Through A Glass, Darkly (The Assassins of Youth MC #1)(68)

I tore ass around the corner. In fact, my reaction was so instantaneous, I practically caught Chiles’ body in my arms. I leaped to one side to clutch Mahalia to my chest, still pointing my gun away from us in case some random fundy had been lurking, armed, behind the gaming table.

The back door was open. Gamblers had apparently run at the first sign of a commotion outside. We were alone, gazing openmouthed down at Chiles’ sprawled body.

I had gotten him right through the forehead, just as he’d nailed poor Carradine. A little shower of sheetrock by his feet attested to my sharpshooting skills.

There was no need to shoot again. Only when I breathed a sigh of relief did I realize I’d been holding my breath for a good, long while. Once I clutched Mahalia tighter, I realized she was shaking like a candle flame.

“O God, O God, O God,” she kept whispering over and over, her hand covering her mouth.

I kissed the top of her head. “It’s okay, little one. It’s okay, sweetness. Everything’ll be okay now. I’m here. My men are here.”

In fact, someone was sneaking in the open back door now. Without letting go of Mahalia in the slightest, I whipped my pistol arm around to level it at the intruder.

He put his hands up. It was only Sledgehammer. Dust Bunny and Dingo followed like SWAT members, darting this way and that in sort of modified isosceles stances, Dingo holding his piece sideways like a gangsta. I’d have to teach him this useless technique would just jam the gun. The recoil would turn him sideways. It was hard to aim and completely inaccurate.

“Excellent shooting,” said Sledgehammer, jamming his iron into his waistband. He peeked around the corner. He must’ve seen Carradine sprawled there like an Egyptian, one of those chalk outlines on the ground. “Hey, got an idea. Give me your piece.”

Trusting him as we had to, I handed it over. He’d only accept it after covering his palm with a paper napkin. I saw what he was getting at when he went around the corner. We followed. He wiped my grip clean with the hem of his shirt, then kicked Carradine’s piece out of his limp hand. He placed my iron gingerly against Carradine’s spread fingers.

We all looked at Carradine like we were mourners. There was no sadness for the loss of the goofy fed. Then again, he could’ve been much worse. He wasn’t half-bad, for a fed.

Now he’d get the credit—or the blame—for having offed the psychotic fundamentalist. It was best to keep our spanking new club out of it. Sledgehammer made the right call. My name would ring in the streets with suspicion, anyway. Suspicion was what being an outlaw was all about. Your name and rep made or broke you. Ridding the populace of this massive menace was a good start for our new chapter.

Dingo whapped his chest with his piece. “Goodbye, Mr. Carradine. Rest in peace knowing you saved the planet from many hazardous shipments of alcohol and tobacco.”

Dust Bunny was the only one who guffawed at this. But he soon shut up too when he saw how dead serious the rest of us were.

I said, “He probably singlehandedly prevented the Great Vodka Flood of ’15.”

Now it was okay to laugh. We all let loose with a big round of chuckles, maybe because it eased the tension and feds were coming in the front door.

They kicked the door, even though it was open, maybe just out of habit. We had to hold our hands skyward until they figured out we were the good guys, and we were allowed to file outside. Only then did I stick my piece into my waistband, too, so I could keep both hands on Mahalia at all times.

Her sister-wives wanted to clamor around her, but I pulled her off to one side.

“Some of those bitches sat there twiddling their thumbs while that bastard abused me.” I’d never seen such venom in my normally sunny old lady. “I wouldn’t give them safe passage out of here if you paid me in chocolate-covered almonds.”

“But you’d help some others?”

Her tone made a sea change then. “Oh, of course! Gideon, I like your idea of helping women who want to leave Cornucopia. This place can be filled with joy and happiness until you throw in a couple of bad eggs like Allred.”

“Who’s second in line? Parley Pipkin?”

“No, he’s just the Stake President. He’s not nearly enigmatic enough. I guess there’ll be a big power struggle to fill Allred’s shoes. The wives and kids will be taken care of, of course.”

Then a fed came over and wanted details. They kept ushering women and children out of the saltbox houses. They poured out like the houses were arks in a never-ending stream. It took awhile before they were satisfied and let us go, and we slept the sleep of the dead that night.

Looking back, it really was the start of the rest of my life, as they say. Some men were arrested, but most were released a few days later with only probation. For lack of anyone more important to throw the book at, Parley Pipkin served the most time—six months for bigamy. Some women and kids were forced to relocate to Flagstaff. Prompted by media photos of sobbing kids, public outcry meant they returned the pilgrims pronto to Cornucopia. Women’s’ rights advocates, though, would keep the battle cry going for a long time to come. It only helped strengthen our position.

There was no denying the place was a f*cking white slave factory from which no woman had ever escaped alive. Mahalia was the first.





EPILOGUE




GIDEON