Patriots Betrayed by John Grit Read Free Book Online

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    “Go ahead and sleep,” Raylan said. “It’s going to be business hours before we can rent a place.”
    She didn’t bother to ask what he had in mind. “Wake me up if another war starts. I might even lend a hand.”
    She woke from the discomfort of heat and humidity. Opening her eyes and looking around told her it was morning and they were parked under some trees on vacant land. It looked like the sticks of backwoods Florida. The driver-side window was down, allowing mosquitoes in. The engine was off, and therefore the air conditioning. Rayland was nowhere to be seen.
    Pulling out a bottle of water she had in her bug-out pack, she washed the morning taste from her mouth. After exiting the car, she looked around for Raylan. There he was, fast asleep in a hammock, complete with bug net and waterproof tarp overhead. The hammock was slung between two shading oaks. She walked up and seemed to be about to plant her shoe in his ass, but contained herself. “Wake up, damn it.”
    His right hand brought the Glock up and leveled it at her. It took him all of a tenth of a second to clear his mind and recognize her, but that short time span meant the difference between life and death. There was only a fraction of an ounce of trigger pull left on the sear.
    “Raylan,” she said calmly, “you’re getting to be a nervous old fart. It’s a good thing you left the company.”
    He lowered the pistol. “Well, my retirement was great while it lasted.” In less than five minutes, he had all of his gear stowed in his backpack. He carried it to the car and threw it in the trunk.
    She stood there watching. “I’m still waiting for that shower and bed.”
    He leaned against the car and folded his arms on his chest. “This is paradise compared to twenty places you’ve been. Admit it: You’re getting too old and weak for this shit.”
    She put her hands on her hips and squinted in the low morning sun that was in her face. “I’m mostly interested in how you’re going to get us a place without using our credit cards or showing ID.”
    “Get in.” He had the car back on the hard road in less than a minute.
    Ten miles down the road, they passed a sign that offered trailers for rent cheap. He slowed and turned onto a poorly maintained dirt drive. He explained as he drove. “Out in the sticks like this, there is what’s called trailer slums. People buy ten acres cheap, put in power poles, septic tanks, and water wells, then drag in ragged-out old trailers and rent them to poor people. They seldom pay income tax on their profits and never follow building codes or keep the trailers up.”
    She broke in. “And they take cash with no questions asked, no ID required.”
    He nodded. “You got it. It’s about the last place left a person on the lam can get a shower, toilet, and bed without a credit card and other ID. You can’t even rent space for a tent in a campground without them taking your tag number and recording your driver license number. In the modern age, the only way you can live in complete privacy with no name is to live as a hermit in the woods, buy little, and pay cash for everything.”
    “Well, one night of sleeping in the woods was enough for me,” she quipped.
    He turned off the trail at a sign that said rental office. “You’ll get your shit, shower, and bed, but don’t expect much more.”
    “Yeah, I’ve noticed the condition of the trailers already.”
    The twenty-year-old rental office was the best trailer on the property, but still not fit for human beings to live in. Rayland knocked on the door. A wrinkled woman in her eighties emerged and stood on the little five-by-six-foot porch.
    Raylan showed his teeth. “My wife and I would like to rent one of your fine trailers.”
    “No little uns?”
    “No ma’am, it’s just the two of us.”
    “Okay,” she said, “but we ain’t got no single bedroom units available. You’ll have to settle for a two-bedroom unit, and that’ll cost you