Jason Frost - Warlord 04 - Prisonland Read Online Free PDF Page B

the trigger. The buckshot hit Studebaker like a meteor shower, pinning him to the ground halfway through his dive. His fat bloody hand twitched, clawing at pine needles and dirt before relaxing into death.
    Quickly Eric searched and stripped the bodies of whatever he could use. The shotgun and pistols were serviceable, but not much good for long range. He found an old Boy Scout knife in Teasdale’s pocket, the blade broken at the tip. He unhooked the green army canteen from Studebaker’s belt and fastened it to his own. Shoelaces and belts could also come in handy. Whatever was left, the animals and scavengers were welcome to.
    Within an hour he had picked up Dodd’s trail again, moving swiftly through the woods until he came to a highway. Dodd had stuck to his training, leaving several false trails that a lesser tracker might have spent days trying to pick up. But Eric had had Big Bill Tenderwolf as an instructor, the Hopi MBA whose love for cold beer, chubby women, and the Los Angeles Lakers was overshadowed only by his great wilderness knowledge and his affection for young Eric.
    By dusk, Eric was back on Dodd’s trail. This one was much easier to follow thanks to Dodd’s overconfidence in his false trails.
    It took the rest of the night for Eric to finally catch up to Dodd and the girl. It was still hauntingly dark as he crept toward the camp, his shotgun leveled at the two still figures.

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FOUR
     
    There was no campfire. Just two dark lumps nestled in the shadows of the long grass on the other side of a stream. One in a new sleeping bag, the other in a makeshift bedroll. Dodd would naturally be in the sleeping bag.
    Eric approached the stream slowly, his toe nudging aside sticks or leaves before he allowed his weight to follow. Each step was a battle, the tiny scrap of land captured through great physical and mental exertion. There wasn’t the slightest sound as he stole his way through the 4 AM darkness.
    The stream was difficult. Eric stepped in without a splash, wading through the hip-deep water while holding the shotgun chest high. The water was cool and swift as it swept around him, tugging at his clothes. Eric didn’t mind. They needed washing anyway.
    On the other side of the stream, Eric flopped down onto his belly and crawled up the bank through the long wavy grass. The dark figures were only ten yards away. Eric stood in a low crouch and crept closer, the shotgun shouldered, his thumb tensed on the hammer.
    The urge to fire point blank into the sleeping bag was hard to resist. Images of his slain daughter, tortured wife, the dead friends and mutilated innocents, his missing son, all pulsed through his mind like blinding strobe lights. He missed his family, his old life, more than he had imagined possible. Before them he had been nothing, a trained soldier with an infamous past. They had given his life—what? Flavor. Color. Purpose. He missed that too.
    His only hope of recapturing even a shred of that life again was to rescue Tim from Fallows. Each day Tim remained with Fallows was dangerous. Not just because of the mercenary lifestyle Fallows lived, but because Fallows’s influence, force of personality, charisma, was so powerful, so hypnotic, that given enough time he could dominate any individual. His sinister charm had almost done so to Eric in ’Nam.
    And now Tim.
    Last time they clashed, Eric had almost freed Tim from Fallows. But that moment of hesitation from Tim, that look of doubt from his own son had been enough to blow the rescue. Eric could still see that alien look in Tim’s face as he imagined what lies Fallows had been drilling into the boy daily.
    Eric swallowed something bitter in his throat as he neared the sleeping bag. His finger tightened against the trigger of the shotgun, but Eric controlled his urge. Dodd had information about Tim’s whereabouts. That was most important. The killing would come later.
    Eric was almost there, just paces from the sleeping bag, when he