Chapter 4 - The Price of Admission
The man at the window was Dale Miller, a name I recognized from the federal intelligence files we kept locked away in the clubhouse back in Missouri—a man who specialized in land fraud, intimidation, and making troublesome people vanish into the Kentucky backwoods.
“You’re a long way from home, big man,” Dale said, his voice dripping with false hospitality as he peered past me into the dim interior of the van. His eyes locked onto Amos, who was slowly blinking awake against the cushions. “And it looks like you brought a corpse for a passenger.”
“He’s visiting family,” I said, keeping my hands resting casually on the steering wheel, just inches from the heavy steel tire iron wedged between the seats.
Dale chuckled, a dry, grating sound. “There ain't no family left for an old codger like Amos Bell. The Bell place burned down forty years ago, and whatever was buried under the floorboards belongs to the county now.”
“It belongs to him,” Jesse shouted from the passenger seat, throwing his door open before I could stop him.
“Jesse, get back in the truck!” I warned.
Dale’s eyes flicked to the young rider, narrowing as he took in Jesse's face, the shape of his jaw, the dark curl of his hair. A strange flicker of recognition crossed Dale's face, instantly replaced by a cold, predatory grin.
“Well, well,” Dale murmured, taking a step back and resting his hand casually on the grip of a holstered pistol at his hip. “If it ain't the little bastard who ran off to Missouri. Your mama should’ve taught you to mind your geography, boy. People who come looking for the Mercer homestead tend to find it a lot sooner than they expect—six feet down.”
Behind us, the low, angry rumble of motorcycle engines broke through the forest canopy. Grady and the three trailing riders rounded the bend, cutting their lights and forming a tight, defensive wedge behind our bumper. The three men in the truck bed instantly swung their rifles around, aiming right at Grady’s chest.
Grady didn't flinch. He killed his engine, coasted to a stop, and slowly swung his leg over his saddle, his hands resting on his hips, exposing the heavy brass knuckles strapped to his right palm.
“You boys must not get many visitors,” Grady said, his voice cutting like a razor through the damp air. “You’re acting mighty inhospitable for a Sunday afternoon.”
“This is private property,” Dale barked, not breaking eye contact with Jesse. “Turn around or we burn the van right here with the old man inside.”
“Try it,” I said softly, kicking my door open and standing up to my full six-foot-four height. The morning sun caught the scars on my knuckles and the ink crawling up my neck. I stepped down into the mud, planting my boots square in front of Dale. “You’ve got four guns, Dale. We’ve got forty more riders five miles back on the main road with satellite phones and local sheriff dispatch numbers on speed dial. You want to explain to a state trooper why you’re executing old men in a national forest?”
Dale's jaw clenched. For three agonizing seconds, neither of us moved. The rifles clicked as safety switches were flicked off.
Then, Dale spat into the mud right at my boots.
“Go on then,” Dale hissed, stepping back toward his truck. “Go look at your precious house, Amos. See what’s left of it. But when you find out why your friend Arthur ran away in the middle of the night, don't say I didn't warn you.”
May you like
The truck backed up slowly, tires spinning in the mud, before roaring off down the trail and leaving a thick cloud of blue exhaust hanging in the trees.
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