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  Hard Road to Redemption

  Jacob St. Christopher

  Action & Adventure #5

  By Alex Ander

  .

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  Hard Road to

  Redemption

  Jacob St. Christopher

  Action & Adventure

  .

  This story proudly

  Made in the U.S.A.

  Copyright ©2021 Jason A. Burley

  All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be published in a newspaper, magazine or electronically via the Internet.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to real events or locations or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  “I shall rescue you from the clutches

  of the wicked and redeem you

  from the grasp of the violent.”

  —Jeremiah, Chapter 15; Verse 21

  .

  Chapter 1

  Sprinters

  AUGUST 8th; 11:11 P.M.

  NORTHEAST GEORGIA

  IN THE FOOTHILLS OF THE

  BLUE RIDGE MOUNTAINS

  Bumper to bumper, the two unmarked, black Dodge Sprinters pulled up to a pair of side-by-side chain-link gates located in the middle of nowhere. Three-foot-square and eight-foot-high brick pillars—one on either side of the entry point—served as anchors for each gate. Ten-foot-wide sections of fencing—the same height as the pillars—extended laterally away from the brick columns. Eleven feet out, the fencing disappeared into the surrounding pitch-black, dense forest.

  Holding an AR-15 decked out with sighting and illumination attachments, a man approached the lead van while rolling a finger in the air.

  The driver lowered his window and acknowledged the armed man with a backward flip of his head. “Hell of a—” he swiped at the bugs trying to sneak into his space, “hell of a night, isn’t it? How you live in this heat is beyond me.”

  AR slid a hand under the rifle sling around his neck and rubbed away the sweat building up on his skin. “You get used to it for the most part. But,” he leaned back and shot a look at the sky, “on nights like these,” before coming back to the visitor, “all you can think about is a cold beer and a cool shower.”

  The driver laughed. “I hear you, brother.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Delivery. My boss is here with me. He wants to meet with your boss.”

  AR motioned toward his partner.

  The second sentry worked a lock, unwound a chain, and pushed open one gate.

  Like a cop directing traffic, AR waved the transports through and dug out a walkie-talkie. “I’ll radio ahead and let them know you’re coming.”

  “Thanks, man.” After slapping the outside of his door twice and pointing at AR, “I hope you get that beer and shower soon,” the driver eased the Sprinter by the guard opening the second gate.

  *******

  His hands at ten and two o’clock on the Toyota Corolla’s steering wheel, thirty-year-old Dexter Childress passed by the tree-lined dirt road he had watched the Dodge Sprinters drive down thirty seconds earlier. He threw a glance out the window on his left.

  Brake lights shone back at him.

  Headlights lit up a chain-link fence.

  Men with rifles patrolled the area.

  One of the armed men opened the gate while another motioned for the vehicles to go through.

  Childress kept his foot on the accelerator.

  A quarter mile later, spotting a hidden trail to his left—just wide enough to accommodate his Corolla—he drove the car off the road and onto the trail.

  The reporter navigated the winding path, leaves and branches brushing against the rental car. He winced when he heard a twig drag across the length of the passenger door before he had time to crank the steering wheel to the left. That’ll drive up the cost of this assignment.

  A hundred yards later, the forest swallowed up the path.

  He ran the gearshift to ‘park’ and shut off the ignition. The automatic headlights remained on. He pulled on a handle and shoved open his door.

  The panel moved a foot and smacked against a tree.

  He cursed while grabbing his high-powered digital camera and a backpack. “Oh yes. The,” he squeezed shoulders through the narrow gap, “glamorous life of,” before uncoiling the rest of his six-two, one-fifty skinny frame from the compact car, “an investigative reporter.”

  Wearing jeans and a dark-colored polo shirt, Childress eased the door shut, producing only a soft ‘click’ when the latch caught. He slung his pack and looked back the way he had come. Drawing an index finger through the air, left to right, he calculated the destination of the vans and set off in that direction.

  *******

  The Sprinters stopped just inside a second set of gates that joined with an eight-foot-high fence that encircled a sprawling compound of buildings. Their rear and side doors flew open, and each dodge disgorged four armed men in black tactical clothing and vests laden with spare magazines.

  Performing a maneuver, one they had rehearsed dozens, maybe hundreds, of times before, the eight men fanned out and took defensive positions at the corners of the vans, each man shouldering an AR-15 at the low-ready position, his body squared with his area of responsibility—either a cardinal direction (north, east, south, west) or an ordinal direction (northeast, southeast, southwest, northwest).

  Both drivers, and the lead vehicle’s passenger, hopped out and swarmed at the second van’s passenger door. All the operators carried a Knights Armament SR-30 M-LOK rifle chambered in 300 AAC Blackout and sporting a 9.5-inch barrel. One man pulled on the van’s door handle.

  Thirty-nine, exhibiting a short and dark, neatly trimmed mustache and beard, a man in blue jeans and a white, short-sleeve polo shirt slid out of his seat, his black tactical boots crunching gravel when his feet touched down. The six-foot man planted hands on hips and glanced around the area.

  The largest structure—two stories high—was furthest away from the gate and dwarfed the many buildings dotting the landscape, which consisted of mostly matted earth with patches of grass here and there.


  In the center of the compound was a playground of homemade toys and climbing apparatuses.

  At the corners, where the fencing made ninety-degree turns, tall poles supported inward-facing spotlights, which were off.

  Shorter poles, near the buildings, buoyed downward-facing, lower-intensity lights; most were off. Those that were on gave off enough light to make out most everything inside the perimeter fencing. Beyond that, thick trees provided a black backdrop.

  Six-Foot leaned into the van and emerged a beat later with a cigarette and a cheap plastic lighter. He lit the cancer stick, took a drag, and tossed the lighter onto his seat. “These people live like backwoods hicks.”

  The man who had engaged in conversation with the guard at the main gate nodded while observing what his boss was seeing. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “But,” Six-Foot chuckled, slammed the door, and headed for the two-story main house, “these hicks pay handsomely.”

  The three bodyguards suppressed sniggers while falling into flanking positions on Six-Foot’s nine, twelve, and three o’clock.

  “And for that,” eyeing a gray-haired man emerging from the main house and striding toward him, Six-Foot drew more nicotine into his lungs and blew out a cloud of smoke that hung in the moist air, “I shall keep my opinions to myself.” He slapped his neck, “Mother...” then ogled the remains of an insect. “Let’s make this deal and get the,” he cursed while wiping the dirty hand on his pants, “out of here.”

  *******

  From behind a pine tree located ten feet outside the compound’s fence, Dexter Childress held down a button on his camera to zoom in on two individuals surrounded by heavily armed men.

  A six-foot-tall man and an older, gray-haired man stood face-to-face, talking. A minute later, Gray Hair beckoned, and another man entered the circle of guns, a duffle bag in his grasp.

  Six-Foot unzipped the bag, peered inside, and nodded before running the zipper again. He slung the duffle and shook hands with Gray Hair.

  Gray Hair looked over his shoulder and motioned.

  Several men jogged toward the Dodge Sprinters and jumped into the vehicles. Seconds later, they stepped out, each two-man team hefting a black carrying case. The teams stacked the cases and went back for more.

  Childress snapped photo after photo of the activity, including several close-ups of Six-Foot and Gray Hair. The investigative reporter froze when his ears picked up a sound coming from his right.

  Boots scuffing the ground accompanied heavy panting.

  He pivoted his head, and a curse word flashed across his mind. Crouching, he picked up his pack and backed away from his hiding spot, taking extra care to avoid stepping on any brittle twigs.

  Fifteen paces later, he ducked behind a wide oak situated twenty feet away from the fence.

  The scuffing boots and heavy panting grew louder.

  Childress peeked out from behind the oak’s trunk.

  An armed sentry walked a black-and-brown-colored Doberman pinscher along the fence line.

  The animal’s ears went skyward. Growling, the dog lunged toward the fence.

  The man tugged on the leash. “What is it, boy? What do you see?”

  The guard dog barked twice before rising onto its rear legs and pulling the leash taut.

  His back to the oak, repeating the same curse over and over in his mind, Childress shut his eyes. He made a face a tick later. Can they shoot unarmed trespassers in this state? He shook his head. I’m sure you can shoot anyone for any reason and let the courts sort it out later.

  The pinscher barked.

  The reporter huffed to himself. Doesn’t exactly help the dead guy, though, does it?

  The pinscher growled.

  Off to his left, Childress noticed something in the underbrush. He squinted.

  That something moved.

  He frowned while recalling the contents of the backpack at his feet. What have I got to lose?

  *******

  Gray Hair unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt and thumbed a button. “This is Colonel Hendricks. What’s going on over there?” Hendricks let go of the button and observed the surrounding men.

  Their postures had changed. Their rifles were pressed deeper into their shoulders, and the looks on their faces had become stoic.

  Hendricks met Six-Foot’s gaze and shook his head. “Don’t worry, Mister Hunter. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  *******

  Seeing a flashlight beam coming from his six o’clock and illuminating the surrounding forest, Childress clenched in his left hand a double ‘A’ battery he had slipped from his pack.

  The Doberman barked.

  The beam of light panned to the right.

  Childress tossed the battery to his left.

  The power source landed and bounced twice, disturbing the pine needles covering the forest floor.

  The light beam zipped to the left.

  Snorting, a small, wild hog burst out of the underbrush and ran off.

  The sentry watched the animal until the feral swine reached the limit of his flashlight’s beam. He jerked the still barking Doberman away from the fence and thumbed his walkie-talkie. “It’s just a pig.” He strode along the fence line while occasionally yanking on the excited dog’s leash. “The perimeter is secure.”

  Childress let out the air he had been holding while touching his head to the tree trunk behind him. Peeping over his right shoulder, he watched the guard, and the guard dog, make a right-hand ninety and walk toward the gate.

  A few minutes passed, and he resumed taking pictures.

  Six-Foot and Gray Hair shook hands.

  The armed men and Six-Foot climbed into the vans.

  The Sprinters turned around and drove through the gates, crossing paths with a beat-up minivan.

  Two men got out of the minivan. The one on the passenger side slid open the side door.

  A thin girl stumbled out of the vehicle.

  Each man grasped one of her elbows then escorted the girl to a small building in front of the main house. All three went inside.

  Childress sneaked away from the fence, returned to his car, and drove the Toyota, in reverse, all the way to the main road.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  .

  Chapter 2

  Turning Sixteen

  11:27 P.M.

  Twelve burning candles atop a chocolate cake with green mint frosting.

  Her mom holding up a camera phone. “Big smile, sweetie.”

  Smiling widely, she filled her lungs and aimed for the nearest pink candle.

  Jumping into the shot, her dad wrapped a powerful arm around her shoulders and touched his left cheek to her right one.

  She grinned, and father and daughter mowed down the candles.

  Her mom laughed. “Uh, honey, I don’t think you’re supposed to help her blow them out.”

  “That’s okay, Mom.” She smiled at her father. “That’s just how Dad rolls.”

  “Yeah.” Her dad brought a wrapped present out from behind his back and smiled at his wife, “That’s just how I roll.” He placed the gift on the table and kissed the top of his little girl’s head. “Happy birthday, pumpkin. This is from your mother and me.”

  She pushed away the cake and tore off the wrapping paper. Her eyes grew wide. “No way!”

  Her dad: “Way.” He raised a finger. “Just remember the rules. No—”

  “I know. I know.” She opened the box and ran her fingers over the new silver-colored cell phone. She went from her mother, “Thanks Mom,” to her father. “Thanks Dad.”

  “You’re welcome, swee...”

  Stirring under the bedcovers, Miranda reached down and scratched her right knee. Half awake, she recalled bits and pieces of her last dream. That’s just how I roll...No way...Thanks, Mom...

  The itch on her leg moved to another spot.

  She scratched the top of her thigh. Thanks, Dad.

  The tickle returned.

  Openin
g her eyes—her vision slowly coming into focus—Miranda scratched her inner thigh, flinched, swatted away a bony hand, scrambled to a sitting position, and jammed her back against the headboard.

  Hovering by her bedside, a man smiled down at her before ogling her bare leg.

  She threw the quilt over the exposed skin, brought knees to her chest, and hugged her shins.

  “Hello Miranda. I haven’t seen you in a while. I’ve been away...on important business.”

  She lowered overlapped forearms onto her covered knees and stared down at the hairs standing straight up on her skin.

  He sat on the edge of the bed. “How’ve you been?”

  She said nothing.

  He stared at her for the better part of a minute. “You’re turning sixteen soon.”

  A chill ran up her spine, as the implications of that milestone flooded her brain.

  “I’ve talked with Hendricks.”

  Miranda had a vision of a gray-haired man before she could bar the image.

  “And he’s assured me that we’ll be together...after your,” a pause, “customary time with him, of course.”

  The teen swallowed. Unable to bring herself to face the man, inches away and on her two o’clock, she nonetheless saw him in her mind—black stringy hair, brown teeth, coffee and cigarette breath, dark eyes, pointy chin, gaunt and sunken cheeks, skeleton-like frame.

  “I know we’ll create the purest children this community has ever seen. I just know it. You’ll see. But, for now,” he stood and beckoned her with a sweeping arm, “you need to come with me. You have a job to do. There’s a new girl you must welcome into the fold. She’s waiting outside for you.” Following a long look at the side of her face, he left the cabin.

  Miranda exhaled and held out her hands.

  The appendages trembled.

  She made fists, shut her eyes, and saw her father and her mother. After a couple of deep breaths, after imagining every detail of their faces, she set her jaw, pressed her lips together, and climbed out of bed. They’ll find me. I have to believe that. I must have faith.