Resurrection Express by Stephen Romano Read Free Book Online Page B

few miles off the edge of Houston—not like a real city or town, just houses hidden by trees. There’s a lot of rural communities like this sitting at the outskirts of H-Town, and they’re all godforsaken as hell.
    A stretch of gravel snakes into a fenced area in the woods. It’s hidden real well. A hardened redneck shotgun party with a squad of bloodhounds couldn’t find this place. Two guys on the gate, wearing city clothes and combat boots.
    A short driveway cuts through a thick cluster of evergreens and opens into a compound. It has a few buildings that look like they belong on a farm, lots of open space, target ranges. More hired hands around, big muscle guys. I can see two of them carrying machine guns near a concrete slab about fifty feet wide with yellow markings like a basketball court. There’s an innocent little two-story house nestled near the rear of the compound, also dotted with big guys, four of them, surrounding the perimeter.
    When we pull up to the farmhouse, I can tell by the bulges in their cheap sports jackets that they’re all carrying backup weapons in shoulder holsters. The one who opens the door and asks me to please step this way has a modded Ruger SR9 Centerfire pistol visible just under his armpit—high-end hitman gear, very reliable. Nine-millimeter stopping power, with a stainless steel slide and a black glass-nylon alloy frame. You see ex-marines selling those things at gun shows. The guy has a face like the surface of the planet Mars, looks about thirty. All these guys look young, except Franklin. I see the wrinkles on his face for the first time. Why didn’t I notice them before?
    I follow Mars-Face up the creaky wooden stairs to the porch, where another guy with black hair and a white T-shirt pats medown, looking apologetic. He’s strapped with an SR9 also. These guys must shop at the same gun show.
    Franklin is right behind me. “We’ve got a code thirteen, Larry. I gotta get the boss on a secure line now.”
    Mars-Face squeezes his lips together and shakes his head. “The boss is already here. Get the kid inside.”
    The house has an old-fashioned screen door that sounds like a mouse getting pissed-off about something when Franklin opens it for me. My father stands up from the couch just inside the living room. He looks like he hasn’t slept in two days, since I last saw him. The TV in here is tuned to MSNBC and an image of the toy store I used to work at fills the screen on shaky video with urgent red letters rolling across the bottom:
    Attack On Texas Capital
    “Son . . . what the hell just happened?”
    I shrug at him and say the first thing that pops into my mind:
    “You got any beer in this place?”
    •  •  •
    I drink two Lone Star tallboys and it’s like water floating in my guts. I don’t even get a half a buzz. Dad tells me they have some whiskey but that’s never a good idea. The hard stuff makes me fuzzy and stupid. So do cigarettes. He’s still asking me questions and I still don’t know exactly what to tell him. I’ve screwed up here, but how much of this is really my fault? What the hell did Hartman mean? People I care about are going to die. Everywhere I go, he can find me. The sky is falling.
    That maniac.
    He never did anything this crazy before.
    Not in broad daylight.
    The TV says ten are dead that they know about, including a mother and her child who were gunned down inside the store while I was running for my life. Identities being withheld untilnotification of the victims’ families. I’m impressed with how fast the word got out. It’s been just over four hours since we ran like hell. I shouldn’t be surprised. They had the World Trade Center on every goddamn channel before any of us in Texas even knew what was happening. That gives me the wet, slimy feeling again.
    I cut off the feeling.
    Have to focus on the here and now.
    I keep the kit bag on my shoulder this whole time. It still has twenty grand in it, the money the Fixer got