Read Online The Blood Guard (The Blood Guard series) by Carter Roy - Free Book Online
Authors: Carter Roy
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men in natty dark blue suits, and a severe-looking older blonde woman.
“The lady from the station. And the bald guy from the train,” I said, hoping Dawkins hadn’t heard me gulp. The other guy had long black hair that had been greased back against his scalp.
“Right.” Dawkins shoved me inside the photo booth. Then he stepped in after me, yanking the curtain shut. “Well, there goes a good plan.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, we’re not going anywhere now.” He peeked out. “We’ve got to go rescue our mouthy little friend.”
“She’s not my friend,” I protested.
Dawkins gave me a look of such withering contempt that I immediately felt ashamed. “Of course she is. Do you know why those three haven’t come back here yet to nab us? Because even though they’ve grabbed Greta, she hasn’t told them where we are. She probably lied, and that’s why they’re looking for us outside.
“So we’ve got to go rescue her,” Dawkins added, crouching down and sliding through the curtain. “Come on. Stay low.” He led me deeper into the truck stop. Beyond the restaurant area the store extended in every direction, like the biggest convenience store in the world. In the back corner was a dark doorway curtained with long clear strips of heavy plastic. “Storeroom,” he said, pointing. “Should lead outside.”
Four crates of milk were stacked on a handtruck beside the plastic-strip curtain. Dawkins tipped the handtruck back on its wheels and rolled it through the doorway.
A chubby young guy in a blue apron glanced at us as we passed, but the dolly must have convinced him we belonged, because he just turned back to stocking an ice-cream case.
Dawkins pushed the dolly through another strip curtain and into a giant room with ramps and a parked truc k — a loading dock. There were slots for trucks to back into, and huge open roll-up doors to the outside. Dawkins left the milk on the nearest ramp and peered around one of the doors. I joined him.
“She’s resisting,” he said. “Scrappy little thing, that girl.”
A red SUV was parked on a raised concrete island between the two gas pump fueling stations, its doors hanging open. The blonde woman, her two minions, and Greta were struggling in front of it. Even from here, I could hear Greta shouting that her dad was a cop, that they were going to be in huge trouble, that if they were smart they’d get him on the phone before it was too late.
All of the people gassing up their cars had stopped what they were doing, but the woman held up a silver badge in a leather wallet and began talking.
“What’s she saying?” I asked.
“Probably identifying herself as police or some other nonsense,” Dawkins muttered in disgust. “People are easily duped by official-looking shiny things.”
The slicked-back hair guy put Greta in handcuffs, then he and Mr. Clean lifted her into the backseat. She kicked and screamed the whole time.
“I wish she hadn’t taken that Tesla gun,” Dawkins said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because now Blondie and her goons have it,” he replied.
The woman Dawkins called Blondie handed Mr. Clean the weapon, and he leaned back in the open door of the SUV. Then Blondie and Slicked-Back Hair separated. She headed right, toward the garage/auto-shop area, and he came our way, disappearing among the line of semitrailer trucks waiting to fuel up at the diesel pumps.
“Now’s our chance,” Dawkins announced, sidling outside. Crouched low, he ran around the corner. I followed as quickly as I could, wondering why we were going in the opposite direction from Greta and hoping that the blonde lad y — w herever she’d gon e — w ouldn’t see us.
But I didn’t hear any shouts or gunshots, and then it didn’t matter anymore, because we’d turned another corner and were deep in the shadows of the garage.
The place stank of old oil and gasoline, and there was junk all ove r — t eetering stacks of tires and grime-encrusted car
“The lady from the station. And the bald guy from the train,” I said, hoping Dawkins hadn’t heard me gulp. The other guy had long black hair that had been greased back against his scalp.
“Right.” Dawkins shoved me inside the photo booth. Then he stepped in after me, yanking the curtain shut. “Well, there goes a good plan.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, we’re not going anywhere now.” He peeked out. “We’ve got to go rescue our mouthy little friend.”
“She’s not my friend,” I protested.
Dawkins gave me a look of such withering contempt that I immediately felt ashamed. “Of course she is. Do you know why those three haven’t come back here yet to nab us? Because even though they’ve grabbed Greta, she hasn’t told them where we are. She probably lied, and that’s why they’re looking for us outside.
“So we’ve got to go rescue her,” Dawkins added, crouching down and sliding through the curtain. “Come on. Stay low.” He led me deeper into the truck stop. Beyond the restaurant area the store extended in every direction, like the biggest convenience store in the world. In the back corner was a dark doorway curtained with long clear strips of heavy plastic. “Storeroom,” he said, pointing. “Should lead outside.”
Four crates of milk were stacked on a handtruck beside the plastic-strip curtain. Dawkins tipped the handtruck back on its wheels and rolled it through the doorway.
A chubby young guy in a blue apron glanced at us as we passed, but the dolly must have convinced him we belonged, because he just turned back to stocking an ice-cream case.
Dawkins pushed the dolly through another strip curtain and into a giant room with ramps and a parked truc k — a loading dock. There were slots for trucks to back into, and huge open roll-up doors to the outside. Dawkins left the milk on the nearest ramp and peered around one of the doors. I joined him.
“She’s resisting,” he said. “Scrappy little thing, that girl.”
A red SUV was parked on a raised concrete island between the two gas pump fueling stations, its doors hanging open. The blonde woman, her two minions, and Greta were struggling in front of it. Even from here, I could hear Greta shouting that her dad was a cop, that they were going to be in huge trouble, that if they were smart they’d get him on the phone before it was too late.
All of the people gassing up their cars had stopped what they were doing, but the woman held up a silver badge in a leather wallet and began talking.
“What’s she saying?” I asked.
“Probably identifying herself as police or some other nonsense,” Dawkins muttered in disgust. “People are easily duped by official-looking shiny things.”
The slicked-back hair guy put Greta in handcuffs, then he and Mr. Clean lifted her into the backseat. She kicked and screamed the whole time.
“I wish she hadn’t taken that Tesla gun,” Dawkins said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because now Blondie and her goons have it,” he replied.
The woman Dawkins called Blondie handed Mr. Clean the weapon, and he leaned back in the open door of the SUV. Then Blondie and Slicked-Back Hair separated. She headed right, toward the garage/auto-shop area, and he came our way, disappearing among the line of semitrailer trucks waiting to fuel up at the diesel pumps.
“Now’s our chance,” Dawkins announced, sidling outside. Crouched low, he ran around the corner. I followed as quickly as I could, wondering why we were going in the opposite direction from Greta and hoping that the blonde lad y — w herever she’d gon e — w ouldn’t see us.
But I didn’t hear any shouts or gunshots, and then it didn’t matter anymore, because we’d turned another corner and were deep in the shadows of the garage.
The place stank of old oil and gasoline, and there was junk all ove r — t eetering stacks of tires and grime-encrusted car
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