Pure Dynamite (3 page)

Lyle moved, then stumbled and fell. Rolling onto his back, he grasped his ankle, yelping in pain.

"On your feet, you little wimp!" Wallace ordered.

"I... I can't. I think I broke it." Lyle grimaced. "In that goddamned gopher hole."

Wallace motioned to the driver. "Check McEdwin. The rest of you men: Down."

Careful to keep a safe distance away, the driver eased closer and nodded toward Lyle's ankle. "Let me see."

Biting his lip, Lyle reached for the hem of his pants. But instead of raising it, he twisted and sprang forward, clearing the distance to take the unsuspecting driver out at the knees.

The driver's shotgun dropped. The two men rolled around in the muddy clay as each man struggled to retrieve it.

Wallace's response was immediate, as if he'd expected it. Almost gleefully, the senior guard raised his shotgun, trained it on Lyle and the driver as they wrestled. His finger moved to the trigger. "Prisoner, freeze! Or I'll shoot!"

Behind his back, Adam yanked out the Beretta nine- millimeter that had been planted in the coffee can. He pointed it at Wallace. "Drop it."

The look on Wallace's face shifted from Kodak-moment to Stephen-King-nightmare. He swayed slightly, uncertain whether to keep his weapon trained on Lyle, or to come about and face Adam.

The guard clearly had difficulty comprehending two facts: first, that Adam had a weapon, and, second, that Lyle—of all people—was his accomplice.

At that moment, Lyle leaped to his feet, leaving the driver sprawled on the ground, face down and unmoving. Triumphant, he scooped up the shotgun, jacking a round into the chamber before swinging it toward Wallace.

Wallace opened and closed his mouth, then shouted the driver's name. "Get up, damn you. I need help!"

The driver didn't respond.

"Lay your weapon on the ground and step back," Adam ordered.

"Easy, there." Wallace's voice remained surprisingly calm as he slowly lowered his weapon and moved away. "You don't want to do this, Duval. He's made you an accessory to murder. They'll fry you."

"Murder? Bite me." Lyle moved in and kicked Wallace's shotgun out of reach. "He ain't dead. Just out cold thanks to my special sleeper hold."

Unable to hide his irritation, Adam glared at Lyle before nodding toward the driver. "You forgot to secure him." Sleeper hold or not, the driver could regain consciousness at any time. "And hurry."

Red-faced, Lyle stepped back and quickly cuffed the driver's hands using the handcuffs from the man's own belt.

"You won't make it far. Not with that dipshit for a partner." Wallace eyed his voice-activated radio, smug. "Besides, they've heard every word. Probably got back up coming already. You're both gonna regret this. I guar-an-fucking-tee it."

"Afraid not." Adam held up a wafer-thin transmitter that had been taped to the Beretta's grip. "Radio's jammed. They're only hearing static. By the time they send someone to check, we'll be long gone."

"Yeah. So hit the ground and kiss dirt," Lyle added.

Wallace's self-righteous smirk melted as it dawned on him that no help was coming, no rescue was imminent. The balance of power had shifted, leaving him trapped in a guard's worst nightmare. He was probably recalling every wrong act he'd committed against a prisoner.

And while he wasn't as barbaric as some, Adam knew first hand how the man misused authority.

Once the guard was flat on his stomach, Lyle leaned close and knocked Wallace's hat off before securing his hands. Then he drew back and kicked the guard hard, in the ribs.

"How does it feel to know nothing can stop me from blowing you away?" Lyle dropped to one knee and shoved the end of the barrel into the guard's right ear as he ran his hand along the shotgun's stock. "Bet you never figured I'd be the one to off you."

"Leave him," Adam ordered.

When Lyle made no move to comply, Adam shifted closer. So far no one had been injured. He damn sure wanted to keep it that way.

"I said—"

"I heard you." Lyle withdrew the shotgun, then bent down and snatched the guard's cigarettes from his back pocket. "Guess I'll catch you next time. And give Huggins this message for me: Tell him to watch his back."

Ned Huggins was another guard, known for being exceptionally cruel, especially to the prisoners he considered weak. It was no secret that Lyle had been Ned's favorite target.

Adam turned to the other two inmates who were on their feet now. "It's every man for himself. You don't have much of a head start so I'd think twice before wasting time with them." He nodded toward the guards.

Potter moved forward. "Fuck that. I'm going with you."

"No, you're not." Adam raised the nine-millimeter. "And I'll shoot anyone who tries to follow us."

Potter stepped sideways. "I'm taking his gun, then."

Adam moved closer to Wallace's shotgun, blocking Potter's access. "You heard me. It's every man for himself."

Snarling, Potter raised his fist, shook it. "We'll meet again, Duval. And remember: payback's a bitch." Spitting, he turned away and took off running with the other inmate.

"Shoot him," Lyle urged. "Show him who's boss."

Adam stooped to pick up Wallace's shotgun. "I already did. Let's go."

Motioning for Lyle to lead, Adam threw one last look at the guards, then took his first step toward the woods.

Toward freedom, justice ... and retribution.

Adam didn't stop running until they'd reached the car—a stolen Ford Taurus—hidden in a dense copse of hickory trees a mile away.

Letting the shotgun slide to the ground, Lyle collapsed against the car's hood panting. "Did you see the look on Wallace's face? He thought he was seconds away from getting his head blown off. By me! What a fucking rush!"

"Rush? You think killing people is a joke?" Adam yanked the younger man to his feet, and spun him around. He wanted to throttle Lyle, shake some sense into him. Except there wasn't time for that much shaking. "We agreed up front—no shooting unless absolutely necessary."

"Hey, back off! I wasn't really going to shoot him. Just fire a warning shot next to his head. Make him piss in his pants. He did it to me plenty of times."

"We weren't that far from the main road. Someone could have heard." Adam released him. "I ought to leave your ass right here, right now. I didn't want company to begin with and I don't need someone who can't stay focused on the big picture."

Lyle straightened his shirt. "I thought the big picture included settling old scores. Hell, I've heard you talk about it plenty of times."

"That comes later. The first priority is to get away. Which means sticking with the plan until we're safe."

"Well, this couldn't wait," Lyle defended. "Wallace has been on my case since I got there. Circling like a buzzard, hoping to collect the reward on my kin. I hope he's shaking in his boots wondering what my pa will do to get even."

"Fine. Once we part ways, you and your family can do whatever you want." Disgusted, Adam stepped away.

"Wait." Lyle's brow wrinkled. "Ah, hell. I'm sorry. You're right. And I swear, after we hook up with my family, you'll forget all this talk about parting ways."

"I doubt that." Adam's snort was authentic. "You place too much stock in your family, kid. Family will screw you just as easily as a stranger off the street."

"Mine won't. Mark my words. Besides, you need me—my connections. Remember?"

Adam stared at the ground, pretended he was weighing options he didn't have. Lyle's connections were indeed vital.

The two men had shared a cell from the first day Adam landed in prison. Initially wary, they forged an uneasy alliance when Lyle hid contraband for Adam during a search.

Adam repaid the favor by showing the younger man several effective self-defense moves, which improved Lyle's fate with the other prisoners if not with the guards. This last act also elevated Adam's status to hero.

When Lyle guessed Adam planned an escape, he begged, pleaded, to be included. Adam flat out refused. Until Lyle promised that his family would hide them once they were on the outside.

His offer had been impossible to refuse. Willy McEdwin, Lyle's father—and his three older brothers, Nevin, Tristin, and Burt—held the top four spots on the FBI's most-wanted list. Dubbed the Four Horsemen in the right-wing press, they were responsible for the deaths of more law enforcement officials than anyone in history—a number they had sworn to double.

If anyone could hide two fugitives, it was Willy McEdwin and sons. Famous for striking and disappearing without a trace—and despite rumors of family rifts—they had eluded capture for over four years. And while Lyle had had no contact with his family in the nine months he'd been incarcerated, Adam doubted Willy would leave his youngest out in the cold once he'd escaped.

However... until they connected with the McEdwin clan, Adam wanted to make damn sure Lyle played by the rules.
His rules.
"We also agreed: I'm in charge until we part ways."

"Whatever. You da man."

Lyle lit a cigarette, then blew smoke rings and tried to poke a finger through one, reminding Adam that he was barely twenty years old. Still a kid—albeit a stupid one.

At thirty-four, Adam felt ancient.

"Now can we celebrate?" Lyle asked.

"Not yet. If the guard doesn't check in soon, they'll dispatch someone to investigate. We need to vanish. And I cashed in all my chips making arrangements for
two."
He looked pointedly at Lyle. "Which means the ball's in your court. I held up my end, got us out, got us wheels. Bat we need a destination. As soon as we're on the road, you need to contact your family."

Unloading the shotguns, Adam pocketed the shells and tossed both twelve-gauges into the brush.

"Are you crazy?" Lyle started after them.

"We don't need them. And I damn sure don't want any souvenirs from that hell hole."

Adam moved to the back of the car and opened the trunk. Inside were civilian clothes, non-perishable food, a few hundred in cash, a handheld police scanner, a cell phone with charger, and a second handgun, this one a Smith & Wesson.

Eyes wide, Lyle made a grab for the gun. "You're right, we don't need their stinking shotguns."

"Cut the John Wayne act, kid. I mean it. We're stowing both weapons under the seat." Where Adam could keep track of them. "Let's change up and go. I want to put some miles on this car—fast."

"You won't regret this," Lyle said. "I promise, by nightfall, we'll be somewhere safe and sound."

"Yep, like the county jail."

Both men jumped and turned at the new voice.

About thirty feet away, Adam spotted a man crouched beneath a tree, an old double-barrel propped at shoulder level.

The man's overalls and worn John Deere cap indicated he was a farmer, probably the owner of the submerged fields surrounding them. And judging by the comfortable way he held the shotgun, he wasn't fond of trespassers.

Adam raised his hands. "Easy, Mister. We don't mean you any harm."

"You can tell that to the sheriff when he gets here," the farmer said. "Now tell your friend to get his hands where I can see 'em."