Hide No Secrets Read online

  “Nothing but corn,” Mack told Brenda. “No phones.”

  “We're trapped,” Brenda confirmed.

  “Soon or a later, the bad boys will come back to town. We need to get out into the corn and start walking north.”

  “I agree.” Brenda scanned the street again and then joined Mack at the counter. “Josh, we need to move.”

  Josh scrambled to his feet. “Where to?” he asked, shoving a chocolate donut into his mouth. “Boy, Mr. Frinton is going to be mad. These are his donuts. Momma says no one can have donuts except for him.”

  Mack walked behind the front counter and pushed open the swinging doors. “We're moving into the cornfield, son. Let's go.”

  Josh turned into concrete. “No way!” he cried and began backing away from Mack and Brenda. “People die when they go into the corn! My daddy went into the corn and never came out… so has a lot of other guys!”

  Mack was about to speak when a slew of bullets began flying through the front door. Broken glass sprayed the diner. “Down!” Mack grabbed Josh and yanked the boy down just as a bullet tore past his right shoulder, ripping through his trench coat and grazing his skin.

  Brenda hit the deck, moved to the end of the counter, and looked out the front door. A farm truck was parked in the middle of the street. Two men in black robes with black hoods attached were firing military-grade rifles at the diner.

  Those aren't your everyday farming rifles, Brenda thought. She returned fire, carefully focusing on one single target at time.

  Mack crawled to the opposite end of the counter, spotted the farm truck, and fired off four clear rounds, aiming at the driver while Brenda focused on the shooters. The man in the driver’s seat felt two bullets tear into the side of his head like sizzling daggers. Two more bullets shattered his rib cage. He didn't have time to even wince in pain. He was dead before his body slumped over and struck the passenger door.

  “George, Reed's down!” A large man hollered as he emptied out a full clip. “I'm out of here!” He turned to jump out of the bed of the truck. As he did, Brenda put a bullet through his shoulder blades. His body was thrown forward and smacked onto the hot, dry pavement like a bag of sand.

  George dived out of the bed of the truck, hit the pavement, and began crawling toward the general store across the street. The farm truck parked in the street blocked Mack and Brenda from getting a good shot. George crawled to the front door of the general store, burst inside, and sat behind the wall to catch his breath. He grabbed the black walkie-talkie from a deep pocket in his black robe. “Prophet Frinton,” George yelled, ”it's George… the stranger shot my friends dead… all three…”

  Adam Frinton heard George's frantic voice. His dark face snarled into furious rage. He turned to the four men standing around him in an open circle of corn that had been carved out to look like some type of strange worship area. “Get into town and kill them!” he yelled. “Now! I want them killed and their bodies brought to me!”

  The rest of the men all donned their black robes and hoods. “You can depend on us, Prophet Frinton,” Ken promised as he snatched open a wooden gun box. The gun box was deep, holding a stack of illegal M-16's. Ken handed each of his friends an M-16 and a series of extra clips. “Let's go, boys.”

  After his puppets left the corn, Adam reached into the black robe he was wearing and retrieved a satellite phone that his brother had issued him. “Bruce, we have a problem. Two cops showed up in town. I sent three men to kill them. George Payne called in and reported that the cops killed two of the men.”

  Bruce raised a hard hand and struck an expensive desk in his office at the top of the 'Collington Pharmaceutical' building in downtown Omaha. “Adam, we're on the verge of becoming one of the most powerful pharmaceutical companies in the world!” he hollered.

  Adam saw the face of a cold blooded killer appear in his mind. Bruce was a power-hungry, soulless killer who was determined to become the world leader in pharmaceuticals. Pharmaceuticals created power and money—and power and money created control. Absolute control. “Send in a team, Bruce.”

  “Not yet,” Bruce responded through gritted teeth. He marched to a row of long windows and looked down on a bright, busy street. “I sent you to Green Ridge to brainwash the locals and steal their land. We need the corn!” Bruce looked down at his fancy gray suit and tried to calm down. “The chemical is almost finished developing. We can start spraying the corn with the cancer soon. Do you not understand how much money we can make by selling the cure? We can’t have this operation fail because you can’t keep some scrawny cops out of my corn. So you listen to me and listen carefully. Kill them, is that clear?”

  “Bruce, the morons I'm dealing with aren't skilled—”

  “You are trained,” Bruce snapped at Adam. “Don't call me until the cops are dead! If you fail me, you're dead.”

  Adam knew Bruce meant his words. “Consider it done,” he said and slapped the phone back into the pocket of his black robe. “Someday I'm going to kill you with my own hands. In the meantime, I have work to do.” Adam retrieved an M-16 along with four extra clips and headed out of the corn. “George, this is Prophet Frinton, where are you?” he asked in a diseased voice.

  “Across the street from the diner. In the general store,” George's voice shook.

  “Stay there. I have men on the way.” Adam walked a quarter of a mile and then stepped out of the corn and entered the dry backyard of an abandoned farm house. A powerful black four-wheel-drive truck was parked in the yard. Adam jumped in behind the wheel and started the truck, speeding out into a sunburned road, calling in more back up as he sped toward Green Ridge.

  Mack and Brenda remained hunkered down behind the front counter, waiting. When no further bullets entered the diner, Mack beckoned Brenda to check the back door. “We have to get in the corn to hide—”

  “I'm on it.” Brenda crawled through the double wooden doors, shot to her feet, and ran to the back door.

  Just as she reached the back door, she heard a man whispering: “Burt, we'll cover the back. Cody and Ken have the front. The cops aren't going anywhere. They're as good as dead.”

  Brenda listened to Burt whisper back: “Okay, you kick open the back door, Bob, and I'll start shooting.”

  Yeah, kick open the back door and I'll be waiting, Brenda thought, moving quietly toward the walk-in cooler. For the second time today, she was glad she’d worn her walking shoes. I'll be waiting.

  Chapter 3

  Mack caught movement out front. Two men wearing black robes ran down the sidewalk holding rifles. Before Mack could get a clear shot, the two men dashed through the front door of the general store and vanished out of sight. Mack considered the situation for a few seconds, glanced down into the scared face of a frail child, and then stuck his head through the kitchen door just in time to see Brenda ease open the door to the walk-in cooler and take a defensive position.

  “How many?” he called out in a low whisper. Brenda held up two fingers and then pointed at the back door. Mack nodded his head. Adam Frinton wasn't going to let him or Brenda leave Green Ridge alive.

  Brenda watched Mack raise three fingers and point toward the street. “I'll cover the kitchen,” she whispered in a tough voice. Mack pulled his attention back to the front, leaving Brenda to handle the kitchen alone. Brenda was a strong fighter and Mack had no doubt the woman could handle a few trigger-happy farm boys.

  Alright, let's get this show on the road. Brenda aimed the Glock 17 she was holding firmly in her hands at the back door and waited.

  Outside in the heat, a man with a flabby belly pushed a black hood off his face and wiped a little sweat away. “Can barely see with this hood on,” Bob complained in a fussy whisper. “Ready, Burt?”

  Burt removed his own hood, revealing a thin, bitter face with grasshopper eyes. “Anytime you are,” he told Bob, stationing himself in front of the back door just enough to give Bob room to kick the door open. Bob felt empowered—overheated, ill, and deflated
from living a hard life—but empowered. According to Prophet Frinton, he was chosen, and in time, all of his enemies, including his ex-wife who took his two sons away, would bow down to him. No one was going to stand in his way, not two stupid cops.

  “Get ready!” Bob thrust a large farm boot into the flimsy door.

  As soon as the door burst open, Burt laid on the trigger and began spraying the kitchen with vicious bullets. Pots and pans began exploding and flying into the air. Old, rusted, appliances began eating bullets. A box of rotted lettuce on a wobbly cutting table exploded, throwing pieces of lettuce into the air like foul shrapnel. “Die!” Burt screamed like a mad man.

  Brenda remained hunkered down behind the walk-in cooler door. She could tell from the spray pattern of the bullets that Burt was shooting from outside the door. Brenda figured the fist shooter would empty out a full clip and then the second shooter would charge into the kitchen and start shooting. The initial assault was designed to push back any resistance.

  Brenda understood how untrained attackers thought. She had watched countless videos of real-life shooters, acting in pairs, carrying out flimsy attacks using flawed tactics.

  Okay, the first shooter just emptied out his clip… now… here we go.

  Brenda counted to three in her mind. Right on cue, Bob burst into the kitchen preparing to fire his M-16. Brenda caught a clear shot and put two bullets through the man's face. Bob's head snapped back on his shoulders like a rag doll falling off a chair.

  “Bob!” Burt yelled, watching his friend drop dead. Burt panicked and dived behind a flimsy metal trash can sitting in the alley. “Mr, Frinton… come in! This is Burt… Bob is dead… do you hear me? Bob is dead!” Burt screamed into a black walkie-talkie in a tormented voice.

  Brenda eased away from the walk-in cooler, slid across the kitchen floor, positioned herself next to the back door, and listened. “Stay where you are!” a voice hollered at Burt over the walkie-talkie. “Keep the back alley secure! I'm almost to town! Brian and Wilson are on their way! Cody, Ken and George are in the general store! Hold your position!”

  Brenda knew she had to act. “I have to keep the back open,” she whispered, bravely easing out of the back door just enough to spot Burt hunkered down behind a trash can staring out at the corn instead of guarding the back door.

  Clear, easy shot.

  Brenda eased out of the back door a little further and lined up a clear shot at Burt. Just then, two men wearing black robes burst around a wooden building and ran into the front of the alley.

  “Burt!” Brian hollered, spotting Brenda. “Get down! Behind you! Get down!” Burt hit the ground without asking any questions. Brian and Wilson opened fire at Brenda, forcing the woman back into the kitchen.

  Brenda kicked the back door closed and ran back to the walk-in cooler, grabbing Bob's M-16 along the way. “Took one shooter down, three active shooters in the alley!” she yelled at Mack. “I have a live M-16.”

  Mack kept his eyes on the street. A large black truck sped by and vanished. “Three shooters across the street in the general store,” Mack yelled back. “Black truck just drove by.”

  “Mr. Frinton drives that truck,” Josh told Mack, peeking over the counter.

  “Stay down!” Mack snapped at Josh, pushing the boy back down out of sight. Then he called to Brenda, “Main player is in town.” Mack was hungering for a fight. He didn't like being tied down like a helpless dog.

  Brenda forced her mind to consider any possible escape option as she knelt down just inside the walk-in cooler. For the time being, she concluded, the diner was a temporary prison. Brenda put her Glock back into a sweaty shoulder holster and skilfully examined the M-16 she had taken from Bob. “Clip is full. Good.” With those words spoken Brenda waited.

  Brain ran up to Burt, ripped off his black hood, and wiped sweat from his leathery forehead. Out of all the men who lived in Green Ridge, Brian was the roughest… and meanest. He was a marine reject who had spent his entire life planting corn, drinking hard, and fighting even harder. “Almost got shot, stupid,” he yelled as he slapped Burt in the back of the head with his left hand so hard that Burt's head jerked forward.

  “Bob is dead,” Burt informed Brian and then looked at Wilson Tillins.

  Wilson removed his hood, showing Burt a scared face. Wilson wasn't much for fighting or gun play. Because he was Brian's cousin, Brian allowed him to live with him “Maybe this has gone too far? I… never liked Mr. Frinton, Brian… why kill two cops just because they showed up?” Wilson finished speaking in a shaky, scared voice and waited for Brian to clobber him.

  “Shut your mouth, boy,” Brian snapped at Wilson. “Mr. Frinton is going to make us kings! Do you hear me? Kings!” Brian focused on the back door of the diner. “You just do as I tell you, you hear me?”

  Wilson shot his eyes low. “Yeah, Brian. I hear you,” he nodded his head, too scared to argue. Wilson had already taken countless beatings from Brian—mostly while his cousin was sloppy drunk and howling at the moon. But the few beatings Wilson had endured while Brian was sober had been the worst.

  “But what about Bob?” Burt asked. “Bob was my—”

  “Hey, we all have to be prepared to die for the cause, Burt, so stop whining!” Brian kicked dirt at Burt. “Now here's the plan. We're going to bust into the diner and kill us some cops!”

  “No way,” Burt objected. “That's what Bob tried to do and he's dead.”

  Brian reached out a meaty left hand and shoved Burt. “You turning yellow on me, boy?” he growled. “You want me to drop you dead where you stand?” Brian aimed his M-16 straight at Burt’s chest.

  “No, Brian, just… we need to be smart is all.”

  Brenda listened to the conversation taking place outside. A town full of a bunch of brain washed farm boys. Shouldn't be too hard to fight our way out of here.

  Brenda crawled away from the walk-in cooler, poked her head out into the front of the diner, and motioned for Mack to join her. “The three shooters out back shouldn't be a problem. Two are scared and one is a cowboy.”

  “Shoot our way into the corn?” Mack asked, respecting Brenda's diagnoses of the situation.

  “We better act now before more show up.”

  Mack put a hand on Josh’s shoulder. “Listen, Josh, we're going to clear the alley. As soon as I yell for you, come running. We're going into the corn—”

  “No way—”

  “Yes way,” Brenda spoke to Josh in a stern, motherly, tone. “Josh, I know you're scared, but if we stay here we're all going to die. We have to get into the corn.”

  Josh gulped. “But I'm scared of the corn.”

  Mack reached out a firm hand and patted Josh on his frail little shoulder. “There comes a time in life, son, when we have to man up and face our fears. Now is that time.” Without saying another word Mack pushed Josh into the kitchen and hurried him to the walk-in cooler. “Stay here,” he ordered. Josh hesitated and then did as told.

  “Here,” Brenda handed Mack the M-16 she was holding, speaking in a low voice. “I like my gun.”

  Mack tucked his Glock 19 back into his trench coat and took the rifle, then followed Brenda to the back door. “I'll duck and roll,” he whispered.

  “I'll run high and fire low,” Brenda nodded, slipping a fresh clip into her Glock. “I'm ready.”

  Brenda snatched the back door open. Mack dived into the alley, rolled toward the corn, and found a secure low prone firing position. He covered Brenda as she broke out into the alley, firing while running straight for the corn.

  Brian was taken completely off guard. When Brenda burst out of the diner and began firing at him, he nearly peed himself. Tough talk, bullying a weaker man, drinking—that was all easy stuff. Bullets were real business. “Down!” he screamed, shoving Burt to the ground. Before Brian had time to dive behind a flimsy metal trash can, Mack caught a clear shot for Brian. He was dead before he became afternoon trash.

  “Don't shoot!” Burt threw down his rif
le off to the side and raised his hands. “Don't shoot!” he yelled, crawling to his knees. “Don't kill me!”

  Wilson followed Burt's lead. “I surrender! I don’t want to die! ” he cried, dropping his M-16.

  Brenda ran up to Burt and Wilson and ordered the two men to place their hands behind their backs and face the corn. Both men quickly obeyed.

  “Why are you trying to kill us?” Brenda snapped.

  “Mr. Frinton wants you dead,” Burt answered in a shaky voice, trembling as he clung to the back wall of the diner.

  “I told my cousin not to,” Wilson struggled to speak. “I don't like Mr. Frinton, but Brian”— Brenda followed Wilson’s eyes as he stared at Brian’s body—“he made me join the cult—”

  “It's not a cult!” Burt yelled at Wilson.

  “Is so,” Wilson insisted in his scared voice. “Brian was crazy. All of you are crazy. Nothing but a bunch of alcoholic farmers who can't handle life.”

  “Like you can?” Burt scolded Wilson. “I don't see you married and living the good life, boy!” Burt shot a hard eye at Wilson.

  “Shut up!” Mack ordered Burt in a hard tone. “One more word and I'll beat you senseless.” Mack looked out toward the corn. “Brenda, we can run and find support, but by the time we get back—”

  “Frinton and his boys might be long gone,” Brenda finished for Mack. She pressed her gun up against Burt's right cheek. “What’s going on? What is he running here? Why does he want us dead” she demanded.

  “No way,” Burt answered, nearly wetting himself. Talking tough to poor Wilson was easy. Standing up to two deadly cops was another story. “Mr. Frinton don't allow drugs. Brian… he did some marijuana… but that was all.”

  Mack glanced at Brenda. “There has to be a reason...”

  Mack grabbed Burt by the front of his robe. “Who is Adam Frinton?” he pushed, locking eyes with a wasted corn farmer who would spend his final moments cowering like a kicked dog. “I want answers or you're a dead man!” Brenda slammed her gun up against Burt's back. “Talk.”