Chapter 42
Ford leads the line as we move quickly across the yard toward the Twelve Acres garage, his gun drawn out in front of him. We keep ourselves as small as possible, our steps in unison as the trucks come into sight line.
Crew’s hauling a jug of gasoline in one hand, and he waits for Ford’s signal to shift away from our line to take the left side.
It’s pretty dark out, aside from the small light that glows from the center of the trucks, accompanied by the quiet back and forth of conversation.
Ford stops me, turning back, and he makes a motion to keep silent as we both move to the right.
We move slowly, keeping our boots as still as possible on the gravel drive as he peeks around the back corner of the truck we’re pressed against.
His hand moves up, making the number two. As soon as Crew’s head pops around the other truck, he makes the same signal. Two people. The campfire they’re huddled around crackles, sending amber embers floating through the night breeze as Ford turns back to me.
“Backs to us,” he rasps so quietly that I can hardly hear him. It’s purposeful, and when I give him a nod, he turns back, signaling hand signs I don’t recognize to Crew, who seems to understand quickly and squats down behind the rear bumper, unscrewing the cap to the gas can.
I wait for Ford’s count, and the moment he gets to one, we both move.
Silent but quick. Faster than either man can react, our arms wrap around each one of their necks, my hand locks in between my forearm and bicep, and I squeeze.
Ford’s movements are similar enough to at least get his guy out of the folding chair he’s in and to the ground before landing a sickening punch to his temple.
The man I have grappled kicks out of his chair as I drag him backwards towards the rear of the truck, using his neck and the hold I have as leverage to cut off his air.
His face turns an even brighter shade of red against the firelight, and his lips a dark blue.
His struggling subsides enough that the last bit of air sounds gargled as he passes out, going limp against me as I drag him around to where Ford dumped the other man.
“You recognize either one?” I ask quietly, using my boot to roll both men enough to look at their faces.
Ford shakes his head. “No, but someone might.” He glances up at me before digging his phone out of his pocket and taking a picture of the two of them.
I see him pull up Peter’s name and send the photo across text with a: “Ask her who they are,” before he shoves his phone back into his pocket.
“Help me get them into the truck while he does that.”
I glance back, watching Crew slide up the roll-up doors on each truck, quiet enough that the jostling of the rollers doesn’t make any noise.
The smell of sour forage wafts into the air and soon mixes with gasoline as he makes his way through, dumping fuel onto the wooden floorboards and up the sides of each box.
Ford and I move quickly, tossing each man into the bed of the truck before returning to Crew, who hands each of us a matchbox. “No turning back.”
He looks at both of us, and I look at Ford who nods.
“No going back.” We’re all convincing ourselves that this is it.
Everything ends here, but even if Twelve Acres backs off from us now, it still doesn’t end whatever legal shit Ford’s been battling.
This is a stepping stone to a bigger problem, I’m still not sure any of us are ready for.
We light our matches, tossing the boxes into the back of each truck, and step back as the blaze starts. Pausing for half a second, just long enough to let the implications of our actions sink in. The flames lick at the rotten hay, and the smoke plumes into the sky like a warning.
“This is our home,” Ford says tightly, and it’s more than either Crew or I expect, but he starts to back away, and we both follow.