I frowned when I saw Paige bedding down for the night close to Mitch Robard. His dad was on the other side of the room. A pang of parental concern tugged at my heart, but my head had enough sense to say; stay out of it and trust your daughter.
The next morning, we rose at first light. Andrea and several volunteers used microwave ovens powered by the trucks’ alternators and 110 volt convertors to make hot oatmeal and warmed up biscuits and coffee. All of the java drinkers dreaded the coming day when we ran out of coffee grounds. I supposed we'd have to do like the Louisiana Cajuns and learn to drink the strong, harsh, chicory brew.
We spent the morning running down road after road and lane after deserted lane. At two in the afternoon, we checked War Creek Road. There were many side roads, and we covered all of them with the bikes. We didn't want to rush and pass by our prey unknowingly. We looked for signs of recent usage at intersections of side roads, new trash along the roads, or wood smoke from chimneys.
The sun began to approach tree tops when I heard Mitch on the radio. He had shot past me minutes earlier. "I smell wood smoke, and there's a plume rising back in the woods."
Shane spoke, "Everyone mark where you are on your map so we can resume our search here if need be. Pull off the side of the road behind Ed's truck and meet up."
I pulled alongside our truck and dropped the bike beside it. In five minutes the motocross gear was off, replaced by my camouflage gear. We met fifty feet from a lane on our right. Woodsmoke hung in the still air and a thin, gray plume from some distance back in the dense woods rose above the trees.
Shane, Ed, me and one other person from each truck would approach the source of the smoke and determine what we'd found. We split into two groups, four people on each side of the narrow sparsely graveled road. We stayed twenty feet from the gravel, pushing though the carpet of leaves on the ground. More orange, brown, and yellow leaves fell as we brushed against bushes and low hanging tree branches.
We'd barely gone fifty yards when we heard a noisy engine exhaust. Ed called on the radio, "The last two people on each side stop the vehicle when it gets to you. No shots if possible." A minute later a faded red pickup rounded a curve ahead. Shane and Junior were in front of me, so Albert Gonzales and I stepped into the road with Sam and Morgan. The truck's driver hit the brakes as four assault rifles aimed at the occupants’ heads. Our other four members stepped out from cover to stand menacingly with two on each side of the truck.
The engine shut off before three African-American males stepped out of the cab as ordered. They stood with their hands raised. Two passengers were in their mid to late twenties; the driver was older, possibly the father. Fear was evident in their expressions. They were herded together in front of their Chevy truck. The eight of us gathered in a semi-circle as I asked, "Who are you?"
The tall and stout middle aged man answered, "Willie Jones, my sons Richard and Barlow."
"What's at the end of this road, and how many people are there?"
"One house is up there, our home. Our wives and three children are there. Please don't hurt them." As an afterthought he added, "Are you some of Marc Ridder's bunch?"
"Do you know Marc?"
Dejectedly he replied, "Oh, yes. I know Marc."
"What's your relationship with him?"
"None now, other than we try to stay out of his way. What's this about?"
I looked at Shane. "Show them the pictures."
The older man unfolded the prints; he looked at the four pages and then passed them to the younger men. "Marc is the third man. The others are Leroy Iverson, Ronnie Brannigan, and I don't know the last one. Now who the hell are you, and what do you want with us?"
I told him what had happened to our friends. "Do you know where we can find Ridder?"
"About a year ago he and his gang took over a place up on Lake Oahe. It's north of here at the other end of the county near Mission Ridge. I know because we keep track of them for the same reasons you're looking for them. They killed my youngest son and my daughter and her husband. He generally leaves us alone because we don't pose a threat, and we don't have enough for him to kill us over. But some of his gang are just plain vicious murderers."
"Do you have an idea of how many people he has? Are there men and women?"
"Me and Barlow snuck up there in August to see what they were up to. We counted," he looked to his son, "I think thirty-six, with about six or eight being whores. But tough whores. Don't sell them short because they hold their own and cuss and fight just like the men do."
"You said you have no relationship with Ridder now. What was it in the past?"
"Me and Marc went to high school together and played football. He got kicked off the team there and in college too. He's vicious, likes to hurt people, and the more serious the injury he inflicts the more he struts and blows about it.
"I heard he got a degree in mining but couldn't keep a job because of his
