Bounty Hunter: Rake and Scrape: Bounty Hunter, #4

By Rachel Aukes

The wastelands are on the brink of war. 

 

Fifteen years after the Revolution, things are worse than ever. The wastelands ignite as Far Town takes a stand against the Monuments Republic Command. As the tanks roll in, the people must decide if they are willing to sacrifice everything to take on the government. The stakes have never been higher…and it's winner takes all.

 

The bounty hunters have sided with the rebels, but things go awry when the mysterious Zenith State captures two of "Havoc" Joe Ballast's closest friends. In the midst of revolution, he must launch a rescue, but the deeper he goes into Zenith, the more secrets he uncovers. 

 

Heroics, sacrifice, and courage are needed by the bounty hunters if they are to survive deadly experiments, manipulative Ais, relentless cyborgs, and a brutal slaughter planned by their own government. 

 

The end of the Monuments Republic Command begins now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Waypoint Books
• Release date: Mar 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215544679

Rachel Aukes

Rachel Aukes (@RachelAukes on Wattpad) is the author of 100 Days in Deadland, which made Suspense Magazine’s Best of 2013 list. Rachel lives near Des Moines with her husband and an incredibly spoiled sixty-pound lap dog. When not writing, she can be found flying old airplanes and planning for the zombie apocalypse. For more information, visit RachelAukes.com or find her on Twitter as @RachelAukes.

Book preview

Chapter One

Four young men, dressed in ragged, dirty clothes, emerged from the Far Town alley. To the untrained eye, they looked no different from any other gang of hoodlums. But this group was no ordinary gang. They moved with a poise and rhythm found only from years of training together, and despite their ages—all a few months shy of eighteen—this team of Alphas had served together for fifteen of those years.

The street was empty, as streets often are in the darkest hours before dawn. Silence blanketed the world except for the scuffling sounds of their footfalls. Even the insects had quieted for the night. Though most people were fast asleep, these four were wide awake.

Without a word, one broke from the group and hustled to the center of the road, where he crouched and unrolled a thick, black sheet across the road’s surface. His three friends stood watch, holding pistols at their sides as though expecting trouble to pierce the night at any moment. With the thick polymer material spread out on the road, barely visible in the darkness, the man rushed back to his group, and they disappeared into the alley’s deep darkness.

Then they waited.

No sound broke the calm night air for twenty-six minutes. Initially, the sound was felt, more than heard: a rumble through the men’s boots. Before long, the sound of a hearty engine left no doubt that a large vehicle was heading their way. Bright headlights sliced through the darkness, and the lights grew brighter and the engine noise grew louder as it approached precisely on schedule. The transport, after having picked up its supplies from the nearest automated train station, was always within five minutes of the same time every day. Some planner’s lazy scheduling made the transport easy prey.

The men didn’t move as the transport closed the distance, though their muscles were tensed and filling with adrenaline. Many would shuffle or fidget, but these men were trained better. They waited in the alley until the vehicle’s front wheels touched the black sheet—a contact charge—and an orange explosion filled the night with a blast that echoed through every alley. The force raised the transport’s nose so that the vehicle stood vertical for a moment before toppling backward onto its top.

Two men held their pistols ready while the other two knelt at a crate of Molotov cocktails. They ignited the lighters they carried and grabbed bottles. They lit the rags draping from the openings and threw them at the transport. This continued until they’d emptied half of the crate.

The first explosion had given way to multiple fires covering the outer hull of the large black supply vehicle. The transport’s three-letter logo, painted in huge white letters on the sides, now bubbled in the heat. What had read MRC—standing for the Monuments Republic Command—soon melted away.

A door on the transport flung open, and a soldier—wearing an MRC uniform—dragged himself out, coughing uncontrollably.

One of the men stepped forward and raised his pistol.

The team leader placed his hand on the pistol and pressed it down. Remember, we don’t shoot murcs if we don’t have to. Not yet, anyway.

Yes, Cason. He nodded to a third, who lit another Molotov cocktail and threw it. The homemade incendiary device hit the road less than a foot from the injured soldier’s head. Glass shattered upon impact, and liquid flames doused the soldier. The man’s screams rent the air, and he rolled madly as he tried to put out the flames, but the liquid continued to burn.

The group paid the dying man no heed as they finished throwing the Molotov cocktails at the transport. They threw one into the open door for good measure and another one to cover where the charge had gone off.

The men left as soon as they’d thrown the final cocktail. They left the supplies. Far Towners would clear out anything of value soon enough. They hustled to a ladder in the alley and climbed to the roof. There, they strapped on jetpacks. They took a final survey of the damage below before flying away.

Chapter Two

Joe Ballast sat at the edge of his bed and rubbed his eyes. He’d taken the third shift all week, and the lack of sleep was taking its toll. He glanced over at Rex’s empty, unmade bed, dimly lit by a glow of phosphorus circles built into the walls of all underground dwellings to keep the rooms from being pitch black. Like everything else in the dwelling, the phosphorus was so old it barely outlined the furniture, but after six months, Joe knew every inch of the place.

He trudged through the small bedroom to the single bathroom in the underground apartment. He flipped the light switch. Nothing happened. He flipped it a couple of more times before trudging back into the bedroom. He pulled on a pair of pants and a wrinkled shirt, and made his way down the hallway to the living room, which was aglow thanks to the various computer monitors.

Most living rooms had couches and chairs. This room had space for only two chairs, because the entire center was filled by a computer array and generators enclosed in a Faraday cage. Inside the fencing, a tall, thin, pale young woman operated the monitors, while one of the chairs outside the cage was occupied by a stocky, muscle-bound bald man wearing only boxers. He sat slumped, legs spread, as he chewed on a food bar.

Joe grimaced. Come on, Rex. Is it not too much to ask for you to wear clothes around here? Seriously, I can see your junk.

Rex didn’t move. If you can see it, then you know it’s far too impressive to be called ‘junk.’

Joe ignored him and instead walked over to the cage. Power’s out again. That’s the third time this week. Let me guess: another attack?

Scorpion nodded.

Do you have a video?

She shook her head. Unfortunately for us, they picked a blind spot. But the news has been replaying drone videos all morning. She motioned to a monitor, and Joe watched as a news cycle ran through a video of a scorched MRC transport on its roof. A murc’s body lay, badly burned and ignored, on the road nearby while Far Towners pillaged the wreckage for supplies.

Molotov cocktails don’t toss a truck on its back. Any experienced bloke would see right through the charade. Either Zenith doesn’t care anymore, or they want the murcs to think that Far Towners are better armed than they are, Rex said.

Joe’s eyes narrowed as he took in the scene. Doesn’t make sense. Scor, have you checked with Drake yet?

I talked with him this morning. She looked over her shoulder, and the silver orbs of her artificial eyes seemed to settle on Joe. He said that none of his gangs had anything to do with the attack. He’s convinced that either Zenith or the Wilders are behind the attacks. I checked with Val, and she confirmed that the Wilders haven’t done anything in the Midlands. She’s convinced its Zenith—Renzo, to be exact.

I agree with her, Joe said.

Whoever’s doing it is getting Far Towners riled up. Check this out. Scorpion typed several commands, and a second monitor displayed a video of at least fifty Far Towners standing outside the local MRC administrator’s office. They held signs that read things like, No More Blackouts and MRC=Abuse of Power. This is a current feed from a murc drone, but the news hasn’t made even the smallest hint at protests, which means the president still thinks she can keep a lid on things.

Joe took a seat. I don’t get it. Zenith’s blowing up MRC transports as they pass through Far Town, so President Darville blames Far Towners and cuts the power. What’s Renzo got planned?

It’d be easier if we could ask him, but he stays hidden better than a cockroach in a bag of beans, Scorpion said.

Joe cocked his head. Think Renzo’s doing this to draw us out?

Rex chortled. I think you overestimate Renzo’s interest in three nobodies.

I agree with Rex. I think Renzo cut his losses on us six months back when we went underground. If we’re seen, it’s the murcs who’ll come after us, not Zenith. I don’t know what game Zenith is playing poking the MRC bear, but they are definitely focused on the murcs rather than anyone else. Otherwise, they’d be hitting non-murc transports, too, Scorpion said.

Joe sighed. Probably more wishful thinking than anything in wanting Renzo to be trying to draw us out.

It’d make our job easier if he was, but we’ll still find him. One of these times, we’ll catch Zenith on video and catch one of those bastards. Drake said his street gangs are at our disposal in catching one of these guys, she said.

Yeah? Well, I don’t trust Drake, Rex said.

Neither do I, Joe said. Drake will no doubt interrogate any Z-borgs he catches, and I suspect they wouldn’t have a heartbeat by the time they are handed over to us. I could at least trust his predecessor, Artie Law to keep his word. Sort of.

I think you can trust Drake. He’s done nothing but help us the past six months, Scorpion said.

Rex waved her off. You’re just saying that because you’ve got the hots for him.

She stiffened and turned back to her computers. Do not.

Joe bristled every time he thought of Drake, the gang leader who’d inherited Artie’s gangs following his death. Drake had taken the idea of inheritance to also mean that it included Artie’s adopted children—Nick and Romy—who had been under Joe’s protection. Drake had made them disappear in Far Town, and refused to tell Joe anything as to the children’s status or whereabouts. Joe had searched under every rock and behind every trashcan for them; he’d had Scorpion build flags for them in her surveillance systems, but the children hadn’t shown up on camera once in the past six months. He hoped they weren’t dead—or worse, sold as slaves to someone outside Far Town. He would keep searching until he found them, dead or alive.

The only reason Drake’s helping us is so he can keep tabs on us—and especially on you, Scorpion. Having a tech in his back pocket is the most valuable resource in the wastelands, he said.

He doesn’t have me in his back pocket. I do what I want, she said.

Ha, Rex belted out. You do what you want as much as either of us. We’re all stuck down here the same.

I’m not on the murc’s most-wanted list like you two and your other bounty hunting buddies, she said.

Yeah, and what’s the use of having a hacker pal if she can’t bump us off that list? Rex asked.

Scorpion exhaled audibly. If I did, they’d know you had someone like me helping you. Besides, I read President Darville’s memo to her staff. She wants to personally question anyone who’s been to the Wilds. She’d notice if a couple of her Most Wanted guys suddenly disappeared from her list.

While I enjoy being wanted by a woman, this is not how I envisioned it. Now if Darville would be sweeter about asking me out on a date, I’d consider it, Rex said.

I don’t think the president of the MRC will ask you out anytime soon, Scorpion said.

Then she needs to bugger off, because she’s making it hard to meet ladies, Rex said.

Not to mention trickier to track down Renzo, Joe added.

Rex waved him off. Finding Renzo’s easy. All you’ve got to do is use that fancy schmancy Z-key that Val stole from that silo.

The problem with using the Z-key is that as soon as I use it, it’ll register on the Zenith network, Scorpion said. They’ll know one of their command keys is out in the open, and they won’t be happy until they track it down.

That makes it even easier. Use it and Renzo will come to us. Then we can skewer him twenty different ways to repay him for what he did to that sweet Sara Swinton, Rex said.

Joe winced. The loss of Sara was still too fresh. Over fifteen years ago, he’d fought alongside her husband in the Revolution. Nick Swinton had been Joe’s best friend since childhood, and when Nick had taken a fatal hit, Joe had stepped in to look after his wife and newborn son. Joe had promised his friend that he’d let no harm come to his family. Now Sara was dead and Nick was missing. He’d find Nick, but first he had to put Sara’s murderer in the ground. Zenith’s Supreme Commander Renzo needed to die.

He sighed. We’ve talked about this a hundred times. As soon as we use that key, Renzo will probably just send several Z-teams after us—or worse, bomb us from above using Zenith drones.

Scorpion sat upright. I’m so stupid. I can’t believe I haven’t thought of this before.

Thought of what? Rex asked.

She cracked her knuckles as she thought. All along, I was thinking of the key as a onetime deal, but it doesn’t have to be.

What do you mean? Joe asked.

I think I can make copies. It won’t be easy—Drake will have to get me some things—but I think I can do it. From what Val said, the biggest flaw in the Z-keys is that they couldn’t be deactivated from the command center. They have to be physically destroyed. So, if I can make multiple copies and get them distributed to the right folks, we can all log onto the Zenith network at the same time. If we hit them at the same time, they’ll have to go after everyone.

They’ll still come after us, Rex cautioned.

Sure, but they’ll have to divide and conquer, Joe said. We have no idea how many Z-teams they have. They might have just a few.

Or they might have hundreds, Rex said.

Always the pessimist, Joe said.

I find being a pessimist is just another word for being a realist, and being a realist is how I’ve stayed alive as long as I have, Rex said.

Joe ignored him. I think it’s a good start of a plan. We’ll have to figure out how to use our key to draw Renzo to us—in person. The others can use the keys however they see fit as long as it’s to help the wastelands and not line their pockets. We’ll need to get at least one key to Val in the Wilds, which means someone’s going to have to make that trip again.

And Drake should have a key. When both men looked at her, she shrugged. He’s the leader of the Far Town freedom fighters.

Joe frowned. Far Town freedom fighters?

You haven’t heard? He’s been uniting Far Towners. He’s planning a resistance against the murcs…and I assume against Zenith, too.

Joe gritted his teeth. He better not be thinking of using children for his soldiers.

Chapter Three

Nick and Romy lay on their stomachs, side by side, peering through their rifle scopes.

Aim carefully. Then don’t hesitate. Fire, Thor said from behind them.

Nick tried to keep from squinting as he focused on the outline of a murc painted on a stack of crates at the far end of the warehouse. Thor had painted an X in the center of the murc’s chest, which made it easier for Nick to focus. He squeezed the trigger, and a laser shot zipped at the target, leaving a scorch mark a couple of inches above the X.

He frowned. Why couldn’t he get it perfect?

Romy’s shot fired a second later, and he saw her scorch mark a few inches below and to the left of the X.

Thor spoke. Not bad, Nick. Romy, you’re still anticipating pulling the trigger and moving the rifle when you fire. Blasters don’t have recoil. You don’t have to worry about it kicking like the shotguns do.

I know, she said, her lips drawn in a sullen line.

There was a scratch on the back of Nick’s leg. He cranked his head around to see his dog watching him impatiently. Her mottled fur was messy, like usual, and her eyes were alert. Bored, Champ?

She needed no further invitation and leapt toward him. He rolled over in time to be tackled by the twenty-pound mutt. He giggled and shoved her off him.

You need to be more careful with your weapon. You shouldn’t just drop it like that when you get distracted.

Nick found Drake watching him. He scrambled to grab the rifle he’d left on the floor and jumped to his feet as Romy did the same. Sorry, Drake, sir.

Don’t call me ‘sir.’ I’m a Far Towner like everyone else. Drake spoke softly and only when necessary. He wasn’t tall or bulky, or older than twenty-five, but he had a presence that quietly demanded respect. Those rifles are valuable. You break yours and you’ll have to steal your next one from a murc. He turned to Thor. How are the Mad Wolves?

Thor motioned to the targets. Nick and Romy have been training nonstop to catch up to the others. We’re at eight members strong and ready for anything you need.

Good, because it’s time for Operation: Cactus.

Thor’s eyes widened. You mean it?

Drake squeezed Thor’s shoulder. It’s time to start raising hell.

Chapter Four

Cason giggled. He looked over his shoulder and pointed at one of the screens in front of him. You guys see that? The murc punched an old lady. Geez, he probably knocked out her dentures.

The four soldiers stood behind him, silent and at attention, as usual. He returned to the video feeds of a dozen MRC troops interrogating Far Towners, door by door, in the blocks surrounding the burnt vehicle. Cason knew the murcs wouldn’t bother to analyze the crime scene. He knew they’d blame the attacks on Far Towners since the attacks had happened there. The soldiers were demanding the locals give up the miscreants who’d dared destroy MRC property and kill soldiers (in that order), threatening to send anyone who withheld information to the labor camp.

The murcs thought they could bully Far Towners into helping them find the culprits. Far Towners were the poorest of the Midlands. Most had no possessions