The Pit Road War

By Caroline Taylor

Long before the January 6 insurrection, men are planning to rise up. It's 2019, and their commander-in-chief has yet to tell them to "stand back and stand by." But he's given them many encouraging signs, and planning takes time—time that's interrupted by Jeff Kingston, an escaped prisoner, and Grace Burgess, who is fleeing her husband's brutality. Their paths collide at a secret government installation, deep in the countryside, guarded by men on a mission who capture Grace.

 

Grateful to be rescued by Jeff, Grace soon learns that he might be a killer. The sister she though dead is alive, and the man behind the lies plans to use them as human shields in a confrontation with federal authorities. Can they escape before bullets begin to fly and hundreds of lives are lost?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Caroline Taylor
• Release date: Jul 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798988585213

Caroline Taylor

About the Author Formerly from Washington, D.C., Caroline Taylor is an award-winning author and editor living in North Carolina. She is the author of a number of mysteries, and her short stories and essays have appeared in several online and print magazines. She is a member of Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America. Visit her at www.carolinestories.com.

Book preview

1

Grace

How much time did she have? Owen was snoring like a leaf blower when she’d made her escape, but he was a light sleeper. She had learned to move quietly, especially when her life depended on it. Luckily, the neighbors were having a backyard barbecue, and lots of people were laughing and saying their goodbyes and slamming their car doors and driving off. She and Owen had not been invited, per usual, but the activity out on the street might be helpful. You’re just one of them, she kept telling herself as she slowly backed the car out of the garage and headed down the street. Taking the car pretty much meant Owen was stuck. At least for a while.

Grace headed to the nearest highway. But where to go? North? She was pretty sure Richmond was north. God, it was dark here. She was used to street lights. There wasn’t even a sliver of moon to guide her. A woman on the run, driving a stolen car, which, like everything else, was in Owen’s name. How far could she travel before he sicced the police on her? Her driver’s license was expired. She’d be in trouble even before they took her back to the man she’d just escaped from. Why had she let herself become so dependent on him?

You don’t need to drive, Owen had said when she told him it was time to renew her license.

What if you get sick or hurt and need me to drive you to the hospital?

You never heard of an ambulance? Dumb bitch.

But what would happen if you did wind up in the hospital? How could I visit you or buy groceries?

He’d rolled his eyes. Then I guess you’d be up shit creek.

Right now, she was pretty damn close. What she needed to do was outsmart the bastard. Go where he didn’t think she would. Starting with using back roads even though she had no idea where any of them might lead. It was all too easy to picture a rundown shanty surrounded by pit bulls, a rusted wreck up on blocks, a toothless man in overalls carrying a shotgun and telling her she was going to have to pay for any help he’d be inclined to offer.

Up ahead, she noticed a road heading to the right. The sign read Mt. Sinai Church Road. That would work. Sanctuary. She definitely needed sanctuary. Grace turned onto an even darker stretch of pavement. The center line was so faded that she could hardly see it. No shoulders either. She tightened her grip on the wheel. She couldn’t go as fast as she needed to, which had her wondering if she should have kept to the highway.

Slowing, she was about to turn around when she spied a gravel road heading off to the left. The sign for the road was so riddled with buckshot that Grace could only read P - - - O - D. Okay, the last word might be Road.

Maybe she should go down this road far enough to where she’d be out of sight of any cars driving down Mt. Sinai Church Road. Then she’d pull over and search the glove compartment for a map. The car was too old to have a navigation system. Although Owen probably didn’t keep maps either. He knew this area like the native he was. The Stauntons had only lived in Farmville a couple of years before the Incident, and afterward Grace had been pretty much a basket case. She should have gotten to know the area better, but then Owen had come along, and there didn’t seem to be any need for her to do so. She’d been such a fool not to realize it was because he wanted her to remain ignorant.

Isolated.

Beaten down by his incessant carping. It was a joke, wasn’t it? Your name? ’Cause you’re the most graceless fuckup I’ve ever known.

Beaten up too. Broken collar bone, broken wrist, probable concussion from the time he slammed her head into the wall.

Grace fingered the side of her face. Still throbbing. She’d have a horrible bruise, the kind you got when you accidentally ran into a door. How much of it could a person take before something broke loose inside and you became nothing but a punching bag?

What ever happened to the girl who’d climb trees to their highest point, daring her younger sister to join her, knowing it would make Mama mad, not caring anyway because the view from up there showed what a wonderful, vast world lay in wait? Or the girl who’d punched Joey Cranston in the nose when he’d made fun of her sister’s scars? Where was that person now? Fleeing a man she once thought she’d loved in a car she didn’t own because if she didn’t run away, he’d eventually kill her. How did it all turn out so awful?

Now she was a dead woman walking. Owen would never forgive her for trying to escape. If he found her …

Shit. The engine just died. The car was slowing like … like …

This could not be happening. She was Out. Of. Gas.

Jeff

How much time did he have? Dark as a witch’s tit out here, so three or four hours tops? He needed to ditch the prison garb before daybreak, but wandering around these woods in nothing but dingy white skivvies wasn’t a good idea either.

There. A darker, more solid shape. Jeff stumbled forward, stopping just in time to avoid sliding into a pond. He crouched down, feeling for mud, rubbing it first on his face and then on his clothes. The Boy Scout training he’d had as a kid and mostly forgotten about was coming back into play. Not only would the mud keep the mosquitoes off, it would also help conceal the prison orange. Cupping water in his hands, he drank. Yeah, there’d be all kinds of toxic microorganisms in it, but dying of dysentery was nowhere near the top of his list of worries.

Don’t get caught. This time, they’d kill him, claiming he’d been fleeing arrest. Or, once he was back behind bars, they’d close an eye to any inmate-on-inmate attack since those attacks were impossible to prevent but easy to shrug off. Nobody cared if inmates killed other inmates. Helped keep the prison population down, after all.

So. Don’t get caught. You need shelter. Clothes. Food. Money. A weapon. A car. Then get the hell on down the road till you’re so far away they’ll be thinking, Shit, it’s a fucking waste of resources going after the guy.

Dream on, dude.

The gravel road appeared as if out of a dream or maybe a mirage. He stopped. Looked both ways and then stepped onto it. Hard to tell how often it got used. Searching for tire tracks, even if he could see them, was not in Jeff’s skill set. Still, better than getting all cut up crashing through the woods.

He set off at a leisurely jog. There’d be no point in going flat out if you’d just wind up running out of steam at some point. Although it might be smarter to head back into the woods. Use them for cov—

Whoa. Now he surely was dreaming. Twin red taillights up ahead. They winked off just as he stepped back into the trees. There was the thunk of a car door closing. He crept closer, stopping when he saw the driver’s silhouette.

A woman. Slender. Marching around the car like she was really pissed off. Slammed her hand down hard on the right rear fender. "Goddamn you, Owen. Now what am I going to do?"

Was there someone else in the car? Jeff inched closer, snapping a twig underfoot.

The woman jumped, turning in his direction. She remained frozen for quite a while. But she didn’t call out to anybody, which made Jeff think she was traveling alone.

She opened the car door, reached in, and hauled out a huge tote bag. Slamming the door, she set off walking.

Car trouble. Could he fix it? Didn’t appear to be any flat tires. If he could solve the problem, somehow start the car, he’d be in DC before you could say, escaped prisoner on the loose.

Jeff counted slowly to a hundred before approaching the car, a piece-of-shit, once-red Ford Fiesta with rust showing through a slapdash paint job. The woman had left the goddamn keys in the ignition. Easing himself into the front seat, he moved the lever back to make room for his legs. Turned the key. Cranked, and then nothing. Tried again and then noticed the gas gauge. Ah, hell. So much for snagging a set of wheels.

A sharp tap on the window made him flinch, and Jeff looked up to find a large assault rifle aimed right at his face.

Martina

How much time did she have? Months? Years? She looked around her office with its freshly painted walls and recently shampooed carpet, all of which cost money that she was trying to save, not spend. When the big boys wanted something, they often wanted it yesterday. Of course, sometimes government red tape kept things moving at a fairly slow pace, but the problem was, you never knew which scenario was in play here. It didn’t bode well for Martina’s plans, and it was likely to enrage her subcontractor.

Gloria? Get Adolph Fichte on the phone.

Fingers crossed, the man wouldn’t be there. They would play a little telephone tag, just to establish who was the alpha dog, but really, it would only take a few hours. Martina needed weeks, if not months. The facility was perfect for her plans. But she needed time to finalize them.

Her phone buzzed.

The major’s on line two.

Gloria couldn’t resist loading even the most basic statement with sarcasm. If Fichte held any real rank, Martina had to be Starfleet commander. Adolph, Martina Anderson here. I hope I’ve caught you at a good time.

I guess it depends.

Cagey bastard. I wanted you to know we’re going to have to buy out your contract.

Silence.

It wasn’t my decision, Adolph. She would not call him Major as he had so often insisted. The Pentagon wants to reactivate the site.

Why?

I haven’t a clue. You know these people. They never show their hand.

I have troo—uh, men to pay. They’ve got families to feed. Did you tell those Washington folks that?

Hell, no. I’m sorry, Adolph. But it’s eighteen months of your contract we’ll be settling up. It should—

Don’t sugarcoat it, Miz Anderson. We had a business arrangement. Buying me out is the least you can do. So what more are you offering?

Martina let her silence do the talking. No penalty clause, asshole. Check it out. Then she said, I’m happy to give you a referral. I’ll even check around to see if there are other opportunities. Not. But I don’t make the decisions here.

You own the property.

Not exactly. Although she’d never told Fichte. I leased it to the Feds. For ninety-nine years. Allied Industries owned the land. Ages ago, back in the fifties, they’d leased the site to Uncle Sam. What the government did with the facility they’d built there hardly anyone knew since it was fenced off tight as a prison. Martina got involved in the mid-nineties when Allied needed somebody to, as they put it, keep an eye on the place, maintain the fencing, discourage trespassers.

Shit. She was lying to dead air. Cradling the phone, Martina leaned back in her chair. Paying off Fichte was going to be a problem. She doubted Allied would pass the money through for him since it was anyone’s guess when the Pentagon would reimburse, which didn’t bode well. But guys like Fichte? You didn’t mess with them. Unless you had a death wish. He didn’t know Martina was on to him—or, more likely, he didn’t care—but the guy was a Confederate flag-waving, gun-toting, southern racist with a chip on his shoulder the size of Mount Everest.

She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She’d managed to piss off a man who didn’t care to be crossed. For all she knew, Fichte was one of those survivalist nutcases with a bunch of macho thugs under his so-called command. Armed thugs. What if he came after her? Or sicced his army on her for revenge? Could he even locate her? They’d done most of their business by phone because Fichte was deeply suspicious—or possibly ignorant?—of the internet. But the sublease. Shit. It had MWM Service’s address and phone number on it.

How much time did she have?

Owen

It’s why I called y’all, Owen said to the cop who’d finally showed up at his front door and was now seated opposite him. My wife shouldn’t be driving. He used his index finger to trace circles in the air near his temple. Not right in the head, you see. Can’t get a driver’s license.

The officer took his time writing all this down. With those Coke-bottle glasses and zit-strewn face, you’d think he was fourteen years old. Owen was bigger and stronger than this kid, and yet the police had refused to hire him, citing his juvie record, which had pissed him off since it was supposed to be confidential.

The cop looked up. Do you know what time she left?

I was asleep.

Were you having any troubles, sir? He waved his hand in the air. Like, did you have a fight? Did she threaten to leave you? Or get a divorce?

No. Why I’m so worried.

Any family nearby? Friends?

No.

Usually, when it’s an adult, we figure they left because they wanted to. There aren’t any signs of a kidna—

"I don’t give a—I don’t care what you usually do, sir. Grace would not do this to me."

Shit. She had a bruise from where he’d hit her. She shouldn’t be driving. Got a problem with her balance. Owen tilted his body left and right. Always running into the door frame, the walls. Tripping over stuff. Good thing we don’t have a two-story house. He chuckled.

The cop sat there, staring at him. Then he stood up. We’ll put out a BOLO, uh, a bulletin for other law enforcement to be on the lookout.

I know what it means. But is that all you’re doing? If I had wheels, I’d be out there searching for her. She doesn’t know the area well, so she’s got to be on a highway or a major road.

The kid scribbled something in his notebook. I’ll make sure to mention it. If she does come back home, would you give us a call? He pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket. Usually they have second thoughts about running off.

Grace would not leave me. Not if the bitch had a brain in her empty head. She loves me.

The cop nodded as though he’d heard it all before. Then he left.

Grace would come back. After all, where else could she go? Owen had made sure she didn’t have any money. Just like he’d made sure she didn’t have any friends. He’d had her right where he wanted her, and then the girl pulls this shit on him. Goddamn bitch.

He picked up the coffee table and threw it across the room. The lamp followed, gouging a hole in the wall. Those goddamn books she was always reading had to go. He ripped them from the shelves and tore the covers off. Then he went after Grace’s clothes, throwing them into the garbage, pouring a liquid stream of bleach, shampoo, window cleaner, and laundry detergent over them, his eyes smarting like hell. Fucking bitch. This was all her fault. How dare she leave him?

Two hours later, he’d managed to destroy everything but the bed where he’d been sleeping and his own clothes. Cleaning up a mess this big should keep the woman busy for a good long while—once she recovered, that is.

Hope

What’s the point? Mom and Dad are dead. Grace has disappeared, and this place, this horrible institution, offers no chance of escape. They watch you 24–7, and rumor has it there are hidden cameras even in your own room. The windows are locked, the door is locked. You aren’t being cared for; you are warehoused. A product. Only the sell-by date passed ages ago, so why don’t they just do what’s decent and dispose of you?

Oh, right. Money. Somebody must be paying for this incarceration. And the prison guards need to collect their monthly paychecks.

You are imprisoned, guilty of no crime except trying to take control of your own life by ending it. Is that a crime? Shouldn’t you have the right to decide for yourself? You’d made the decision years ago in school with kids pointing at you and laughing and calling you names like Scarface and Igor and Retard, when you couldn’t help the ugly blemish on your lip, when no way were you a dummy either.

Cruelest of all, why has Grace never come to visit? Or called? Or written? It’s like she, too, is dead. Only she wasn’t even there when the man—when—

Don’t go there, Hope. Best to let it be. Otherwise, you might start talking to them, which would be totally stupid.

So, Grace. She just doesn’t want to know what it’s like here, living among the mentally disturbed and, yes, some people who are so developmentally impaired they can’t ever live on their own. Or maybe she figures there’s no point talking to you if you won’t answer.

You want to tell her you can’t answer. Although, if talking will cost you your life, why don’t you just open up and let it all hang out?

Wuss.

Maybe it’s better your sister is not in touch because you’d probably wind up spilling everything, putting her in danger too. Or worse. What if she’s the one who locked you up and threw the key away? What if they were in this together? What if he warned her to stay away from home that night?

2

Grace

The air smelled of leaf rot and something perfumy. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing pulse. The old Grace would set off down the road, confident there must be a house or some kind of shelter at the end. The new Grace would have locked the car doors and sat there the way you were supposed to if you were a woman alone. Only, what if the police came along and carried her straight back to hell? Or some yahoos who’d had too much to drink or snort showed up and decided it would be fun to smash the windows, drag her out, and gang rape her?

The old Grace wouldn’t run out of gas in the middle of nowhere. What had happened to her brain? It was as if all those blows from Owen’s fists had made her dumber and dumber to the point she could barely think straight. This was stupid. Waiting for the worst to happen was not what the old Grace would even consider.

Somebody was bound to come along. If they appeared to be decent people, she would flag them down. Otherwise, she’d let them pass and then keep on walking. She dragged the tote bag out of the car, slung it over her shoulder, and set off walking. Only, what if it was the police? For sure they’d be on the lookout for her. She’d stolen her husband’s car. She didn’t have a valid driver’s license. She’d have to hide in the woods. Damn. The tote bag was too heavy. It held only the change of clothes she’d been able to grab, a pair of loafers, some underwear, and the framed photo of Mom and Dad and Hope. If she’d left it behind, Owen would have smashed the frame and burned the photo, her only record of the good old days. Before Owen. Before the murders. Back when she still had a brain capable of independent thought.

Like remembering to search for a map in the car. She should go back. Chances were this gravel road wasn’t taking her anywhere helpful unless it really did lead to some kind of church.

No sooner had she turned around than the silence was shattered by a man’s scream. Or was it some poor woodland creature caught by an owl? Grace stood there, holding her breath. There was a loud thud, followed by a man—not Owen—yelling, Don’t shoot!

She should keep on going—except the man could be hurt. Frozen in indecision, Grace stood there thinking she should at least check it out. She slipped into the woods near the road. Somebody had a gun. There were two somebodies, the man who’d yelled and the guy with the gun. The sounds of a scuffle grew, punctuated by grunts. This was followed by a loud scream, and Grace froze. She heard a man groaning, and somebody else said, Shut up. Why hadn’t she heard another car approaching? Where had either of these men come from?

She crept carefully past thorny branches, trying to keep at least one tree trunk between herself and the road. This seemed to take forever, and it was quite a while before she spied the darker silhouette of the car and a lighter, white shape beside the front tire. The body of a large, heavy man. Clad only in a white T-shirt and darker-colored shorts. Or boxers. If he’d been shot, she would have heard it, right? But he could have been choked. Or stabbed. She peered at the body, willing it to move, wondering when it did if she was just imagining things. But no. The man groaned and then slowly sat up. She should go help him, only where was the guy with the gun?

Before she could make up her mind, Underwear Man staggered to his feet. One hand was clutched to his head where blood was streaming down the side of his face. The other dangled uselessly at his side. Motherfucking sonovabitch, he muttered. He peered into the back seat of the car. Then he went around to the trunk and opened it. Fuck.

Well, yes. She knew the trunk was empty. And the first aid kit was hidden beneath the spare. The man’s head emerged, and the trunk lid slammed shut. He held the tire iron in his hand.

So like a man to think of a weapon first. Grace crouched on her haunches. He must not be too hurt, or he’d be writhing in agony. He got into the car, sat there while he tried to start the engine, and then jumped out. Raising the tire iron over his head, he yelled, Useless piece of junk. Then he smashed the windshield, followed by all the other windows.

While he was doing this, Grace retreated farther into the woods. The guy was making so much noise that he must be thinking the man with the gun was gone. But there was no way she could slip past him and reach Mt. Sinai Church Road either. All she could do was watch. And wait.

Jeff

Ronald Schmidt was forty-four. Pretty old for a soldier, but then maybe he wasn’t. Or he was a soldier once and still wanted to keep his hand in. The roomy camos Jeff was now wearing had no insignia or other markings. He doubted the guy’s AR-15 assault rifle was standard issue either. He put the driver’s license back into Schmidt’s wallet. No debit or credit cards. Thirty-two bucks. It wasn’t much, but better than zero.

So far, Jeff had been lucky. He’d caught the guy by surprise when he threw open the car door. The top corner of the window jabbed the man in the face, throwing him onto his back and giving Jeff barely enough time to snatch the rifle out of his hands. When the dumb fuck tried to kick him in the knee, Jeff slammed his foot down