Fire in the Blood: Heritage of Liberty, #2

By LC Champlin

2046 -- America and the world are mired deep in the swamp of corruption and despair...

Richmond Monroe, intrepid antiques hunter and Glock-wielding historian, has more important worries, though: A tree has crushed his warehouse. Worse, he's fresh out of cash to repair it. Low on options, he accepts a contract to recover an item for an eccentric ex-pat.

The artifact? A necklace of Confederate uniform buttons.

The job promises to be tricky, so culture broker and negotiator extraordinaire Myles Fremont rejoins Richmond to smooth the deal.

The trail takes them to West Virginia, where intrigue and feuds await. Drones battles, local rebellions, and run-ins with the Law are just part of a conflict that involves morbid secrets and monolithic conspiracies.

Richmond and Myles will learn if the state motto "Mountaineers are Always Free" still holds true in the Home of the Oppressed and the Land of the Enslaved.

If you enjoy action, appreciate history, and are a fan of American Pickers and Indiana Jones, grab your copy now!

(Fire in the Blood is the second of the Heritage of Liberty series. The volumes are episodic, meaning you don't have to read them in order.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wulfram Cross Enterprises LLC
• Release date: Jun 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393637707

Book preview

Chapter 1

House Divided

There’s a Brand New Day on the Horizon – Elvis Presley

Los Mortales, Panama, 2046—

Gale-force winds buffeted the teak tree, while rain soaked its bark and leaves. The waterlogged earth around the base gave way; the tree tore from the ground.

Richmond Monroe watched from between his fingers, wincing as if he watched a victim being hanged, drawn, and quartered. The tree tipped in slow motion toward the worst possible direction. It crashed into the warehouse roof, dropping the entire trunk and canopy along the building’s center. Aluminum and steel stood no chance. Nature aimed to reclaim what man had taken.

Richmond stopped the security camera’s footage. He stood in his compound’s office, which housed the antique shop’s smaller items. The screen belonged to a laptop, which belonged to Jackie’s paper-piled desk. Fortunately, the warehouse held fewer pieces than normal. Crappy consolation but better than nothing.

Beside him, Eli shook his bald head. The black man had a few centimeters on Richmond’s six-foot-one. He looked down at his employer. I told you we should have cut that tree down. I said it was too close to the warehouse. If you want a tree, I said, you should have a palm tree. Those things never fall down—

Yeah, yeah, big help your I-told-you-so is now, Richmond shot back. He pushed his hands through his black hair, growling. Just when he thought he made headway, Life smacked him down. He let out a breath. Winners used obstacles to prove themselves.

Eli stroked his chin, managing to look serene in the circumstances. A wise man once said, ‘The stiffest tree is most easily cracked, while the bamboo survives by bending with the wind.

Mmm. Richmond put his head to one side, his gray gaze on the computer screen. The trunk split the warehouse in half. The building would need a new roof, at the very least. A wise man once said, ‘A house divided against itself cannot stand.’

Jackie Chenot slid up between the men, putting an arm around each one’s shoulders. Her arm barely reached around Eli’s brawny frame. She had less trouble with Richmond’s wiry build. A wise woman once said, ‘Don’t put off to tomorrow what you can do today.’ There’s man’s work that needs doing out there before we get more weather.

Richmond glanced back at her. Slim, dark skinned, beautiful, she didn’t bring to mind the usual antique-store office manager. We need money to fix this mess. I need leads, Jackie. Pronto.

Chapter 2

Auction Fever

Come Together – The Beatles

Money. That’s what Richmond required to repair the squashed warehouse. Hell, that’s what everything in life required.

He braced himself, hands in fists at his sides. The day’s heat and humidity made sweat run down his face and glue his shirt to his back. His jeans grew itchy around his knees. Living in Central America meant you either got used to the high temps or you got out. Unfortunately, nowadays only South and Central America remained as places to get out to. If you couldn’t hack it here, you were screwed.

Around him, jungle trees added to the estate’s landscaping. Tropical flowers grew at their bases. Behind, the late drug-cartel lord’s mansion watched him.

Richmond fixed his gaze forward. On the back of a pickup truck stood the referee and master of this contest. A broad-brimmed hat shaded his dark features. Short and squat, he made his living with his voice, not his physical fitness.

At Richmond’s left, across the yard and amidst the onlookers and challengers, lurked his opponent.

The man in the hat leaned over the side of the truck to pick up a framed picture from one of his helpers. No, not a picture—"This is a Beatles Yesterday and Today ‘Butcher Cover’ album. Only a few hundred were ever made. It was pulled off the market because it was too controversial."

Funny what the older generations thought controversial. On the album, the Beatles wore butcher jackets, with T-bone steaks and busted-up baby dolls on their laps and shoulders. Ah, the ’60s. They didn’t even make sense to the people who lived through them. Not that he’d met anyone from that time, almost ninety years ago now, but he could guess.

Richmond’s pulse picked up. To the left, his opponent stared at the album. Terry Atkinson. Terrible Terry. Older than Richmond’s thirty years by a few decades, the Brit expatriate had never reached the American’s level of success. He tried, though. Locking horns with the treasure hunter every few months at the odd auction, estate sale, or market always proved good for a laugh. The scrawny foreigner wore Bermuda shorts and khaki button-down, with a straw hat to keep the sun off his Dumbo ears.

Terry glanced Richmond’s way. Richmond tipped his Mets hat. Terry in turn tipped his cover.

We’re starting the bidding at 3,000, the auctioneer began. Do I have any bids at 3,000?

Of course he didn’t. Here in Columbia, people didn’t go in much for American music memorabilia. That’s why a savvy business owner developed contacts in as many locations as possible. Everything had a market; you just had to find it.

Terry straightened like a hound spotting its quarry. If he’d started bugling, it wouldn’t have come as a surprise.

When the price dropped to 1,000, Terry’s hand came up. The game was afoot!

One thousand! Do we have a thousand one hundred? The auctioneer rolled into his chant, the cattle rattle.

Nobody moved. Richmond touched his cap’s brim.

We’ve got 1,100! Do we hear twelve? The auctioneer began to pace. Yes! Do we hear thirteen?

What idiot stuck their nose in the bidding war? Richmond cast a glare over his shoulder. No way to know now.

Terry raised his hand slightly as he shot Richmond a smirk. Blast him, that pale, no-chin Mr. Bean wannabe. What the hell did Terry want with this anyway? He didn’t specialize in music.

Thirteen! Do we hear fourteen? Fourteen? The auctioneer’s chant thrummed in Richmond’s blood and made sweat drip from his brow.

Another salute to the Mets from Richmond. Fifteen now.

Do I hear sixteen? Sixteen hundred? By now perspiration soaked the auctioneer’s armpits and the center of his shirt.

Sixteen! Going once, going twice, three—sold to the man in the Mets hat!

Richmond held up his auction number in response. Sweet victory! He aimed a grin at Terry, who crossed his arms in an attempt to look unconcerned.

Next up, the auctioneer announced, "the piece de resistance: the army uniform Elvis Presley wore in G.I. Blues."

An item the King had actually touched. Better than that, he’d worn it. It didn’t get much better than this!

Richmond shifted his stance. Muscles loose, mouth dry, heart kicking his sternum, he prepared to snap his hand up for the bid. How much did he want to pay? He should figure that out now. He should’ve figured that out earlier, but could a person really put a value on a treasure like this?

Starting out at 10,000!

Not yet.

The price fell to 5,000.

The auctioneer continued his cry.

Then the first fish struck the bait: someone in the back.

Five! Do we hear six? Six! He pointed to the rear of the audience.

Richmond turned to glower. Who the hell cut in on his territory?

Seven? Seven!

Where . . . 

Eight, do I hear eight? Eight!

There! A woman under an umbrella. She wore a broad-brimmed sun hat and a simple white top. It didn’t entirely hide her tattoos, which wrapped around her arms like sleeves and snaked up her neck from under her collar. Not a beauty, but not homely, she fit the bill as handsome instead. Carlotte—they’d misspelled her name on the birth certificate, or so people said—Frederickson.

Richmond growled to himself. Car Lot made a formidable competitor. Her cousin and partner Rafe matched her skills. At least he didn’t seem to have come today. Shit, if she wanted this uniform, Richmond would have to dig deep in the ol’ wallet.

Nine? Do I hear nine?

Someone in the front bid.

Charlotte Without the H bumped it to eleven.

Twelve?

A cap touch from Richmond. Each increase in price decreased his bottom line. But Elvis’s uniform? You couldn’t just pop down to the local market and pick one up.

Thirteen?

Car Lot again.

Fourteen? Fourteen thousand?

Richmond shifted his weight from foot to foot. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes. Fourteen thousand. Shite.

Another participant waved his card.

The next 5,000 shot back and forth between Car Lot and Richmond like a ping pong ball in a game between squirrels on meth.

Twenty? Do I hear twenty?

Twenty. Reality smacked into Richmond with enough force to make him grunt and blink. Auction fever, something even the pros needed to watch out for. He had a job to do, and it didn’t include dumping all his resources into this uniform. The price approached retail. Yes, selling it would gain him notoriety, but at the moment, he should use the money to invest in pieces he could sell for more money. If he didn’t get his crap together, he, Jackie, and Eli would continue to store the shop inventory under tarps in their own houses and sheds.

Another bidder bumped the price.

Twenty-one? Do I hear twenty-one?

Perverse interest dragged Richmond’s gaze toward Terry. The scraggly-toothed Turnbull grinned at him.

Then Car Lot struck.

The auctioneer nodded. Twenty two? Nobody bit. Going once, twice, three—sold to the lady with the umbrella.

Car Lot inclined her head toward Richmond and pumped her umbrella once in triumph.

Rolling his shoulders, Richmond traipsed off to the auction management truck to pay his bill and collect the spoils.

First in line at the checkout window on wheels, Richmond handed over the payment chip. Behind him, others began to queue up. The sooner they could pay for and collect their winnings, the sooner they could leave. No one wanted to hang around here.

Terry came grooving up slowly. Richmond ignored him and his joo-joo eyeball in favor of taking the receipt.

Then Richmond crossed the lawn to the corral of inventory where customers claimed their purchases. Three men wearing armor-plate-carrier vests and holding AK-style rifles guarded it. Richmond held up his receipt. They waived him through but remained cautious.

The auction assistant in the pen took the list and handed over a meter-long box of smalls—little pieces rather than furniture or vehicles.

With the spoils of battle under his arm, Richmond strode off toward the parking area. Terry hung out in his periphery.

Ugh, enough of this. Richmond turned to face his competitor. Terrence, are you working up the courage to ask me something, or are you stalking me? A thin veneer of sarcasm covered the words. Scratch them and the suspicion of professional rivalry showed.

Terry plastered on a smile as he sauntered up. Richmond, my dear fellow,—he tipped his hat—it’s been some time since we ran into each other.

That’s how I like it. Richmond braced the box on his hip with one arm.

Let me help you. Terry reached for the box.

Ah-ah! Keep your hands to yourself, thanks, Richmond responded as he turned his loot away and backed up a step.

Terry recovered in a split second. I say, old chap, congratulations on winning the album. I must ask, do you have a buyer for it?

What do you want, Terry? The album, most likely.

Would you consider having me as a buyer? The smile grew more artificially pleasant.

"Do you have a buyer? Music memorabilia isn’t exactly your specialty."

I have many interests. Diversification, you know. These musicians were from my country, after all. During the golden age of rock and roll.

"And they made it big in my country." Richmond slapped his own chest.

Terry blinked, his smile faltering in surprise. What’s this? The Great Richmond Monroe of Panama is fessing up to being a Yank? Then the rumors I’ve been hearing about your recent trip to the South are true!

I’ve seen freedom’s holy light, let’s say. Richmond resumed the trek to the parking area.

Freedom in America? Terry scoffed as he tagged along. You must be joking! The light of freedom has been on the blink for thirty years or more there. I think it needs a new bulb or perhaps new wires.

We can fix it. Words he never thought would come out if his mouth. It’s not like you’re in a position to talk about freedom. You had to flee your country. Hell, it’s not even called Great Britain anymore, it’s the United Islamic Kingdom. It’s just another colony of the Caliphate. It reflected the condition of much of the world, and proved all the more tragic when one considered the victims of the brutal regime. Then again, I suppose your people are used to being subjects.

Be that as it may, Terry responded in a light tone, I would like to trade for the album. I have an offer I think will interest you.

Richmond looked over his shoulder at him with a serene smile. I want money. If you couldn’t pay enough to win the auction, you’re not going to be able to pay enough to buy it from me. John, Paul, George, and Ringo are going to Panama.

At least hear my proposition—

Get out of here, Terry.

The ex-Brit didn’t seem to hear.

Richmond rounded the copse of trees that screened the parking area behind the estate. Three black SUVs in the timeless Suburban design sped down the drive toward the lot.

Aw crap, he murmured, quickening his step. If he hadn’t already sweated his shirt through, he would have at the SUVs’ arrival.

Chapter 3

Strange Allies

Blue Suede Shoes – Elvis Presley

What is it? Terry wondered at Richmond’s unease from the SUVs. Are those—

What we get for coming to an estate auction at a drug dealer’s house? Yep. Come on! Richmond jerked his head toward his van at the far end of the lot. He should have gotten his butt here earlier for a better parking place.

The SUVs split up, two heading down a row of the parking field. The third continued straight.

Richmond dodged rightward into the stand of trees. Terry, where are you parked?

In the far row. White-faced, his shirt as soaked as if he’d just weathered a rainstorm, Terry ducked behind a tree.

The invaders cut off the path to the van. What now? Fight his way out? These guys no doubt had rifles, while he had a Glock and a Bowie knife. Better than a popgun, but not nearly like having the AKM rifle that lived in his van.

Got a gun on you by any chance? Richmond kept his attention on the SUVs. They swung around to cover the front row of the parking lot, a battle line against any escapees.

Shotgun in the truck, Terry managed.

That’s it? What kind of dealer are you?

Not an American one! Forgive me for not bristling with firearms.

Shit, if Richmond left his box of winnings so he could make a getaway, someone would steal them before he could come back. Why worry about that when he might die, though? Because, damn it, he’d spent money on them. Money he couldn’t afford to waste.

My truck is the gray one, Terry informed him, pointing to an old Toyota Tacoma. It sat several vehicles away from Richmond’s van.

The doors of the SUVs opened. Men in an assortment of combat gear piled out. They all wielded AK rifles. Dark skinned and dark haired, they came from South American stock.

Gunfire exploded behind Richmond from the area of the mansion.

This is what we’re going to do, Richmond whispered. You’re going to carry my box. I’m going to cover us. As he spoke, he set down the spoils and drew the Glock. We both need to get to the same place. Are you up for this? He locked gazes with the blue-eyed, semi-hyperventilating antiques dealer.

Terry gulped, Adam’s apple bobbing, before nodding.

Good. Richmond slapped him on the shoulder. Let’s go. Don’t think about taking off with that box.

Of course not! Terry looked as horrified at the idea as he did at the multiple gunmen cutting off his escape.

Stay low. Do what I tell you. We’re going to the end of the woods.

Right.

Pistol at compressed ready against his right pec, Richmond padded off among the jungle trees. Fortunately the deceased owner had kept them from turning full rainforest.

A twig snapped under Terry’s boot, sounding louder than a gunshot. But the pop-pop-pop of real gunshots covered the crack.

Shh! Richmond glared back at him.

Shouting came from the vicinity of the auction. Soon the attendees would make a break for their vehicles—only to run into an ambush.

Richmond peeked through the foliage at the SUV crew. Guns, armor, and no sign of government markings. That and the gunfire made these bastards fair game.

At the end of the copse, before it joined the forest, Richmond halted. Go. He waved to the right, indicating a path that ran toward the rear of the parking lot but remained in the trees’ shelter.

All right. Shoulders hunching, Terry headed off. Be careful.

As the Brit left, Richmond moved back the way he’d come. Several meters in, he halted and took aim. The front post of his Glock’s sight locked over the farthest invader’s head. Taking out the most difficult target while he had the best opportunity would give him more freedom with the others. He squeezed the trigger. The .45 bucked. The varmint fell with a poof of red mist spraying from his temple.

Richmond brought the pistol online again, this time over the corpse’s companion. The man took off for cover behind his SUV.

AKs swung toward Richmond’s location. Bent double, he dashed toward the end of the parking lot, to the trail Terry took.

Gunfire erupted. Lead slammed into trees, sliced through leaves.

Mission accomplished in one sense: Richmond had forced them to ruin their ambush. Hopefully their firing hadn’t cut down too many evacuees who were fleeing toward the parking lot.

A backward glance showed three of the invaders advancing on Richmond’s side of the lot. They kept their weapons up and their bodies behind cars.

Richmond paused, leaning a shoulder against a tree as he gripped the weapon in both hands to aim. The sight found the nearest man’s arm as he peeked around his concealment. The idiot should have led with the rifle.

A single shot. The man jerked backward. A gout of blood glistened in the sun for an instant.

Richmond hit the dirt a second before a lead storm pelted his area. Time to make like a snake and slither out. Don’t tread on me, he growled.

Though apparently not trained military or SWAT members, the gunmen had probably seen a gunfight or two during their time in the cartel and the civil wars that tore up the country. That meant they wouldn’t go down easy. And God have mercy on anyone they captured.

Richmond crawled past the first rank of cars, then into the open area between rows. Almost safe!

The cartel thugs continued scanning the area he had occupied, apparently not noticing he could take the forest route along the side of the lot. Wait, they just remembered: Two of them dashed across the lane between the rows of vehicles. The brutes scanned the forest Richmond wormed through.

One raised his weapon. He let off a few experimental three-round bursts.

Richmond continued to crawl through the leaf litter. Too high, you murdering piece of shit.

What about Terry? Did he have the good sense to get the shotgun and . . . and what? Shoot them if they came over, but not go on his own vigilante raid. They’d cut him down and cut off Richmond’s escape.

Unfortunately, Richmond shared the same rickety boat as Terry: If he fired on the bastards, it would draw their attention to the van. That would make escape ten times harder. No, silent running would be the rule.

More gunshots made the invading beasts of the drug cartel turn in the mansion’s direction. They had bigger fish in a barrel to shoot. Then again, the auction had hired security, and most of the people here would carry their own form of security. Not exactly a hardened target, but at least it would show that an auction in this part of the world didn’t make the ripest of low-hanging fruit.

After traveling what seemed like half the continent on his belly, Richmond reached the line of vehicles where he’d parked. He pushed from the ground, heading for his van and keeping the vehicles between him and the killers.

Terry crouched at the van’s tail—its nose faced outward in combat-ready style. He pressed close to the metal as he peered toward the cartel soldiers. He held an old 12 gauge. Double barreled, break action, and with a wooden stock, it hailed from the days of duck hunting.

Pssst! Richmond hissed as he came around the van next to his. Terry flinched, bringing the weapon up for a second before recognizing his ally.

Richmond moved to the passenger side, farther from the eyes of the invaders. As he unlocked the door, the first of the evacuating auction goers reached the parking lot. They wouldn’t go quietly into this good afternoon, though. They sheltered behind vehicles and trees as they blasted away at the cartel thugs. Great, now he had to worry about friendly fire.

He crawled into the van, staying as low as possible. He snagged his AK from the passenger footwell. The second his fingers closed around its stock, he dropped, slithering out of the vehicle.

Heart thundering loud enough to almost drown out the gunfire and shouting, Richmond padded back to Terry. You got slugs in that thing?

Slug in the right, buckshot in the left—

Two shots? Richmond released an exasperated sigh. Don’t get them mixed up. Cover me. With that, he took point.

AK up, he moved along the van’s fuselage, hugging its side panels. He passed the red phoenix logo on the door. Unlike a phoenix, he wouldn’t rise again. Not until the Lord returned, at least.

One of the drug cartel bastards came around the edge of a vehicle ahead. The iron sights of Richmond’s rifle embraced the man’s left hip, the only bit of anatomy visible from where he crouched. Fire!

The hapless target yelled as he sprawled forward with a shattered femur. He struggled back behind the cover of the vehicle.

That should give some breathing room. By this time, the security team and auction customers would have straightened themselves out enough to remind the cartel why attacking auctions generally didn’t end well for the assailants.

Terry, Richmond snapped, if you can get to your vehicle, do it, otherwise get in.

I think I can make it.

Okay. I’ll distract them with the van.

Scattered reports echoed: some the crack of a rifle, and others the explosion of a large-cal pistol or a shotgun.

After easing the driver door open, Richmond pushed the box of smalls in and crawled into the front seat.

Sheltering behind the engine block as much as possible, he started the motor. He shot the vehicle into drive, then gunned it. The old girl careened out of the parking spot. She blasted down the lane toward the exit road.

Gunfire continued to pop. None of it hit the van, though.

As he banked the vehicle right, down the exit drive, another black SUV came into view. It blocked the road.

Richmond swung wide. The guards at the SUV had a rude awakening. They raised their rifles, but by this time the van was already rumbling along the shoulder. Gunfire peppered the van’s cargo hold.

Chapter 4

Dealers

Come Along – Elvis Presley

Richmond let out a roar. He hauled the wheel, putting the van’s side parallel to the SUV. He raised the AK to point through the open window.

One of the road blockers made the mistake of looking over the hood of his SUV. His skull snapped back and he staggered, his body taking a minute to realize the brain had left the building.

The concussive force of the gunshot in the cab resonated in Richmond’s chest and cranium, even though he squeezed his shoulder and one hand over his ears.

That’s for the van, he bawled as he yanked the wheel left and stamped on the gas.

The van kicked up dust as it roared down the lane. Hopefully Terry had made it out alive. Richmond glanced in the rearview. Aha! The gray pickup trundled along behind him. Typical Terry: Let someone else do the dirty work.

Richmond pulled onto the main road. Grinning, he let out a Rebel yell. Relief and exhilaration surged through him. What a day to be alive, when antiques dealing was every bit as dangerous as drug dealing.

~$~$~$~

Van and truck traveled together for a few kilometers. As a wide spot in the road approached, Terry flashed his lights. Too bad he hadn’t mentioned what radio band he used, or Richmond would have called him on the CB.

Signaling, Richmond guided the van