Page 28 of Sins of the Fathers
“Any of them moves, shoot to kill,” Dawson told him. He turned toward their attackers. “You think you’re going to try something? Fuck around and find out. Grady doesn’t miss. Give me a hard time, and I’ll let you bleed. Lie nice and still, and I’ll wrap you up so you make it to a hospital with some of the blood on the inside.”
Dawson made quick work of battlefield first aid. “That should hold you—just don’t move around much. I’m not doing it a second time.”
Gibson and Tucker rolled up in the black Corvette half an hour later, making Grady wonder where they’d been staying. Certainly not Asheville, and not even Kingston. That made him think their attackers weren’t the only ones watching where the biker bodies had been dumped, waiting to see who showed up.
Bartlett Gibson unfolded his long, lanky frame from the ’Vette and sauntered toward them. Tucker walked beside him, completely in sync. Grady wondered how long they had been partners to get that sort of shared rhythm and whether they were partnered in other ways as well.
“I see you’ve already collected the trash,” Gibson observed, looking at the zip-tied prisoners.
“Against my better judgment, they’re still kicking,” Dawson replied with a shrug. “Gift-wrapped for you to deliver to Gitmo or wherever.”
“Tempting,” Tucker said. “HDF is a hate group and a terrorist organization. We could rendition them to a black site, and no one would ever miss them.”
Grady wasn’t sure whether the two feds were role-playing to frighten the prisoners, but their words got a quick reaction.
“We didn’t hurt nobody,” one of the men argued, although he kept his position on the ground. “They jumped us.”
“They shot Grady,” Dawson pointed out in a tone that made it clear he’d pushed the boundaries of his patience by leaving the shooter breathing. “And they opened fire on us.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Gibson replied. “Don’t worry—we’re not going to turn them over to the local sheriff. He’s either in cahoots or inept—maybe both. They’ll go to a federal facility where we can take our time getting acquainted.” His smile showed teeth.
“You gonna get us all in that fancy car?” one of the other prisoners taunted.
“Nope. Got a couple of ambulances on their way, and the US Marshals will take over at the hospital, keeping you company until they can escort you to secure facilities,” Gibson replied.
“We won’t stop,” the rifleman retorted. “There are more where we came from—a lot more. We got to one of the Kings—we can get to the rest of those freak-protecting assholes.”
Grady felt his stomach curdle at the admission.They hurt Knox, and they’re proud of it.
Sirens sounded in the distance. “That’s your cue to get out of here,” Gibson said to Dawson and Grady. “I’ll call you when things settle down. We definitely need to talk.”
Dawson and Grady hurried to the Mustang and were gone before the ambulances arrived. Once they were back on the road, Dawson gave Grady a worried once-over, eyeing the gauze where blood had seeped through. “You need a hospital?”
Grady shook his head. “They’ve got to report gunshot wounds, remember? Doc Smith can patch me. He’s stitched me up from getting clawed by a black shuck—this isn’t as deep.”
Dawson’s pained expression made it clear that he remembered that hunt—and how quickly it had gone bad. The day certainly wasn’t one of Grady’s favorite memories either.
“Don’t joke about that. You almost died.”
Grady reached for his hand. “But I didn’t.”
“It was closer than I want to remember,” Dawson muttered.
“So what do you make of our new fed friends?” Grady asked to shift the conversation, and his partner went along with the topic change.
“They came when I called, which counts for something. The local sheriff, or at least some of his people, are sympathizers with the HDF if not outright members,” Dawson said. “The HDF sells a good sob story—poor pitiful humans being overwhelmed by dangerous supernatural predators. Might not work elsewhere, but people in these mountains already know that the things that go bump in the night are real.”
“This ‘eye for an eye’ stuff just escalates,” Grady worried aloud. “The HDF retaliates because something paranormal killed humans. Then the SPS takes revenge because humans killed supernatural creatures. There’s no winning.”
Dawson nodded, looking tired now that the adrenaline from the fight had faded. “I saw an old movie once that said the only way to win was to refuse to play. I think it’s too late for that—so we need a Plan B.”
Grady let Dawson fuss over him, calling “Doc Smith” from the road so he would be expecting them and later hovering as the retired doctor cleaned the bullet graze and dressed the wound.
“You’re lucky it wasn’t an inch to the right,” Dr. Smith said as he peeled off his latex gloves. “Bullet hits the bone; it gets nasty. As it is, you should heal up fine, maybe not even much of a scar. Keep it clean and dry, watch out for infection, and try not to wave your arm around until the gash closes up.”
Dawson’s phone buzzed as they headed back to the Mustang. Grady felt the weight of the day’s events and wanted nothing more than a good burger and a warm bed.
“You boys up to talking?” Gibson asked as Dawson held the phone so Grady could hear. “We’ll spring for takeout, so we can eat while we get caught up. We’re staying at Overlook Cabins—number twenty-four. Seven o’clock?”
