Bounty Hunter: Nothing to Nobody: Bounty Hunter, #3

By Rachel Aukes

A dark threat is creeping across the wastelands. 

 

Bounty hunters are the closest thing to law enforcement across the wastelands, but most folks can't tell the difference between the criminals and their chasers. Havoc Joe Ballast and his team at the Haft Agency are trying to change that by picking their own targets and going after the worst criminals. But that's not working out so well for them.

 

They should've stuck to the rules. 

 

Their first target, the bloodthirsty Red Dead gang, is terrorizing hapless refugees. Things go bad fast when Havoc and his friends are ambushed and forced to flee to the lawless Wilds. Stranded in deadly territory, the hunters must align with a secret rebel group to survive while turning the tables on their merciless enemies. 

 

Join the bounty hunters as they fight for their lives in the post-apocalyptic wastelands. Their enemies may think they have won, but the hunters are just getting started.  

• Language: English
• Publisher: Waypoint Books
• Release date: Mar 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215881125

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

Bounty Hunter: Nothing to Nobody

Chapter One

Joe Ballast considered flipping a coin to see if he should kill the target or let him live, but then he decided that leaving the fate of a man’s life to chance seemed rather callous, even if that man was a criminal through and through. He lowered his rifle, held up the small computer card, and compared the image and stats on the ticket with the man walking out of the pawnshop.

Johan Mueller was a sixty-six-year-old male whose skin showed every hard year and then some. Some gangs had younger members, some had older. The older gang members were worse—like they had lost a little bit more of their humanity with every passing year. Joe had come across his fair share, and held no sympathy for the man who’d likely just hocked a bagful of goods he’d stolen from weary, hungry travelers.

The ticket listed three murders and twenty-six assaults, all alleged, of course, since there were no official courts of law in the wastelands. Despite Mueller’s criminal history, the ticket wasn’t an outright knockout ticket. Knockout was slang for K-O, which was short for kill order. Joe wasn’t surprised; knockout tickets cost more. Whoever had bought the ticket was probably too cheap to spend the extra credits. Joe would’ve liked the additional credits a knockout provided, though—especially on this particular job, since he had no qualms about removing one more gang member from the face of the earth.

He raised his rifle and peered through its scope. Bounty hunters were the closest thing to law enforcement across the wastelands, even though their form of protection was based on whoever could afford bounty tickets. Joe and his friends were trying to change that by picking their own targets, even those without tickets on their heads. The problem with that plan was that going after ticketless scum didn’t pay the bills. So Joe worked two jobs—one that paid him, and one that paid society in general.

Today’s ticket met both criteria.

He lay on his stomach on a rocky hill exposed to the hot sun, staring through the scope of his blaster at the old gang member. His exoshield helped with the heat—the full body armor had temperature regulators, among other perks, but did nothing to help with the boredom.

He adjusted the scope as Mueller approached a cutter that looked as crappy as Joe’s did. His forefinger moved to the trigger.

The sound of gravel crunching behind him caused him to roll just as a blaster shot blackened the ground where he’d been lying a nanosecond earlier. A bounty hunter in an exoshield stood behind Joe, head cocked, surprised to have missed his target. Joe took advantage of the hunter’s delay and fired at the same time as the other man dodged. A string of blaster shots made a line on the ground toward Joe. He grabbed a rock as he rolled out of the way and onto his feet. He threw the rock at the hunter. It bounced off his leg with a clang. The hunter glanced down, and Joe used the distraction to line up and fire three shots into the man’s chest. While exoshields provided protection against blaster fire at a distance, the hunters were far too close for the armor to deflect direct shots. The hunter collapsed forward.

Joe scanned the area for other threats and found none. He walked over to the dead hunter and kicked him onto his back. The chest plate now sported three blackened holes, but it was the emblem painted on the hunter’s shoulder Joe was interested in: a pair of crossed swords.

The mark of the Iron Guild.

He scowled. The guild’s owner, Cat, held an impressively big grudge. Even though Joe no longer had a ticket on his head, Cat was still sending hunters after him. This was the third one Joe had killed in a month.

What a waste, he mumbled as he turned back to his own target and froze. Mueller was gone. Aw, damn it. He took off running.

Chapter Two

Joe sprinted down the hill to where his cutter was parked. There was no sign of the other hunter’s cutter, and Joe wondered how long his would-be assassin had been stalking him that morning. He’d noticed the threat almost too late. He was getting rusty.

The old vehicle groaned to life, and Joe throttled it forward before all the systems had come online. As he spun around, one of the rear outer fenders, used to keep the three-wheeled rig from flipping over, cut a deep line into the ground—a trait that earned the vehicles their name. He accelerated in the direction from which Mueller had arrived earlier, avoiding the small town in case there were more Iron Guildsmen following him. Soon, he was driving at full speed through the baked desert of the western Midlands. Within minutes, he could make out a cutter’s trailing dust cloud in the distance, and adjusted course to follow.

Joe’s cutter was an old piece of crap. The solar arrays built into its hull were cracked and outdated, barely capable of holding a half-charge. He wouldn’t be able to keep up maximum speed for more than twenty minutes without stopping to recharge, which meant he had limited time to bag his target. One way or another, Mueller was going down today.

He was fortunate that Mueller’s cutter was also a piece of crap, and that his target was driving at the typical slow speed of cross-desert driving—slow enough that large rocks didn’t chip the wheels, but fast enough that the driver wouldn’t die of old age before reaching their destination. When Joe closed the distance between the pair to a quarter-mile, Mueller sped up. His onboard sensors must’ve picked up the traffic.

But Joe had the momentum and slowly closed the distance. As he sidled along Mueller’s passenger side, he opened his window and rested the barrel of his blaster on the door. As he lined up with Mueller’s windows, the gang member raised a blaster of his own. Joe cranked the cutter to the left and rammed the other cutter. Mueller dropped his blaster. Joe went to pull away but was met with the sound of metal tearing as the fenders of the two cutters became ensnared.

Joe tried to pull away again.

Mueller freaked and yanked his yoke the other way.

Joe’s eyes widened. No, don’t!

Too late.

The combination of Mueller’s oversteering and Joe’s speed sent the cutters spinning into a donut. But the weight of two cutters was too much for one of the fenders, and it snapped. Joe dropped his weapon to grip the yoke. This was going to hurt.

The cutters began the roll together. What began as a slow-motion, smooth tumble turned abruptly into neck-jarring whiplash upon slamming against the ground. They both had enough momentum that they rolled again, this time landing on their roofs and skidding forward, the solar arrays making horrendous screeches, like that of a raptor, as they scraped across the rock-hard ground.

When the vehicles came to a stop, it took Joe several seconds to get his bearings. He first noticed the distinct lack of noise. Not a single alarm blared, and the screens were blank. The cutter was dead.

The driver’s side door was tight against Mueller’s cutter, so Joe had to unbuckle and shimmy himself across the headliner to the passenger side. The window was broken, so he didn’t bother trying to open the door. He instead crawled out onto the ground and reached back inside to grab his blaster. He stood.

Other than the tenderness that fresh bruises brought, he felt okay. He tested the joints on his exoshield to make sure his armor wasn’t damaged. A few new scuffs on his left arm, near the armlet computer he wore around his forearm, but with the existing scratches, it simply added to the patina.

He cautiously walked around the tangled mess of cutters, holding his blaster at the ready, until he saw Mueller pulling himself out of his cutter. Other than a cut on his forehead, he looked none worse for wear, which surprised Joe. He really hadn’t expected someone without an exoshield to survive that crash. He supposed he should’ve shot him right then and there, but it seemed that if the man had come through the crash unscathed, he deserved a break.

Joe raised his blaster. Hold up there.

Mueller scrambled away like a rat scurrying across sandpaper.

Joe shot the ground inches away from his target’s head. Mueller froze.

Don’t shoot. I don’t mean you no harm, Mueller cried. The annoying tinny alarms blaring from the cutter behind him echoed the man’s words at almost the same pitch as his whiny voice.

Joe pulled out the ticket while keeping his blaster steady. As soon as he activated the image and name, Mueller grimaced. I shoulda known the murcs woulda sent a bounty hunter after me.

Joe nodded as he put the ticket away. Yeah, that sort of thing happens after you beat up and kill some folks. Gang bangers aren’t real welcome around here.

I ain’t no gang banger, not no more, anyways. I quit the Red Dead gang.

Ah, so you’re telling me you woke up one morning and felt bad about all the wrong you’ve done and decided to turn over a new leaf? Let me guess. You were on your way to the nearest monastery just now.

The old man scowled. "I know I ain’t no angel. It’s just that the murcs had no problems with me when I was a Deader. They put out a ticket on me ’cause I left my gang!"

Joe cocked his head. And why would they do that?

Mueller jutted his chin out. Because my gang works for them.

I thought you said you weren’t in the gang.

He blustered. "I ain’t, least no more. I mean, the Red Dead works for the murcs."

Joe cocked his brows even though his helmet concealed his features. You’re telling me that a road gang is on the payroll of the Monuments Republic Command, the de facto government over the wastelands? The MRC was a government, true enough, but they did few government-type activities, which was good—and bad—for the people of the wastelands.

Mueller nodded, then winced and grabbed his neck. Yep. The MRC sends a murc team every month to pay us off. In return— He cut himself off.

In return, what? Joe asked.

Mueller’s gaze hardened. Let me go, and I’ll tell you anything you wanna know.

I have a five-hundred-credit ticket to bring you in. He shrugged. Or kill you. So unless you have intel that guarantees me a whole lot more than that, our conversation is done.

"The murcs give the gang fifty thousand credits each and every month. I can tell you when and where the drop is."

Joe waved him off. I’ve had enough run-ins with murcs for my lifetime.

Mueller moved closer. But they’s paying Red Dead to kill refugees on their way to the Wilds. I can prove it.

Joe stiffened. The Wild zone was the only place in the wastelands not under MRC control, and more than a few folks had decided they’d had enough of being told what to do, and made their way down to the Wilds even though the lawlessness in that zone made it a far more dangerous place. But people tended to not think about where they were headed when they were too focused on getting away from where they’ve been. If the murcs, ala the gangs, were hunting refugees…well, that was a new low for the MRC.

That info’s gotta be valuable to someone. If you don’t want to heist the fifty-K, you can sell the info to a do-gooder group, Mueller offered.

Joe inhaled deeply before speaking. "Listen, I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you. No, I take that back. I trust you even less than I can throw you. Now put your hands behind your back. I’m taking you to the labor camp in Cavil."

Mueller soured but did as instructed. He nodded toward the wrecks and where the fender was broken off. Those ain’t going nowhere. An’ we can’t walk there from here. This heat’ll kill us in a day. We’d be better to head back to Narrow Pass.

Joe fastened the restraints around his prisoner’s wrists. No fear. I’ll get us a lift. Now, you don’t move. It’s not too late for me to change my mind and shoot you.

Mueller gulped before giving a fervent nod.

With his prisoner restrained, Joe spent a moment taking in the wreckage and the wide-open desert around them. Mueller was right about the heat. Even with the protection of his armor, Joe wouldn’t last for more than a day. In the distance behind him, he could make out the one-tavern town of Narrow Pass. He had no desire to spend the night there. A fair share of the people who lived in Narrow Pass wanted him dead. Though, if he was honest with himself, there seemed to be plenty of folks in every town who wanted him dead.

He placed the call on his armlet.

As soon as Kit Argall’s face appeared on the screen, Joe spoke. I need a lift.

Kit sighed. You didn’t crash another cutter, did you?

Hey, you crashed my last one, remember? This is the first one I’ve crashed in a long time.

Chapter Three

I ’m thirsty. Can I have some more water? Mueller asked.

No. You’ll just have to pee again, Joe replied.

But I’m hot, Mueller whined.

Joe shot a withering glance at his prisoner, who sat under the shade provided by his cutter. The man was sweaty—anyone would sweat in hundred-degree heat. Joe would give the prisoner water if he thought he needed it, but Mueller showed no signs of heat exhaustion. If anyone was suffering exhaustion, it was Joe from putting up with Mueller’s incessant complaining. They’d waited three hours already for Kit, and still there was no sign of his fellow bounty hunter. Joe continuously scanned the landscape for dust clouds kicked up by cutters, but all he saw was the glimmering haze above the scorching surface.

Joe knew that, thanks to his exoshield, he was handling the heat better than Mueller. Each exoshield was customized. Joe had added patch upgrades over his armor for improved protection against blasters and knives. His helmet was simple, with eye slots that had night vision capabilities, hearing-enhancing ear cuffs, and a breathing mask with basic air filters. Everything on his exoshield was built for function rather than aesthetics, except for the three crimson stripes painted on his helmet, and the crimson cape he wore. Those items represented who he was and where he’d come from: three stripes for three wars, and the cape was the banner all Ravens carried. The cape often flitted in the breeze; today, it hung limp in the dense heat.

A dot appeared in the haze, and Joe squinted to verify the shape. Sure enough, a vehicle was heading toward them. It was at least three miles out but quickly closing the distance. At two miles out, he could make out the vehicle to be a cutter, and at one mile out, he could make out the gray hull of Kit’s Silver Shark, glistening in the sunlight.

Mueller whistled. That’s some cutter.

If Joe ever had a crush on a cutter, it’d be on that one. It had slick lines as though its hull had been formed from a single solar array panel. The windshield, also gray, was a couple of shades darker than the hull; otherwise, there’d be no indication that it was a human-driven vehicle rather than an automated truck.

Get up. Our ride’s here, Joe said, stepping closer to Mueller to make sure he didn’t try to make a foolish last-second escape. The Shark didn’t slow until it was a quarter of a mile away, and it rolled to a smooth stop a few feet from where Joe stood.

Kit Argall stepped out. His dark eyes took in the scene. He owned a Raven banner as well, but didn’t wear his like Joe did, since it got in the way of his sword. Instead, he went with a crimson jacket. His sword was sheathed on his back, his blaster was holstered on his thigh, and throwing knives crisscrossed his chest. Kit had no body armor—his exoshield had been shredded (literally) by Cat of the Iron Guild as a promise of what she intended to do to him. She held a grudge against Ravens, and against Kit in particular, because a Raven had been responsible for her brother’s death during the Revolution—a Raven who just happened to carry a sword. In short, Kit had killed her brother during the war’s bloodiest battle, but the war had ended over ten years ago…a long time to hold a grudge.

I’m impressed. You’re up to crashing two cutters at a time, Kit said. Though that beast you’ve been driving deserved to be put out of its misery. Now, hopefully, you won’t stink so bad after driving.

Joe couldn’t argue. His cutter had been given to him by a guy who ran a junkyard, and any free gift in the wastelands wasn’t much of a gift. The cutter stank like a critter had lived in it for months before dying and rotting in it, only to have the rodents that feasted on the corpse die and rot in it as well. Joe had searched every inch of that interior for the source of the stench but found nothing. Air fresheners hadn’t helped. Yeah, that cutter deserved to be put out of its misery.

I thought you were in the western Midlands today. What took you so long? Joe asked.

Kit motioned to the back of his cutter. Joe checked to make sure Mueller was where he’d last left him, and followed Kit, who opened the liftgate to reveal the cutter’s cargo space. Everything was neatly organized, as anything Kit owned was. Compartments lined the two walls and ceiling. In the center stood a square cage—all hunters had them for transporting targets—and inside was a bounty hunter still wearing an exoshield. A dead hunter, to be exact.

Cat sent another of her lackeys after me today. The bastard tried to sneak up on me in the bathroom, of all places, Kit said.

She sent one after me today, too. Tried to take me out right when I was getting ready to take out that fella. Joe nodded toward Mueller, who leaned against the wrecked cutter, feigning nonchalance.

Kit shook his head. There’s just no respect for our profession anymore. Any decent hunter knows you never interrupt another man’s trigger pull.

Joe smirked. Are you still talking about the hunter that came after me, or the one that went after you?

Kit’s lips curled up. Both, I guess. Kit jutted his chin in the direction of Mueller. So, why is your target still kicking?

Joe shrugged. I just haven’t gotten around to taking care of him yet.

You’re a softie. Always have been, always will be. That’s why that target’s still kicking, not because of you procrastinating. He then squinted at the sky. It’s a cooker out here. Grab your stuff and load up. I don’t want to be outside any longer than I have to today. Unlike you, I don’t have an exoshield.

How could I forget? You remind me every day.

That’s because you told me you were going to bring me my shield back, and all you brought back was my sword—and you almost didn’t bring that.

Joe held up a hand. In my defense, your exoshield was already shredded when I got there, and I did bring your sword back without a scratch on it.

You’re lucky. This sword has been in my family for seven generations. If I were to lose it, bad luck would fall on me and all of my kin, Kit said.

You still have kin around?

Not around here, but my family came from Hong Kong before the fallout. If it still exists, I’d like to think they’re still around, and I don’t want to bring bad luck down on them.

Joe frowned. ‘Argall’ doesn’t sound very Asian. I mean, you look Asian, but I guess I just never thought about it before.

Kit chortled. That’s because I’m from the Argall Corp silo. Everyone from my tribe goes by Argall. My real last name’s Wu.

I never knew that.

Kit shook his head. We’ve known each other for what, over fifteen years, and you didn’t know that?

Joe shrugged. He’d always found silo tribes interesting. Every silo had one or more tribes that formed during the generations spent underground in tight quarters during the fallout. He came from silo C-10—home of the Cyclone tribe—and it wasn’t until he reached the surface and met people from other tribes that he realized the Cyclone tribe was one of the more normal tribes. Many had their own rituals, such as matching tattoos or brands. This was the first time he’d heard of a tribe that all shared the same last name.

By the way, your target looks like he’s about to rabbit, Kit said.

Joe looked to find Mueller creeping around the edge of the wreckage. I wouldn’t try that if I were you, he called out, and Mueller turned glumly around. "Get over here, numbskull. Time to load