Not My Home

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Military Thrillers; Political Thrillers; Vigilante Thrillers

Synopsis

The sudden arrival of big-city elites in small-town America triggers a violent wave of protests—and a possible civil war—in this explosive thriller from the bestselling authors of Down the Dark Streets. This is . . .

NOT MY HOME
They came from the cities. Wealthy, work-from-home professionals fleeing the rotting crime-ridden hellscapes of northern blue states for the peace and tranquility of small-town life. Almost overnight, they take over the sleepy village of Springerville, South Carolina. They snatch up the real estate. Turn old-fashioned stores into fancy boutiques. Transform the schools. And bring crime and corruption with them. Now one of these invaders—a predatory media mogul from New York—is running for mayor. His plan is to turn Springerville into a sprawling urban enclave . . . just like the ones the northerners left behind. And Springerville will be ruined forever. . . .

NOT ON YOUR LIFE
Not if Gus Fuller can stop it. A former army sergeant and lifelong townie, Gus runs the old luncheonette his grandfather built—and plans to give the media mogul a run for his money. Everyone in Springerville loves Gus, and he has no problem winning the mayoral race. But when the mogul accuses him of rigging the election, all hell breaks loose. Busloads of domestic terror groups roll into town. Angry mobs take to the streets, followed by rioting, looting, and burning. They’re turning Main Street into a war zone. So Gus and his army buddies are dusting off their uniforms—and taking a stand. . . .

It's time to fight back. It’s time to fight hard.
It’s time to show these America-haters this is not their home.

Release date: May 21, 2024

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

Randall Early never understood what the phrase, you can’t go back home, really meant until he’d come back to his childhood home of Springerville, South Carolina, four months ago with his new bride. He’d been excited to rescue her from the big-city life and worries of Chicago to the place he’d waxed poetic about ever since they’d met in basic training. To her credit, Ashley was game for it, happy to start their new lives in the place that made him happiest.

A lot had changed since he’d left to serve in the Army for five years, with another year living with Ashley in Oak Park. Sure, when they walked down Main Street there was still the Iron Works Bar and Grill with its tattered front awning, Fuller’s Luncheonette with the best biscuits and gravy in all of South Carolina, and Banks Fill and Go. Randall had gotten his hair buzzed just the other day by Al Keene, who had been cutting his hair since he was old enough to sit in the chair by himself. Mrs. Wallace, still chubby and bubbly, manned the realtor office her late husband had left her.

From the outside looking in, Springerville was trapped in amber.

But outsiders were the problem.

A few of Randall’s classmates and childhood friends were still kicking around, now with budding families of their own, but whenever he walked or drove around town, he saw too many faces to count that weren’t familiar to him. According to his father, there had been an influx of folks from all points of the compass seeking “the slower pace of life,” now that they could work remotely. Most of all, they came seeking to get more bang for their buck. Unfortunately, their money brought a rising tide in the price for goods and services, which was fine for them with their big-city paychecks, but was making life a struggle for those who had called Springerville home for generations.

The hope of Randall and Ashley was to buy a house, preferably somewhere close to his parents now that his mother was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. The problem was, the price of the few houses left on the market were astronomical. Because of that, they’d had to move in with his parents, which made it easy for Randall to help care for his mother, spelling his dad so he could take a moment for himself from time to time. It wasn’t easy for Ashley, no matter how much she told him she loved being there. It was one thing to uproot your life, and another to navigate the first year of marriage while living with your in-laws.

Which is why they needed tonight.

“You want some more?” he asked Ashley, holding the half empty bottle of chilled white wine.

“Don’t mind if I do,” she replied, with a smile that never failed to quicken his heart.

He reached into the cooler and got another bottle of beer for himself, because this moment was too special for cans. A lesson his father had taught him long ago.

“I haven’t seen this many stars since we were deployed in Guam,” Ashley said.

They sat on a blanket on the eighth green at the Spring Golf Course. Randall used to caddy here when he was a kid, hitting the links every now and then when he turned eighteen, just before he headed off to serve. Back then, like the housing, it was affordable. It had also been open to the public and getting a tee time was never a problem.

Now, the course was private, and the membership fee was beyond rational. Most of the locals had been priced out, having to travel as far as an hour or more away to play a round. Randall may not have had the expendable funds to buy a membership, but he still knew where the breaks were in the surrounding fences. The eighth green was on top of a hilly section that overlooked a pond and the rolling greens below, and the panoply of stars above. He’d always wanted to take a girl out here when he was a caddy.

At this moment, sitting close to his new bride, he was glad he’d been so woefully unsuccessful before Ashley. It made the moment even more special.

As she rested her head on his chest, he said, “I know you’ve been wanting to talk about having a baby and I’ve been telling you we should wait until we’re more settled.”

“I get it, Randy. We have time. Besides, your father keeps telling us to enjoy the honeymoon.” She snickered and Randall joined her. It was hard to fully enjoy the honeymoon when your parents were right down the hall.

“I was wrong.”

Ashley sat up and searched his eyes, looking to see if he was playing a joke. Randy smiled.

“I mean it. I can’t think of anything more important and wonderful than bringing a new life into this world . . . with you.”

Tears welled in his and Ashley’s eyes. “Do you really mean that?”

He cupped her face in his hand. “I do. I really, really do.”

“But what about waiting until we have a little more, you know, security?”

Randy kissed her long and lovingly. “My parents had me when they barely had two nickels to rub together. We’ll figure it out. All three of us.”

Ashley threw her arms around him, quietly sobbing into the side of his neck. When she settled down, she said, “Or the four of us.”

“Four?”

“You know twins run in my family.”

“Oh boy.”

Ashley gently pushed him to the ground while unbuttoning his shirt. “Oh boy is right.”

Their clothes were cast off with practiced abandon while frogs and crickets hidden in the darkness provided a little background music. Nothing young Randy the caddy could have dreamt up was better than this moment.

Neither of them heard the approaching footsteps.

Randy felt a sharp kick in his side. It was hard enough to roll him off his wife. With his hand clasped to his ribs, he looked up to find they were surrounded by four men, all of them wearing hoodies and black surgical masks so he couldn’t make out their features. One of the men had grabbed all of their clothes and rifled through the pockets until he found Randy’s wallet.

“Got it,” he told his shadowed cohorts.

“What about her?” one of them asked, pointing at Ashley who was desperately trying to cover her nakedness.

Randy wanted to jump to his feet and take on the four men. What was surely a broken rib and realizing he was outnumbered and nude kept him on the ground. He shifted on the grass so he could position himself in front of his wife.

“Just take the wallet and go,” Randy said. He had twenty-three dollars in cash and a lone credit card, along with his driver’s license. It could all be easily replaced.

“What about hers?”

Ashley gripped Randy’s arms, pressing herself against him. “I don’t have a wallet, dumbass,” she said. “You got what you wanted. Now go before things get worse.” Ashley could be tougher than most of the men Randy had served with. She could also let her temper get the best of her.

One of the men chuckled. “Get worse? For who? Us? I don’t think so.”

The man had an accent Randall couldn’t place. He was certainly not from around these parts, that was for sure.

Randy got to his feet, still clutching his side. “You’ve gotten all you’re going to get. You should call that a win and go back to whatever hole you came out from.”

The men creeped forward. Randy couldn’t see their eyes in the gloom, but he could feel their gazes locked on his wife and sense their intention.

“Step back,” Randy said.

Ashely was on her feet now, unabashed by her nudity. They both raised their fists and took a fighter’s stance. “We don’t want to hurt you,” Ashley said.

“But we will,” Randy added.

He heard the metallic click of a friction lock baton expanding. He knew the sound well. He had one of his own . . . back home.

“I don’t think so,” the one with the baton said.

Before Randy could react, slowed by his broken ribs, the baton cracked the side of his knee. He went down hard, lifting his arm up just in time to take the brunt of the next blow aimed at his head. Randy lashed out with his leg and connected with the thug’s ankle. The hooded piece of trash landed beside him, but that didn’t stop him from bludgeoning Randy with the baton.

Ashley cried out. The sound of fists on flesh cut through the still night air as she tried to fight off her attackers.

Even she was no match for three men who each must have outweighed her by fifty or more pounds. They drove her to the green. Randy reached out for her but received a sharp blast to his wrist for the effort.

“Get the hell off of her!”

“Randy!”

He rose just in time to see the baton headed for his eyes.

And then he saw and felt nothing.

Augustus “Gus” Fuller turned on the flat top before he hit the lights. He liked getting to the luncheonette before sunrise, when everything was still and peaceful. While the flat top warmed up, he would go in back and make the biscuit mix and get started on the sausage gravy. Then he’d whip up some pancake and waffle batter.

Gus had called Springerville, South Carolina, his home all of his life. His family could be traced all the way back to when the town was incorporated back in 1827. Springerville was the very definition of a bucolic suburb, with the nearest big city being Charleston forty miles to its east. The tree-lined business district consisted of four blocks with one streetlight at their midway point. From his front window, he could see clearly from the library at the southern end to the Iron Works Bar and Grill in the north. City hall was just a block away, with its grassy oval complete with large gazebo that hosted most town events for as long as anyone could remember.

His grandfather had opened the luncheonette to great fanfare before Gus was a twinkle in his father’s eye. It had become a staple of Springerville over the years, host to every hungry belly in town, four marriage proposals, one wedding, innumerable high school lunches and book club breakfasts, hotly contested bridge tournaments, as well as a meeting place for folks to talk of frivolous and serious topics, all over a cup of coffee and fresh biscuits slathered with butter.

Even after his stint in the military, serving during wartime in the Middle East, there was never a doubt in Gus’s mind that he would return to the town and luncheonette he loved. Being in service to others gave him true joy, which is why he never missed a day of work, still feeling that thrill of anticipation during his morning prep work.

Gus paused for a moment and sipped on a steaming mug of coffee.

A shadow passed by the glass front door and tapped on the window. Gus raised his hand in greeting, not that Maddie Jackson could see him in the dark. She lived a few blocks down and grew some of the best raspberries and blueberries around. An early riser like Gus, she left several cartons of berries beside the door. She wasn’t wearing her glasses, but she did have her cane, so Gus didn’t worry about her getting hurt on her way home. He paid Maddie for her wonderful produce on Mondays, always giving her a little more than she asked for, knowing she was on a fixed income and how difficult the economy was making life for people like Maddie. Heck, it wasn’t just her. It seemed like everyone was feeling the squeeze in Springerville. Well, at least those who’d called it home for most, if not all, of their lives.

The bread delivery would be next, in about fifteen minutes or so. Gus remembered when he was a kid and they had a milkman that delivered to the houses in the neighborhood. He wondered what had become of Mr. Keene, their local dairy man. Where did milkmen go when there was no more milk to deliver?

Gus put the biscuits in the oven and laid out three pounds of bacon strips on the flat top to get them going under the yellow hood light. His father used to deep fry the bacon, but Gus’s wife, Annette, now gone ten years, had insisted he at least try to serve healthier fare. It didn’t help that Gus’s father and grandfather, the prior owners of the luncheonette who loved their cooking as much as their patrons did, had died too young of heart disease.

If Annette had been around now to see all of these horrid plant-based foods, she would have pressured Gus to add them to the menu (and drive his customers away). He never wanted to know how plant bacon tasted.

When the clock turned five thirty Gus threw on all of the lights, unlocked the door, and brought in the bread and berries.

Like moths to a flame, his early-morning regulars came ambling in five minutes later.

His good friend Chris Banks sidled up to the counter. Gus poured him a cup of coffee without his needing to ask. There was also Ron and Mike, best friends who used to own a restaurant in the next town but had shifted over to home security that paid more and involved a lot less stress. There was a sudden need for their services in Springerville and every other town in the county. Ron always took orange juice while Mike preferred his coffee black. In came Sarah Birch, who owned the launderette three blocks down. She opened at six for the folks who wanted to get a load in before work. Gus slid a mug of warm water and a box of tea bags her way.

“I’m feeling like blueberry pancakes today,” Banks said.

“And just how does that feel?” Sarah asked. “I’m genuinely curious.”

“Har har. And here I was ready to pay for your breakfast today.”

“I’d rather you pay for my dinner. Preferably someplace nice with menus that aren’t laminated with bad pictures of the food on them.”

Gus smiled as he put some bread in the toaster for Ron and Mike. Sarah had been chasing after Banks for as long as he could remember. She may have been seven years older than Chris, but she was still a catch, at least in Gus’s opinion. Banks couldn’t get over her little sister breaking his heart back in high school.

“A little trip to Hilton Head would be very nice,” Gus said as he cracked some eggs.

Banks shot him a warning look. Sarah concentrated on her tea, knowing when to back off.

“You guys hear what happened at the golf course last night?” Mike said.

“Someone arrived late for tee time?” Banks said.

“No, this is serious. A couple was attacked and mugged.”

Sarah stopped stirring her tea. “What? At the golf course? When was this?”

“After it had closed,” Ron said. “I heard it was Randy and Ashley Early. They’re both in the hospital. It sounds like they’re hurt pretty bad and Ash . . .” His eyes flicked over to Sarah.

“Go on, I’m a big girl. I can take it.”

Ron cleared his throat and spoke just above a whisper. “They believe she was raped.”

Everyone shook their heads in quiet disgust. Gus gripped his spatula hard enough to whiten his knuckles.

What the hell was happening to his town? There was a time, not so long ago, when the biggest crime was the occasional drunk driving, shoplifting on a very small scale, and the usual domestic dispute.

Muggings and rapes did not happen in Springerville. Never.

“Sweet Jesus, that’s terrible,” Banks said. “That Randy is gonna be fit to be tied the moment he gets out. The cops have any leads on who did it?”

While other people listened to the radio or podcasts while they went about their day, Ron and Mike stayed glued to the police band. Until a couple of years ago, there wasn’t much chatter to warrant spreading a potential warning, like that time back in eighty-seven when there were all the car break-ins that turned out to be the work of seventeen-year-old Jimmy Yannick who had a thing for stealing radios. He never did anything with them. Just stored them in a couple of ratty boxes in his old man’s garage. Jimmy was always a little off, and when he got caught, the whipping by his daddy stopped the rash of broken windows and empty dashboards.

No one in the luncheonette would have ever dreamt of hearing the news Ron and Mike were sharing.

“Right now, it’s just four men wearing hoodies and those medical masks,” Mike said, pushing his coffee away. “So far, no other descriptions.”

“I never liked those masks,” Gus said. “They didn’t seem to help any, unless you’re a criminal and need to hide your identity.”

Gus leaned against the counter, suddenly thrown out of his comfortable routine. It almost didn’t feel proper making breakfast right now. Randy’s parents lived around the corner from him. He remembered when Randy was born and the big welcome-home party that was thrown for him by everyone in the neighborhood on account of how difficult the pregnancy and delivery had been on his poor mother.

When Randy brought that beautiful young bride of his to Springerville, he’d practically busted down the luncheonette’s door to show her off to everyone. Gus was glad as hell to see him return and hoped they’d settle down for good. Nowadays, young people itched to leave small towns like Springerville, using college as a springboard to find roots elsewhere. It appeared the military had taught Randy to appreciate this place.

“Someone will have to keep an eye on him,” Gus said. “Before he gets to something that’ll land him in more trouble than the animals who did this to them.”

“This would never have happened before the locusts,” Sarah said, idly stirring her tea.

“Damn straight, it wouldn’t,” Ron said.

The true citizens of Springerville referred to the unending tide of big-city transplants as a plague of locusts that had brought plenty of change, and none of it good. Gus liked to remind folks that at least locusts eventually left. It didn’t look like that was going to happen here. So now they were stuck with rising prices and crime and lowered quality of life.

“I’ll hold off on the pancakes,” Banks said. “I suddenly don’t feel so good.” He scratched at his dark, bald head, staring off into space. “I know a lot of people who’d help Randy find them. Hell, I’m one of them. People like that, they don’t deserve to walk around like it’s a quiet Sunday afternoon.”

“Shouldn’t we just let the police do their job?” Gus said.

“I’m happy to. I’m not sure about Randy, though. And I wouldn’t blame him.”

Sarah slapped her hand on the countertop. “Can we please stop dreaming up gathering a posse and think about those poor kids and their parents? I’m going to call on George and Anne later this morning. See if there’s anything they need.”

“That’s smart thinking,” Gus said. “I’ll whip them up a few meals. I’m pretty sure they won’t be doing much cooking for the next few days. Think I’ll stop by the hospital after lunch, too.”

“I’d come with you, but I have a busy schedule today. Too many cars to fix and not enough time,” Banks said. He used to have an assistant, but with the cost of parts and his rent rising, and his refusal to pass them along to his longtime customers, he’d had to let Frankie, his young mechanic in training, go a few months back.

“We’ll keep our ears open and let you know anything else that we hear,” Ron said when Gus served him his toast with a side of bacon and eggs.

“And keep your eyes open for anyone walking around with a hoodie. Especially if there’s more than one of them together,” Mike said, not bothering to touch his plate.

The sun had just started to rise, bathing the street in shades of pink and orange. Gus and his friends looked out the big front window, as if expecting to see a hooded figure at any moment. What should have been a beautiful morning was marred by the awful news.

Gus knew in his gut that this was just the beginning of very bad times for his hometown.

Braden Stranger listened to the chimes gently ring, signaling the end of his morning meditation. He took a deep breath and slowly opened his eyes, gazing upon the rock garden he’d installed in his backyard.

His phone rang before he extracted himself from his lotus position. He answered it, feeling all of his peace and calm dissipate when he saw who was on the other end of the line.

“It’s a little early to do the whole screaming and threatening routine,” he grumbled.

“I wouldn’t have to call if you’d answered my text last night,” his ex-wife, Susan, growled.

He had seen the text but wasn’t in the proper frame of mind to type a reply. He’d been deep into a bottle of Caymus red Cabernet and feeling mellow after a solid day of Zoom meetings. His ears had felt clogged from hours upon hours of wearing earbuds, and he was just plain sick of interacting with people. Transitioning his position of chief communications ambassador to his successor, Siti Agarwal, felt like more work than the actual duties of the job itself. Bringing in the disabled Indian transplant had been his idea, and the company was already receiving great press. That and his plans to reduce the company’s carbon emissions and restructure their facilities to adapt to renewable energy had increased their ESG score, which made them more attractive for investors and the stock market. The move had earned him an extra million-dollar payout as part of his already massive separation agreement. Not that he needed it, but who was he to turn his nose at a million dollars? Just because he came from money and was able to make a considerable amount on his own merits—whether dubious or not—didn’t mean that he didn’t crave more.

“Did you ever think I might have been indisposed when you sent it? It’s six in the morning, for Chrissake. Patience was never your forte.”

He could practically see Susan’s lip curling. “I prefer to rain on your Buddhist parade. Are you taking Aiden next week or not?”

“Next week isn’t a good time. You know that.”

“Do you even care about your son? I didn’t see you hesitate when you decided to move seven hundred miles away from him.”

Poor befuddled Susan, he thought. If only she knew why I’m here. It was enough to make him smile, a shield against her slings and poison-tipped arrows.

“Of course I do. But I won’t have any time for him. I’m handing over the reins and starting my campaign. A little busy, you know?”

There was a long, angry silence. Then Susan said coolly, “Fine. You’re going to be the one to tell him when he gets home from school. I refuse to be the bad guy.”

Braden poured himself a glass of pomegranate juice and took a long sip. He added a spoonful of protein powder to the rest and downed it in preparation for his workout. “Considering how hard you fought for full custody, I would think you’d be happy I can’t take him.”

“And considering what a jerk his father is, I should be. Unfortunately, children need their parents, no matter how unfit they are.”

He felt his muscles tense and his stomach clench. Susan played the unfit father card whenever she wanted to really stick the knife in him. Granted, even he knew he would never win a father-of-the-year award. Sacrifices had to be made so they could all live the lifestyle they’d become accustomed to. Braden had made sure that could continue for his son. One could have financial security or a constant, loving presence. There was no in between. Aiden would thank him when he was old enough to understand, just as Braden had silently thanked his black-hearted father, at least once he’d passed.

This time, he wasn’t going to let Susan push that button.

“How about three weeks from now? Meeting with the local Podunks won’t exactly be heavy lifting.”

“They’ll run you out on the rails,” she replied sharply. “What makes you think the people in that backwater town will elect a rat like you?”

Braden grinned. “You of all people should know, I can be very persuasive.”

“Your charms wear thin, quick.”

He walked to his office and shuffled the papers that revealed the latest demographic data for Springerville. The numbers were what had convinced him, along with the backing of his benefactors—men and women with money, power, and resources that would boggle the average man’s sensibilities—to run for mayor. For them, when money was no longer an obstacle and power was a ho-hum fact of life, one could say all that was left was the need to possess souls. Not just of people, but of nations. Stranger wanted to be that soul stealer, and to do so, he would need to stake his claim here in South Carolina.

Change had already taken place in town. He was just here to usher in the final stages. His brother Steven had laughed when he’d told him his plan, saying the whole big-fish-in-a-small-town thing was not his game.

Braden didn’t see it that way. Springerville was just the first step. There was a whole state up for grabs. Playing the long game was just what he excelled at.

“I remember them working on you for quite a long while,” he said.

“I was young and stupid. If you win, I think the state’s attorney general will appreciate a call urging him or her to take a good long look at your books.”

Flicking her jab away, he replied, “Well, if you and Aiden want to move into a one-bedroom apartment in Mount Vernon, be my guest. I hear the buses run fairly regularly there.”

There was no sharp-tongued reply to that. She knew he could pull the plug on the stream of money that came her way just as easily as ending the call, which he did with a tap of his thumb.

Booting up his laptop, he spent several minutes looking over the designs the company he’d hired in Los Angeles had sent him for his campaign logo and signage. It was nothing flashy, but he was sure it would be more eye catching than anything that current, past-his-sell-by-date rube of a mayor coul. . .