Collision Course, CH23 (Patreon)

“Jacoby?”

“What the fuck have you been up to? I just had someone leading an assault nearly run me over?”

“How many?” Boxes are barely under control, and I consider denying I have anything to do with what’s happening. One of the first things prison taught me is to never accept guilt. But in this situation, it won’t help. Even if whoever this is is after someone other than me. I will have to handle it. So the only relevant information is the number of people I will be dealing with.

“Tristan, you know my rules. You don’t—”

“The longer you go on about how I’ve brought problems to your reservation, the less time I have to be ready to deal with them.” The thought about simply leaving flitters by and I don’t have energy left to quiet that box. It’s only a thought. This is what I want to live. I have invested years into making it perfect for me. I am not leaving it simply because thugs have somehow found out where I live.

It’s easier to kill all of them.

He sighs. “Eight sedans. Tinted windows, but based on the size you’re dealing with at least four people in each, could be as high as six. What I saw of the driver and passenger of the first one makes me think they won’t want to be any more crowded than that.”

“Describe them.”

“The driver is white, black suit, large. Enforcer is what came to mind, because the guy in the passenger seat is thin, looked banged up. The suit was classier, brown of some sort. Not white, Latino maybe, I didn’t have long to study him. I’d say he’s the boss.”

Riddle. How is he still alive? The better question is how are they here? I eye Bart. Did he lead them here? Is he actually working for them? Was all of this—

I shut down that box.

I need sleep. The longer I am forced to go, the less control I keep.

Did I make a mistake?

In my state, that is not impossible.

“Tell everyone to stay indoors. They don’t want to be caught in the crossfire.”

“You’re all the way at the end, how—”

I close the phone and pocket it.

“Did anyone?” I start and stop. Figuring out how they are here needs to wait. I can’t waste the time. I have to prepare, get into position. The safeguards I have in place will not be enough to remove all of them. Fortunately, I have extra tools with me.

“How can I help?” Bart asks.

I check in on his box. I cannot afford to have that one get out of my control, not right now. Killing him is the most expedient way to resolve the problem he represents—it shudders—but in my state, I can use his assistance. And he has demonstrated that he is competent.

I head outside and take the JDJ out of the trunk. It is heavier than I remember.

I need sleep.

I hand the box of ammunition to Bart and head for the workroom.

“Shouldn’t you put pants on, if we have incoming?”

“This is my house. I’m not going to get dressed just because a bunch of thugs are coming to kill me. If you don’t like it, you’re welcome to leave.” His box strains under my hold.

“Hey, I’m not complaining. I’m quite enjoying the view. You want me to get naked too so we’re a matched set?”

“I don’t care.” The idea of him naked is enough to make his box rattle and give me an erection.

“Maybe later. When we celebrate.”

I climb the ladder on the side of the workroom.

“Well someone’s excited about what’s coming,” Bart says as I reach the roof.

One of the reasons I picked this location to build my house is that on top of being as far from everyone else as I can be without cutting down the forest, the elevation gives me a line of sight all the way to the entrance of the reservation, four miles away.

I can make out the dust from the cars.

They won’t be here quickly. We purposely don’t maintain the road and where there are no houses, the underbrush is too uneven for anything other than an all-terrain vehicle. If they try to hurry, the potholes will destroy the cars’ undercarriage.

I wish my safeguards were better positioned, but the issue with living among a group of expertly trained people, most of whom have a healthy dose of paranoia, is that it’s impossible to dig up the road to lay down mines without someone demanding to know what you’re doing. And because of that paranoia, when Zephyr caught me planning one, he went over the entire road, from the start of my property to Jacoby’s house, and removed the three I had placed.

I’ve had to opt for shape charges hidden in the underbrush, which means only the last third of the route is covered and it isn’t as guaranteed to obliterate a car. I pull the remote for the charges out of the weatherproof box, then stretch on the roof, and take the JDJ out of its case.

“I can get you a blanket if you want.”

“Why?”

“For you to lie on. Your cock grinding against gravel can’t be comfortable.”

I look around at what’s covering the roof, then inward for that box. It’s used to remaining quiet, and in the noise the others are making, the little it causes can’t be perceived.

“I don’t mind it.” I attach the tripod, then place that at the edge of the roof. “How many bullets are left?” I should know, but I can’t find that information.

“Those things aren’t bullets. I’ve seen cannons loaded with smaller stuff. There’s four clips with… five bullets in them each.”

“Hand me one, be ready to hand me more as I tell you.” I put the first magazine in and sight the lead car. They’ve only made it one mile. Too far.

How did Riddle survive the collapse of his house? I try to remember where he was when I destroyed the support column and find that I can’t. I stopped looking for him when Bart returned.

He distracted me. I want to hurt him for that and I have a vision of him under me, my hands around his throat, his erection pressed against my own. My cock rubbing against the gravel as it reacts to the scene reminds me I have more important things to do than assign blame.

Once I am back to myself, once I am back in control, I can go over what happened, and if Bart is to blame, then he will pay.

His box protests and I quiet. It won’t get a say in the matter when the time comes.

“When I tell you, flick the first switch on the detonator.” I hand it to him and go back to watching the cars.

If Riddle is here, it is because he is angry. That is good. Angry people make mistakes. His was to come here with his men. He should have sent them while looking for a place to hide. No, his mistake was to bother with revenge now. He should have let me think he was dead and rebuilt his industry.

They cross the two-mile mark and I steady my breathing and put the stock firmly to my shoulder. The boxes quiet in response. Excitement has its place in battle, but not here. At this distance, a heartbeat at the wrong moment will throw the aim.

The distance indicator in the sight moves down steadily as the car bounce and weaves as best as it can to avoid the potholes. When the time comes I lower my aim from the windshield to the grill.

A grin splits my lips as my finger touches the trigger.

“Eat this, assholes,” I whisper and curse myself for the distraction as I tap the trigger twice and the ground ahead of the sedan explodes as the stock slams in my shoulder. The boxes are no longer quiet, but this time, pain is the loudest, and fortunately for me, that is something I am used to.

Too much dust to see the lead car. I move to the next one I see, the third, and tap the trigger twice. The pain in my shoulder explodes again, accompanied by a tingling in my fingers, but the front of that sedan caves in, forcing the others to drive around. Three hundred foot-pound of recoil energy will do damage, and this isn’t the first time today I have fired it.

“Flick the switch,” I say, and barely hear myself over the ringing in my ears.

Two shape charges go off on each side of the road as the lead car passes it, but I already know my timing’s off. I am doing too many things at once, but there’s no one else to make these calls. I eject the magazine and Bart had one in my hand before I give the order.

Our fingers touch and for too long that is all I can think about.

“Next switch.”

This explosion catches a car, but not the lead one.

I curse and in my hurry to make it up, I miss my next shot, the bullets going into the passenger side, destroying the windshield and whoever was there. It does cause the three cars behind it to pick up speed in an attempt to rush the rest of the distance. Instead, it breaks its front axle in a large pothole, forcing the other cars to slow as they drive around.

I try to aim, but my hands are shaking. And the shot is early as I have lost sensation in my fingers. I sight the cars and notice they are almost out of where the shaped charges.

“Next,” I rush to say, and the explosion blocks my view, but the three cars make it out of the dust. “Again.” The last one goes off and only two cars make it out of the cloud of dust.

Is that three or four cars taken out? It doesn’t matter. I will deal with them once they get here.

I stand and Bart says something, looking me over. The ringing in my ear is louder than his voice. Do I have permanent damage? I add that box to those I fight to keep quiet. I will worry about this later. I go down the ladder, using only one hand as my trigger arm won’t respond. The tingling is still there, so it isn’t damaged beyond repair.

“Do not fire until I so,” I tell Bart, taking out my Eagle left-handed.

“There’s three cars left,” Bart responds, his voice distant. My hearing is returning. “It could be eighteen men if they’re comfortable in their masculinity.”

“More likely to be twelve, these are not the kind of men who care to be crowded for an eight-hour drive.”

“I did it in seven.”

I close my eyes and settle his box. Why am I not surprised that he rushed here when he had no reasons to believe he needed to? There is something reckless about him and my body reacts to how I have seen him engage in it. As I stand in the middle of the road waiting, I contemplate doing something reckless myself with him.

His box responds to that thought, my body reacts to it.

“So, do we stand here and wait?” Bart asks. “Or do you want me to take care of that in the meantime?”

His grin temps me. He knows how stupid it would be to do that now when Riddle could be stopping the car so one of his men can shoot me down from a distance. I know how stupid it is, but it is so difficult to reign in this desire.

“Feel free to leave,” I tell him. “The forest leads to the road twenty-three miles away.”

I want to be rid of him, that is what I tell myself as a reason for the offer, remove the temptation he represents.

I am lying.

I do not lie to myself.

I am afraid he will be hurt, and I do not want him to die here, at the hands of Riddle’s men. If Bart is to die, it is at my hand. The cacophony from the boxes makes it impossible for me to work out how I feel about that as I struggle for control.

“Just to clarify something,” Bart says. “If they shoot first, can I return fire?”

“They won’t.”

“You sound awfully sure of yourself.” He grins.

He is amused at my confidence.

The smile I give him isn’t pleasant. “If their desire was to kill us. They would have parked by now and fired shot. Riddle wants answers. A man like him, who has controlled his organization for years without problems he couldn’t make disappear will demand to know how we managed to destroy so much in a few days. He will want to tell us how insignificant we are. How he will rebuild.”

“You’re going to let him talk?” Bart asks as the first sedan comes to a stop five hundred feet away.

“You can learn a lot about someone by letting him rant.”

Two cars stop behind the first, then as a unit, they cross half the distance before someone to another stop.

I control my breathing. Keep a mental hand on my boxes. Now is not the time for them to go off. I am already physically compromised, I have to keep my emotions under control.

The passenger door opened and a man with Latin blood in his lineage exits. He has cuts and bruises on his face. Bandages cover his scalp. They were applied in a hurry and I can see bloody skin where black hair should be. His brown suit is ripped and bloody, stone shrapnel, and dust is caked on in place in a way that makes me think it got wet.

Did the mansion have a pool? Why don’t I know that? I should have checked ever—

Stop.

Kieth Riddle looks to be in his sixties, in his current state. He is probably younger.

Men exit the cars. Ten in total. Eleven, including Riddle.

Ten threats against me, with only one usable arm and Bart holding an APX and a few magazines in his pockets. The front of his pants is tented.

Of course, he’s hard right now. Riddle saves me from rolling my eyes.

“Do you have any idea how much you’ve cost us?” he demands angrily, stopping himself from looking over my naked form.

Us? Now that’s interesting.

“Should I care?” I glance at Bart, who shrugs. “No, neither one of us gives a damn.”

He sputters whatever he’d planned next. Our lack of interest takes him by surprise. I get the sense it surprises him more than how many of his men we’ve killed. He’d built a narrative where we were emotionally invested in what we did as an explanation for how we were able to do it.

“You fucking should.” He shakes from controlling the building anger. I’m amused. Even compromised as I am, I have more control than he does. “If it was up to me I’d kill you right here, but he wants to talk to you, make you pay personally for what you did, and believe me that by the time he’s done, you’re going to wish you hadn’t been born.”

“I started wishing that when I was ten years old.” I mentally check on my boxes, the rattling is minimal, his words bringing up memories, but I’ve dealt with them a long time ago. “I was fifteen when I realized wishing didn’t solve anything. I was eighteen when I took the cause away. I can’t change the past, only deal with the present. I don’t bother wishing things had been different.”

Riddle keeps his eyes on me, which is good. Bart isn’t subtle as he catches details of what the man said. ‘Us’ ‘he wants to talk with me’. Riddle isn’t the one in charge. How did I not find anyone above him then?

Riddle fights to be able to speak, and Bart raises a hand to stop him. “Here’s what I’d like to know. What is the problem here? The fact we destroyed your house, the warehouse, or that we took away all those people you’d kidnapped?”

The tone is light, but I hear the underlying anger under it as he mentions the victims. He hates this man. Was this personal for him after all?

“I’m asking,” Bart continued, “because we destroyed your house. He destroyed the warehouse, but I am the reason you lost the people. He only cared about one girl. I was there for all of them.” He smiles. “If it’s about the destroyed building, please feel free to remain pissed at him.

His box turns loud and I almost wince as try to understand what he’s doing. This is not the time for him to aggravate the situation.

“Who the fuck are you?” Riddle asks as I retake control.

Bart beams. “Oh, I’m just the guy who’s going to blow off those little things you call balls the minute he gives me permission.”

His box glows and I feel better knowing he remembers his place.

“You think you scare me?” Riffle says with a snort. “You think what you did means anything? You are both going to suffer for what you did.”

“You were right, it’s interesting what you learn when you let someone rant,” Bart said. “Is there anything else you need?”

I smile at him. He loves this, us in this danger. The idea we are going to have to fight our way out of it. Have I ever encountered someone who looked forward to violence as he did? his box pulses. Why am I contemplating sending him away when this is—

Something impact my chest and I stagger back.

This is why. He’s a distraction I cannot afford.

“Tristan!”

Gunfire as I regain my footing and pull the tranquilizer dart out. Why a tranquilizer?

He has questions for you.

Of course. You can’t question the dead.

I raise my Desert Eagle, but my hand was already unsteady before I needed to fight to stay conscious. Bart tackles me, but I manage to stay on my feet as we move.

“We need cover!”

“Around the workshop,” I tell him, my words slurring. How strong is the tranquilizer? My back hits the wall and I slid down.

“What did they shoot you with?”

“Tranquilizer. Strong too. I’m sorry.” His box won’t stay quiet anymore.

“What for?” he fires around the corner, changes magazine.

“If I hadn’t forced you to drive me here, you wouldn’t be about to die.”

“Why does that sound like you expect me to be the only one to die here?”

“I’ve survived too fucking much for this to be what kills me.” My penance, for causing his death. To live with the loss. “They’re going to torture me, then I’ll kill them. Not the first time it’s happened. I just wish you were going to be around to see me do it.”

Bart pulls a magazine from his jacket and looks at it as if the fate of the world rests on it. He sighs and he puts it in. “Do you have any knives?”

“Of course I do.” Who does he think I am? Knives are weapons and I collect weapons.

He nods and he sounds grim when he asks, “where are they?”