Our Home is Nowhere (The Borrowed Land, Book 1) Read Free Page A

grainy yellow. A shadow moved behind a curtained window. Ben stepped as softly as he could amidst the chirruping crickets and the hooting owls and stopped at the foot of the steps, where he saw cigarette butts smothered in the dirt. As he stooped down to examine them, he heard the rattle of his refrigerator door swinging open. With quick, jerky motions, he was back on his feet, eyes and barrel pointed towards the front door. With his left hand, he reached out and silently pulled the door open. The porch light burned hotly above his head as he crossed the threshold into the main room of his mobile home. A glow emitted from the kitchen. Ben glanced all around the empty room. Panels of moonlight framed the filthy, unwashed rug embedded with crushed potato chips, and beer and oil stains. He stepped through the panes of light until he reached the kitchen.
    A huge man was rooting through the refrigerator, pushing aside slabs of raw meat and cheese as he slid a greedy hand over the jug of water. His shirt had risen up his back revealing a six-shooter wedged beside his butt-crack. Ben’s eyes went from the six-shooter to the shotgun angled against the corner wall. With the rifle barrel directed at the man’s back, he stepped forward. But the decrepit floor creaked beneath his weight and in an instant, the man spun around, the jug flipping out of the fridge and exploding on the floor. His hand swung to his back, going for the weapon.
    A deafening ringing sound filled the room, followed by a bright flash. The man crashed into the open fridge as the bullet ripped a fist-sized hole in his chest. His gun skidded across the room and slammed against the wall, while his flailing hands brought down the raw meat, cheese, and old sticks of butter into the puddle of blood and water forming on the carpet. He sank down into the puddle, with his head slung back, mouth wide, in the refrigerator.
    The rifle quivered in Ben’s hands. It took several minutes for the ringing to die down. When it did, he stepped forward with the rifle still centered on the dead man’s chest as if expecting him to bounce up and fight back. Ben nudged the man’s foot with his own, more out of interest than anything else. His limp, lifeless body rocked sideways over the grotesque puddle.
    ‘Dammit,’ Ben said under his breath as his senses returned. The carcass lying on his floor was materializing into a real human being. ‘Damn,’ he said, louder this time, lowering the rifle to the floor and taking a step back.
    What the hell was this guy doing in his home? And why did he have a pistol and a shotgun? No regular squatter or thief would be that heavily armed. One weapon was hard enough to come by. This guy had come for a purpose, and judging by the state of his truck, he’d come a long way. Did Townes want Ben dead so badly that he had sent some fat down-on-his-luck assassin to snuff him out? Those dismal Slummers were a dime a dozen in Slushland. Ben remembered how it had been down there when he had been among their ranks. He would’ve done anything to get out, even if it had meant killing someone he didn’t know. He pitied this dead man, knowing if he’d been in his situation, he’d likely have done the same thing; he’d have traveled hundreds of miles to kill some random if it meant getting a leg up in life.
    Ben took the man’s pistol, stuffed the slabs of meat into a plastic shopping bag, and grabbed the shotgun from the corner. It was double-barreled and fully loaded. If that man had been prepared for Ben’s arrival, if he’d been sitting on the couch when he walked in, then Ben would have been the one with a hole in his chest. He took a nervous breath, whispering silent thanks that his assassin didn’t have an ounce of sense. Next time he might not be so lucky.
    He couldn’t stay here. Ben thought Milford would be the one place in America that Townes wouldn’t expect him to be. He had obviously been wrong. Townes probably realized that Ben wanted