Read Up To No Good: Book 4 Georgie B. Goode Gypsy Caravan Cozy Mystery for Free Online
Authors: Marg McAlister
to adapt to circumstances. He was a chameleon, gifted at reading a situation and swiftly figuring out a way to turn it to his advantage. Or sometimes, how to get himself out of trouble. When you grew up with an eye to the main chance, you were going to run into trouble sometimes.
But this— this was like no other situation he’d ever found himself in before, and he wasn’t having much luck at talking his way out of it. He’d tried anger, indignation, threats, promises, half-truths, and bribery, but this Vincent guy just looked at him with flat eyes and said, “We want locations, Mr. Goode, and we’re going to get them.”
Locations, as in ‘give up the bug-out bunkers’—or houses, or fortresses, or whatever the heck people had come up with to give themselves a hidey-hole for the apocalypse. They knew, Vincent said, that he had names and GPS locations. Hacking into the RV Empire computer had revealed nothing, so they said he obviously kept them somewhere else and they would like to know where, thank you.
His beloved new bug-out vehicle was already gone; Barbie, it seemed, was on its way to the prepper version of a chop shop. He was a little concerned that he, Jerry B. Goode, could well be on his way to a human chop shop. The thought didn’t thrill him.
He touched his head where they’d used a rifle butt on it to encourage him to be cooperative, and closed his eyes against the bolt of pain when he touched the gash. His fingers came away sticky with blood.
“Just a warning,” Vincent had said without emotion. “So you know not to mess us about. The locations, if you please. Or we’ll be forced to return and pick up that cutesy little girl of yours, see what she knows.”
It took Jerry a moment to realize that they meant Tammy, and his heart went cold.
Tammy in the hands of this lot?
They left, and after telling him to think it over, had now been gone for some time.
He slumped against the wall, fighting a headache, and looked around him for the tenth time in as many minutes. Dark had fallen a good few hours before, and the thin white light from the moon that filtered in through the small barred window high above him didn’t illuminate much.
His prison appeared to be some kind of shipping container. Apart from the tiny window, the walls and floor were solid metal. It had, he remembered, a standard shipping container bolt and chains with links as thick as his thumb; impossible to breach.
Cold seeped in through the sides of the container, and there was a light breeze blowing rain through the window.
Shivering, he got up and moved to sit against a side wall.
Now he could understand why preppers were always going on about self-protection and guarding against gangs that wanted to take what was yours. There were a dozen nifty things back at the BoV Base that would have been handy to have in his pockets, or his shoe, but he had nothing.
Nada.
Zilch.
But if he had hidden something, they’d have found it anyway. They’d taken his watch, his shoes, and everything he had in his pockets, including his phone.
There were lots of photos of Tammy on his phone. Tammy in her vintage outfits, Tammy hamming it up on stage…Tammy dressed in her Sandy outfit from Grease, all allure and tumbling blonde curls.
He drew in a long, slow breath, pushed away the image of these guys looking at Tammy while they thought of ways to use her as leverage, and tried to organize his thoughts.
No one back at base was going to locate him through the satellite tracker. This lot had disabled that somehow, before trussing him up with cable ties and tossing him in the back before they drove Barbie away. As near as he could judge, they’d been on the road for a couple of hours before they arrived at their destination and dumped him into his prison. Maybe more, maybe less. It was difficult to judge when you were being tumbled around like a bag of laundry in the back of a truck, wincing at every corrugation.
Two hours, and who knew which
But this— this was like no other situation he’d ever found himself in before, and he wasn’t having much luck at talking his way out of it. He’d tried anger, indignation, threats, promises, half-truths, and bribery, but this Vincent guy just looked at him with flat eyes and said, “We want locations, Mr. Goode, and we’re going to get them.”
Locations, as in ‘give up the bug-out bunkers’—or houses, or fortresses, or whatever the heck people had come up with to give themselves a hidey-hole for the apocalypse. They knew, Vincent said, that he had names and GPS locations. Hacking into the RV Empire computer had revealed nothing, so they said he obviously kept them somewhere else and they would like to know where, thank you.
His beloved new bug-out vehicle was already gone; Barbie, it seemed, was on its way to the prepper version of a chop shop. He was a little concerned that he, Jerry B. Goode, could well be on his way to a human chop shop. The thought didn’t thrill him.
He touched his head where they’d used a rifle butt on it to encourage him to be cooperative, and closed his eyes against the bolt of pain when he touched the gash. His fingers came away sticky with blood.
“Just a warning,” Vincent had said without emotion. “So you know not to mess us about. The locations, if you please. Or we’ll be forced to return and pick up that cutesy little girl of yours, see what she knows.”
It took Jerry a moment to realize that they meant Tammy, and his heart went cold.
Tammy in the hands of this lot?
They left, and after telling him to think it over, had now been gone for some time.
He slumped against the wall, fighting a headache, and looked around him for the tenth time in as many minutes. Dark had fallen a good few hours before, and the thin white light from the moon that filtered in through the small barred window high above him didn’t illuminate much.
His prison appeared to be some kind of shipping container. Apart from the tiny window, the walls and floor were solid metal. It had, he remembered, a standard shipping container bolt and chains with links as thick as his thumb; impossible to breach.
Cold seeped in through the sides of the container, and there was a light breeze blowing rain through the window.
Shivering, he got up and moved to sit against a side wall.
Now he could understand why preppers were always going on about self-protection and guarding against gangs that wanted to take what was yours. There were a dozen nifty things back at the BoV Base that would have been handy to have in his pockets, or his shoe, but he had nothing.
Nada.
Zilch.
But if he had hidden something, they’d have found it anyway. They’d taken his watch, his shoes, and everything he had in his pockets, including his phone.
There were lots of photos of Tammy on his phone. Tammy in her vintage outfits, Tammy hamming it up on stage…Tammy dressed in her Sandy outfit from Grease, all allure and tumbling blonde curls.
He drew in a long, slow breath, pushed away the image of these guys looking at Tammy while they thought of ways to use her as leverage, and tried to organize his thoughts.
No one back at base was going to locate him through the satellite tracker. This lot had disabled that somehow, before trussing him up with cable ties and tossing him in the back before they drove Barbie away. As near as he could judge, they’d been on the road for a couple of hours before they arrived at their destination and dumped him into his prison. Maybe more, maybe less. It was difficult to judge when you were being tumbled around like a bag of laundry in the back of a truck, wincing at every corrugation.
Two hours, and who knew which
Similar Books
The Book Waitress (Book 1, The Book Waitress Series)
Deena Remiel
Mistress of the Empire
Raymond E. Feist, Janny Wurts
When Marrying a Scoundrel
Kathryn Smith
The Barracks
John McGahern
Hard Choice
C. A. Hoaks
Cut to the Bone
Alex Caan
BOUGHT: A Standalone Romance
Glenna Sinclair
His Desire
Ann King
Kiss the Stars (Devon Slaughter Book 1)
Alice Bell
