Death Squad: A Hunted Man Must Trust His Horse

By Lee Atterbury

Jim Taylor has blood on his hands. After making the decision to kill or be killed far too many times, he and his partner, Hook, have made it easy for anyone to retrace the path they followed in their quest to protect the public from some of the most depraved criminals around. People simply follow the trail of dead bodies.
It doesn’t take long for word to get out about the disproportionate number of alleged criminals who never make it to trial for one reason alone: they’re dead. So with Jim and Hook’s body count on the rise, they’re labeled as the sheriff ’s death squad.
As if the deaths haven’t cursed Jim enough, the label has made him a target in a whole new way. Everybody seems to want a piece of him, including tabloid reporters, FBI agents, and of most concern, Neo-Nazis who want him dead.
FBI agent Lucy Johnson knows a serial killer has come to stalk the death squad so she visits Jim and talks him into joining forces with her. The only problem? Lucy’s not telling Jim the whole truth. She has an agenda that’s all her own, one that culminates in a tumult of sex and violence that’s surprising to all involved. And as she and Jim become both hunters and the ones being hunted, the killer keeps advancing. Who will live and who will die? The answer will surprise you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lee Atterbury
• Release date: May 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463212929

Lee Atterbury

About the Author: Lee R. Atterbury is a trial lawyer in Middleton, WI. He lives with his wife and nine horses. He is working on two other novels featuring Jim Taylor and Buck.

Book preview

Chapter One

A hot wind blew across the rangeland swirling dust through the dry grass and cactus. The scent of sage mixed with a whiff of dried manure. The men faced each other under the noon day sun. Stop right there. Get away from the gate.

Sir, hear me out. You are Deputy James Taylor, aren’t you? Doesn’t matter who I am. You’re on private property. Turn around and leave. Take your photographer with you. He raised the shotgun. The top of his head was on fire. The heat radiated through his skull and his vision blurred. He had to squint to see clearly. He was so fed up with reporters intruding with their offers and questions. It was taking all his will power not to shoot this one. He’d reached his limit.

Wait, wait. Wait. I’m from National News Daily. We want to buy your story. People want to know all about the death squad.

Not for sale. Not now. Not ever. Go. Now.

The reporter pushed on the gate. We’ll make you famous. Put you on the cover. We’ll ...

Jim squeezed the trigger. The shotgun roared and spat fire.

The shotgun blast drowned out whatever the man was trying to say. Dust and bits of cactus blew up at his feet just before he turned and ran.

Jim Taylor turned to his horse, Buck, who had watched the entire exchange. That’s the sixth one this week. If I find out who gave directions to our place ... He stopped talking as a familiar car bounced down the gravel road that led to the gate the reporter had just vacated. He wondered what the sheriff wanted now.

Jim Taylor was a tall, thin man in his late sixties. His hair and beard had long ago gone gray. He was dressed in worn jeans, Ariat boots, and a Grateful Dead t-shirt, not a typical uniform for a deputy, but he didn’t care. A dope smoking, left-leaning, burned out trial lawyer from Wisconsin, he had fled to Wyoming with his horse seeking a simple life of peace and solitude in the wilderness. He had found neither. Instead, he had tangled with murderers, kidnappers, and serial killers. He had been shocked to discover a talent for finding— and killing—these violent felons. The sheriff had recognized this talent and convinced him to become a deputy, despite his unorthodox habits and attitudes. He lived on the open range twenty miles south of town where he enjoyed the quiet isolation, peace, and solitude the location usually provided.

The squad car stopped at the gate trailed by a cloud of dust. As the dust settled a big man extricated himself from the car. Sheriff Zeke Thomasen was six foot five and solid. He was weathered by seventy plus years spent outdoors. A career lawman, he was Jim’s boss but he had also become his friend. He tolerated Jim’s quirks as few other sheriffs would have.

How you boys doing? I just passed two fellas who looked like they were being chased by a pack of rabid wolves. More reporters? He cocked his head as he looked at the shotgun in Jim’s hands.

Yeah, Zeke. Wanted to buy my story about the death squad. I don’t think he’ll be back.

I got ambushed by a couple of them in the parking lot. I might try your method of getting rid of them.

Did you drive out here to hide out?

Zeke looked around. The range land was covered with patches of dry grass, cactus, and dotted with sage. The view was all he could ask for. To the east were knobby hills and to the west were the foot hills of the Big Horns, the granite peaks looming in the distance. The north fork of Crazy Woman Creek meandered through the middle of Jim’s land. A herd of antelope grazed on the far side of the creek. Zeke considered his friend’s question and took a deep breath, smelled sage and horses. It’s tempting, Jim, but we’ve got a new problem.

Ah, man. What now?

Got a call from the FBI field office in Denver. Washington is sending an agent up here to investigate us.

The sheriff’s death squad crap?

Yep.

Shit.

The death squad rumor had originated with a reporter’s question to the sheriff at a televised press conference. It had quickly gone viral on the internet. Unfortunately, it was grounded on the fact that recently murderers and violent felons had not come to trial in Flint County because they had been killed by the sheriff or his lead deputies, Jim and his female partner, Hook.

Doesn’t the FBI know this is bullshit?

I reckon they probably do, Jim, but some big shot in Washington likely made a stink about it.

So they have to look like they’re doing something about it.

Yep.

Then screw it. I’ll go hide out in the mountains. Jim kicked a cactus and sent it flying.

And leave me holding the bag? Hook’s out of town for a month’s leave.

Goddammit, Zeke. Jim scratched the scar on the top of his head. Maybe I’ll plead the Fifth, tell them to take a hike.

That won’t help things.

I am so goddamn tired of this death squad business. Can’t they just leave it alone? His head started throbbing again.

Zeke shook his head. Jim, I’m fed up, too, but we have to ride it out. The FBI can’t ignore all the fuss and publicity. Sally tells me it’s still all over everywhere.

Screw the internet.

Think about how it looks. We’ve got a whole bunch of dead criminals, over a dozen. There’s truth in what they’re saying, murderers don’t come to trial in our county.

I’d like to shoot the reporter who asked that question.

Me, too.

Zeke, the FBI will have full access to the reports in your files? The sheriff nodded.

The reports are clean? No mention of him Jim gestured with his head, or what he did?

Jim’s biggest fear about the death squad publicity concerned Buck. Buck had killed several of the men attributed to the death squad. If this became known, Buck would be called part of the death squad. Jim could see the headlines: Killer Horse or Death Squad Horse or even Man Killer Psycho Horse. The horse would be at risk. Jim would have to hide him from those who would call him a hero and those who would seek to put him down. He vowed to never reveal these details—how Buck had deliberately killed criminals. Jim would do anything to protect the horse.

To enlist his help in hiding Buck’s deeds, Jim had told the sheriff some of what Buck had done. As a horseman himself, Zeke understood the bond between Jim and Buck. He readily agreed to help keep the secret.

Totally clean, not even a hint. I know what you’re worried about. Buck had walked over to greet the sheriff. Zeke skritched his neck. I’m mighty partial to your horse and I will protect him.

Thanks, that means a lot.

He hated the death squad label. He hated the notoriety. Hated the reputation, the publicity, the questions, the looks people gave him in town. Hated the pats on the back and thumbs up signs even more. Most of all he hated being a killer, the knowing what it was like to take a life.

He knew the reporters were just doing their job. The death squad was news. People wanted to know more—the details, the scenes, what he was like, what he thought about what he had done. He understood all that, but he didn’t have to cooperate. He was a private man. He just wanted to be left alone, to forget about the deaths, the humans he had killed, at least for a little while. Most of all he needed an end to the killing.

Chapter Two

He raised his head as the sky began to lighten. The big cottonwood down by the creek caught the moving air, its leaves flapping and fluttering so quickly the tree seemed to vibrate and pulse. The leaves clacked when they struck each other. He sniffed the freshening wind and assayed the scents it brought. He smelled sage, cactus, dried grass, and the funky musk of the antelope that were grazing on the far side of the creek. All these were background noise. No strange, unexpected scents came to him, no potential threats to him and his band of horses and mules. Buck was a fine specimen of quarter horse. A bay, his coat was a rich mahogany and his long mane and tail jet black. He was smart and savvy to the ways of humans. He had once been a highly trained show horse. His vocabulary and understanding of humans had grown when his man had moved to Wyoming. The two of them had faced the challenges of the mountain wilderness by relying on one another. Together they had faced killers and kidnappers and survived a blizzard and a forest fire. The ordeals had changed them. Buck remembered everything, sights, sounds, and smells.

The horses and mules in his band browsed on the dry grass scattered among the cactus and sage. Heads down and intent on eating, almost mindless in their pursuit of grass, the others ignored the oncoming day. Not Buck. He was a forward thinker. He looked over at the truck where his man slept and decided it was time to wake him and get his morning grain.

Jim replayed the call from Sally Carter. Sally was his main informant on ecological matters. She had called to tell him about the latest lunacy. A state senator was gathering support for a bill which would ban the sale of solar and wind generated power in Wyoming. Sally suspected, and Jim agreed, that the state attorney general was the brains behind this effort. Bastard probably owned an interest in a coal mine. The AG was a piece of work, a back stabber and a back room deal maker, totally without scruples. Completely tied to the coal and gas industry. He had even ordered that all references to climate science be deleted from the official state web sites. Maybe he was sucking up to the new president.

Jim, there are blogs and chat rooms devoted to the death squad. Some are really fan clubs, but, Sally paused, some are about wanting you to get killed, you and Hook. The worst ones are groups who want to kill you themselves—make them famous, get a powerful reputation.

Ah, isn’t that really just hot air or hot keystrokes? Guys just talking big.

Well, maybe. It’s easy to talk tough on your computer. Some of these guys are egging each other on. They’re talking bets, big bets. I’m afraid it’s going to turn into a contest with prize money.

Sally, what am I supposed to do? Hire a bodyguard? Change my name? I can’t walk around worrying about this.

I know. Just watch out, okay?

Sally had also read him an email that had been sent to him in care of the sheriff’s office.

To: Deputy James Taylor

From: The Avenging Angel

I have been paid to kill you.

DEATH IS PROMISED.

Sally had tried in vain to trace the email.

Avenging angel for hire? Was the angel business so slow that angels had to hire themselves out to pay the rent? Was there some sort of code of ethics that required the disclosure of the payment? Jeeze Louise. Wonder if I can find angel repellant at the store.

The day before the sheriff had brought the news of the FBI investigation. Jim muttered about the idiots in high places as he cleaned gear and organized supplies to get ready to help Bob Lundsten, his friend and sometimes boss. Bob was a wilderness outfitter and when he was overbooked Jim would fill in as his assistant. The next day Jim was to haul in supplies for Bob’s camp.

Jim’s horse heard a car pull off the highway a mile away and start down the gravel road. Jim was folding a tent when Buck trotted over to Jim and let out a warning grumble. Jim looked and saw the unfamiliar car approaching. He fetched the shotgun and stood at the gate ready to repel another reporter.

The car stopped and an attractive young woman got out. She was about five foot three, blond, and dressed in dark slacks and an open necked white blouse. Jim guessed her to be in her early thirties. As she walked up to the gate Jim eyed her closely. Her blond hair was cut short and her face freckled. She was wholesome and beautiful in an understated way. Her smile was warm and seemed genuine. Was this a new ploy to get his story? Money and fame hadn’t worked, was charm the next shot at lowering his guard? There was something about her that tickled his memory. As he tried to place her Buck let out a friendly whinny. Buck knew her scent.

Hi, Jim. Hello, Buck. How are you guys keeping? she said as she stopped at the gate. Do you always guard your gate?

Jim’s brain clicked. Agent Lucy, FBI?

None other.

Jim opened the gate and she stepped up to him, hugged him, and kissed his cheek. When she let go she walked over to Buck and kissed him on his muzzle. Thank you both for saving my life.

You look fantastic, Lucy. How’s your arm?

Almost as good as new, thanks to you two.

The last time Jim saw Special Agent Lucy Johnson she had been left for dead in the midst of a blizzard. She had suffered a horrific wound after an axe wielding serial killer named Sylvia Bronsky had swung her axe at Lucy’s arm and connected. Bronsky had killed Lucy’s two male partners during the blizzard and had left Lucy to die. Jim and Buck had found the unconscious agent and carried her through the blizzard to safety.

"What brings you ... Oh, wait. Are you investigating the death squad crap?’ he asked.

Yes. She held up both hands palms out. Now wait. Just listen, okay?

Jim nodded, crossed his arms across his chest. Okay.

Buck stepped closer to him, eyes and ears focused. He had sensed Jim’s anxiety.

Look, we know the death squad label is baloney, but there’s a big stink in the media. The higher ups decided there had to be an investigation. They sent me because I know you.

Zeke figured it would be something like that, but you’re not unbiased.

Of course not. I owe you my life. The Bureau knows that and thought that would reassure you. I was sent to do a whitewash, but I have to go through the motions.

Yeah, okay. So what’s your plan?

I’m going to shadow you and interview you about all that you’ve done. Then I’ll write a report and that will put an end to the business.

What do you mean by ‘shadow’?

I’m going to stay here with you. I will follow you around regardless of whether you’re acting as a deputy or working for your outfitter friend. And I’ll ask you questions as we go along.

And if I don’t agree? I’ll shadow you anyway.

What about my partner, Hook? She’s, uh, half of the story and on leave for a month.

Hmm. I guess you get all the fun. Change of plan. Think, girl.

Yeah, lucky me.

Lucy’s thoughts raced. How to work this? Be a stand in? Maybe.

How far to take it? Have to be fully committed. Worth a try. A month from now this chance may be gone.

Jim thought about Lucy doing the investigation into the death squad. A bias in his favor was a good thing, but he had trouble believing that the FBI would be so devious. Was this for real? On the other hand, if Lucy was truly investigating, he worried that he might let his guard down too much, say things that were best left unsaid. Jim gave a mental shrug. He would keep his guard up and be circumspect. Anyway, having a smart, friendly, and attractive companion for a few days wouldn’t be all bad.

Jim had become accustomed to his partnership with Amy Hooker. Hook, as she preferred to be called, was an ex military cop. She was a stiff backed, by the book, angry young woman. They irritated each other and argued about everything. He thought she was too rigid. She thought he was a wacky old man who had no business being a deputy. Somehow, perhaps because they were opposites, they had become a very effective team. Although neither would admit to it, they had come to genuinely respect and like each other.

Lucy Johnson gave off a much different vibe. Although a trained professional, she was friendly and outgoing. She lacked the shoulder chip that Hook carried. Jim felt a tingle of attraction that made him wistful. Had he been a younger man he might have explored the possibilities. The Grateful Dead started singing Good Morning Little School Girl in his head. Ah, Jim, he thought. You are an old man who is well along the downward slide. You’re falling apart, damaged, and your future is bleak. Stop with the pipe dream.

Jim helped Lucy pitch a tent near his truck where he slept. He explained that he would be taking supplies into the wilderness the next day and told her she was welcome to come along.

We’ll take this day by day. If you get on my nerves, you’ll have to leave. And you’re going to have to put up with my quirks.

Lucy nodded. What quirks? she wondered.

We better fix you up with a horse. Jim thought for a minute. Mind if I pick the horse?

No.

Okay. He walked over to a young bay and made the introductions. "Billy