived, she launched across the floor, grabbed Len’s chair
and scooted to a far wall, dragging him along. She slammed the
table they used for board games to its side for protection.

Someone noticed, and sent a flurry of bullets
into the wood grain, none of them piercing it. That was odd.
Deandra slipped her knife out, freed Len, and waited as he ripped
the hem off his shirt and started binding his arm. He had three
long gashes in one forearm.

“That doesn’t look serious enough to give up
Grimm,” she whispered.

“Didn’t say a word, Sweetheart. And you’re
not on this end. Hurts like the devil.”

“Two of them are on their way to the Bradley
Ranch.”

“No lie. Give me your rifle.”

She did, and yanked the supply of bullets
over her head at the same time. “How do they know then?”

“There’s only one big ranch out here.
Eighteen miles due north. Eleven as the crow flies. Didn’t take
them long to figure out the best spot to start looking.”

“Damn it.”

Len went to his knees, lifted above the table
and fired off a couple of rounds. Dropped as bullets replied.

“Well? What are you waiting for? An invite?
He’ll be vulnerable until the sun sets. We’ve got this, Hon.”

“Eleven miles? North?”

“Take the dirt bike. They’re using the road.
Now, go! I’ll cover you.”

The Bradley Ranch was everything she’d
suspected it would be. Snobbish. Immaculate. Heavily financed. The
wrought iron gatepost settled on both sides in red-bricked posts
was ornamented with what looked like intricate coats of arms. They
had heraldic symbols on their gate? In the middle of a Texas
spread? Pure snobbery.

It was also well-groomed. Perfectly spaced
white picket fencing trimmed both sides of the asphalt drive she
raced up. Behind that were manicured spans of lawns and backing
them were enormous structures that resembled barns. Painted red,
with pitched roofs, they looked like barns or stables, but were
much too immense. Or something. They were all the same design and
color scheme, too. Although, they used gold as a trim color and not
white.

Hell. It was probably real gold leaf, or
something equally expensive and easily as stupid. Snobbish.
Well-groomed, and heavily financed. The one thing it didn’t look
was alert to any danger. That might mean she’d beaten the two men
sent to track Grimm down and probably kill him.

As if vampires really existed.

And he was one.

Deandra cut the engine and jumped off the
bike before it finished rolling, not even caring that it probably
destroyed some of the shrubbery. She’d worry about that later. Once
she’d warned Grimm. Everything focused on that one thing. She ran
the span of wide steps leading to a cupola entrance way, and yanked
on the door bell chain. The sound of deep bonging reverberated
through the two-story double doors she faced, and then the door
opened and a real French-dressed maid stepped out.

Deandra’s face probably reflected her
reaction. She couldn’t believe it. The woman had her hair in a bun
with a white caplet atop that. She wore a black dress, with a wide
skirt held out by a lot of white petticoats, and she had a
lace-trimmed white apron atop everything. And a feather duster in
one hand.

“May I help you?”

“I’m here to see the senior Bradley person.
Whoever that might be. Are they in?”

“Are you expected?”

Deandra smiled and then dropped the
expression. “No.”

“Is this a social call?”

“You’re joking, right?”

Arriving dust-covered and grimy, with her
hair loose, dark glasses still in place, and carrying a set of
pistols wasn’t clue enough?

“I’m sorry. The Bradleys are not accepting
callers.”

The woman stepped back through the doorframe
and moved to shut the door. Deandra stuck her leg into the gap,
where the wood smacked against her combat knife, pressing it into
her thigh.

“If you don’t go and fetch a senior Mister or
Missus Bradley, I might shoot you. And then I’ll go and do it
myself. Does that answer your questions?”

The woman’s eyes went as wide as her mouth.
She let go of the door. Backed until she was in the middle of the
room, and then dropped a hand to lift her skirt a fraction if it
was in the way. Stupid move. Maybe it was instinctive. Maybe it was
required of their staff by the Bradley family. It still looked
stupid. That skirt was knee-length. It certainly wasn’t in her way
as she walked briskly over to a thickly carpeted staircase that
spiraled up into the lofty span of space above. She started
climbing. Deanna kept pace, three steps behind. She wasn’t allowing
this woman to disappear and maybe get help to evict her. The woman
didn’t act like she heard or felt Deandra. And never once did she
look back to check.

Good thing she’d decided to accompany the
maid. She might have gotten lost. The place was a cavern of antique
furnishings, thick carpeting, tiled spans covered with Persian
carpets, lofty ceilings holding chandeliers, and everywhere was
carved wooden furniture. Deandra wondered if Grimm had a hand in a
few of them, recognizing a pattern from his bedposts, and quickly
set the thought aside.

So... this is how the truly rich lived. What
a waste. Of space. Energy. Resources. She could go on. It wouldn’t
matter. They probably didn’t care how much damage they did to the
environment. They had their own personal oil well. And
refinery.

The maid stopped finally and tapped on a
door. Not just any door, but one of a set of double doors fashioned
from carved redwood with gilt trim. They spanned two stories in
height. Maybe more. Deandra wasn’t checking ceiling height. She was
too hyped up. Adrenaline was like a drug, pulsing through her.
She’d killed today and watched two of the 2100 Radical Society die.
This was child’s play.

The maid was bade entrance and went in,
Deandra at her heels.

The Bradley family was having an evening
soiree. For all she knew they were gathered to sip cordials and
gossip prior to being called into dinner. Or something equally
nonsensical.

The enormity of the room the maid entered
sucked at sound. Everyone looked like a tiny doll with such soaring
ceilings. They also looked overdressed and elegant. Especially in
comparison to her. The maid moved toward the small gathering near a
fireplace that probably held an entire tree if they used it.
Deandra kept pace. It was too late now.

“Esther, what on earth—?”

“I need to speak with a senior Bradley,”
Deandra answered loudly, making the maid jump and look like she’d
faint.

A glass dropped, shattering on impact.
Someone squealed. A masculine voice sputtered, and then a woman
stepped forward, her skeletal-slender form enclosed in a black
cocktail dress that showed way too much cleavage. And she was way
too old for such a display, even if they were surgically enhanced
and didn’t sag. And Deandra should be way too intent on saving
Grimm to even notice.

“Are you the senior Bradley?”

The woman’s face tightened, especially her
lips, where deep lines cracked outward regardless of how much lip
liner she’d used.