Page 104 of Axe-ing for Trouble
I kicked the speed up a little more, following the GPS toward what looked like a road.
As we emerged from the forest, we found a field of baled hay and an old wooden fence with several missing posts.
A massive grain silo sat in the distance, along with several outbuildings.
“Farm,” I explained.
She peered around me. “They grow grain here?”
“Yup. During World War II, Maine was called the breadbasket of New England because of all the grain it grew for the war effort. Most of these farms grow barley. It’s good for livestock feed, and the really good stuff gets sold to craft brewers.”
We zipped around the edges of the property toward where the trail signs pointed back to the forest. So far we’d seen nothing out of the ordinary.
But when Mila squeezed my thigh hard, my hackles rose.
“Jude, look at all those trucks.”
As I turned back to the farm, several black SUVs pulled up in front of one of the old buildings.
“Just cars, Trouble,” I said, shaking off the strange sensation.
“So hordes of blacked-out luxury SUVs usually congregate at rural barley farms?” she asked, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Get closer. I wanna take a look.”
“No.”
She punched my shoulder hard enough to have me lurching forward. “We came all the way out here. Stay in the forest, but go around the other way. I just want to see.”
Grumbling, I pulled into the forest and found a path deeper through the trees. I kept my speed slow to keep the sound of the engine subdued and so she could get a good look.
“Keep going.”
The trail ended near the road fifty yards or so from the parking lot. I stopped inside the tree line, hopefully out of sight.
“They’re all wearing sunglasses.” Mila huffed out a laugh. “And one is wearing a suit. Loop back around. I wanna take photos of the license plates.”
“You will not,” I hissed. “They’ll hear us snooping around. This thing is not quiet.”
“Just one more loop,” she pleaded. “Go really slow. If I see anything fishy, head to the forest and drive like hell.”
“Fine.”
Despite my better judgment, I headed back in for another loop. At the entrance, I zeroed in on a posted sign, studying the marked paths. “Let’s take this blue trail, see if we can find a better angle.”
I took a hard left and drove up a small hill that gave us a better vantage point while still possessing enough tree cover to provide protection.
With a gentle squeeze, she said, “Slow down.”
Once I’d hit flat ground again, I reduced the speed and focused on keeping steady while she inspected the goings-on.
“I see motorcycles,” she hissed. “Looks like the assholes from the Ape Hanger.” Her body shifted behind me. “Hold on. Can you pull up behind that bunch of trees and stop?”
Following her orders, I pulled behind a wide oak, but kept the engine running.
She hopped off the back and crept toward the edge of the trees, easing her phone from her pocket as she went. For several seconds, she stood still, snapping photos.
As she mounted the ATV again, she said, “I zoomed in. The black Tahoe has government plates.”
“Fed?”
