The ditch at the intersection was the closest thing to a foxhole and Wayne went for it, shoving any of his nearby folks in that direction. They may twist an ankle from the fall but at least they’d live to complain about it. Standing around in the open was certainly going to get them killed.
Another pair of Zach’s riders must have been lured by Carrie’s defection. In tandem, they bolted up the road, coats flapping as they dug their heels into their horses and slapped at them with their reins. Wayne grabbed a scoped hunting rifle from another of the men in the ditch, a bolt-action .308, and checked the chamber to confirm there was a round ready to go.
He proned-out in the grass by the ditch while his men laid down cover fire. At about one hundred and fifty yards, he put a round in the back of the first man, sending him slumping off the side of the running horse. Wayne jacked another round into the chamber and lay the crosshairs on the next rider. He was a little past two hundred yards now, a reasonable shot with a good rifle, and Wayne pulled the trigger. The man flinched, stiffened, and rolled off the back of his horse.
“How many left?” Wayne asked.
“Two!” one of his men said.
With a more precise weapon in his hands now, Wayne turned on the men pinned down across from them, between the road and the river. Zach had changed magazines and raised his head up enough to return fire at Wayne’s men. Wayne caught the top of his head in the scope picture, the rifle boomed, and Zach’s head erupted in a red mist.
There was a scream from that side of the road. It came from the last remaining man. Then Wayne heard a splash. He jumped to his feet, rifle shouldered, and moved toward Zach’s firing position. Zach’s last man was floating on his belly in the two-foot deep water, letting the frigid current carry him away as he desperately paddled with his arms.
“I think you can hit him,” a voice said from behind Wayne.
Wayne didn’t see the speaker, focusing so intently on man in the crosshairs of the scope, but he pulled off, raising the rifle and flipping the safety on.
“Why didn’t you shoot him?”
“He’ll probably die of hypothermia, soaked in this weather. No use wasting a good bullet on him.” Wayne turned back to his group. “We lose anybody?”
“One dead and two wounded. Neither of the wounded are serious but they’re out of the fight,” replied a man named Chance.
Wayne saw men in his group gathered around a body on the ground and he went over to see who’d been killed. “Shit!” It was his friend Larry. They’d worked for the same construction company back before this whole mess happened.
“At least he didn’t have family,” Chance said. “It’s a small consolation, but I’d hate to have to go back and tell a family that someone wasn’t coming home.”
“That was a gamble we all took when we came out here,” Wayne said. “Put his body on a horse. Bandage the wounded. Collect all the horses, gear, and shit belonging to the dead men and roll their bodies into the river. The wounded, if they’re fit to ride, can go back to the fire hall and take the gear we collect.”
“We should probably leave one man to help,” Chance said. “If they come under attack they’ll need someone who can fight.”
Wayne nodded. “Find a volunteer. The rest of us need to get back on the road.”
In two minutes, they were riding in the direction that Zach and his men had been headed, hoping the dead men had a little better navigational intel than they did.
44
Position Three was an extended straight stretch of road between two switchbacks. Towering poplars and oaks lined the road, completely shading it in summer and turning it into a gloomy tunnel of foliage. Those trees stood like stark sentinels menacing Bryan’s terrified army. They’d been bold and confident up until the incident at the bridge. They’d never suffered defeat before. Even the attack at Tazewell, when Conor and Barb kidnapped Bryan for a short time, didn’t affect most of the men. They thought their force was invincible, their leader unstoppable.
Bryan was extremely angry when he realized they had deserters who’d abandoned them at the tree. Despite struggling to maintain appearances so it wouldn’t demoralize the rest of the troops, he couldn’t restrain himself completely. He cursed and ranted until he felt well enough to move forward. If he ever came across any of those deserters again, they would die a slow and agonizing death.
The road before them angled upward, cut into the mountain with no shoulder on either side and no guardrail to stop an inattentive driver from plunging to disaster. It happened a couple of times a year with cars and about once a year with a semi-truck driver whose GPS indicated this was a short cut. If you met a vehicle coming the other way, you held your breath and crept by each other, the driver on the outside edge praying their wheels stayed on the pavement.
Used to riding horses, the effort of climbing wore on the men. Their legs ached and burned from the effort, their lungs screaming for air. All of them suspected they had a lot farther to go, but the manner in which the road curved around the mountain prevented them from seeing how far. It could be one mile or it could be five. Their physical suffering further demoralized them. They were afraid to complain but it was likely that most in Bryan’s army wished they’d thought to desert with the others.
The road was scattered with debris. Damp leaves formed a woven and matted carpet that added additional effort to each step. Twigs and fallen branches lay buried in the leaves, offering hidden hazards that caused stumbles and falls. With each minute of struggle, their frustration increased. Then a man hit the first tripwire.
He wasn’t even aware that he ran into it. Fishing line ran across the road between two eyehooks, then fifty feet back to a short length of white PVC pipe taped to a tree and buried in leaves. The pipe was slightly larger in diameter than the fragmentation grenades Doc Marty had brought. When the pin was pulled from each grenade, Conor slid the grenade back into the PVC pipe and it held the spoon, or safety lever, in place, preventing the grenade from being triggered. That was, until the tripwire pulled the grenade from the pipe and the spoon went flying off into the leaves, triggering an explosion near the end of Bryan’s formation.
BOOM!
Two men dropped and more screamed, rolling on the ground and clutching at wounds on their bodies. The explosion at the back of the line pushed the rest of the group forward. Despite their exhaustion, men ran wildly, staggering uphill through the leaves. Even Bryan didn’t know what else to do but join them. He ran as blindly as the rest of them.
One of the running men snagged the second tripwire, pulling another grenade from its pipe sleeve, and detonating a second explosion.
BOOM!
The explosion toward the end of the line pushed the men again, urging them forward. Gasping, they plunged headlong up the hill, sucking air, trying to fuel starved muscles. They staggered, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, in sheer panic.
BOOM!
A third tripwire. A third explosion. More men dropped.
The frantic procession reached a switchback. “Stop, dammit!” Bryan screamed, fighting to gain control of his own breathing. “Stop running…let’s think…a second.”
The men found it hard to think. Adrenaline surged through their bodies. Many of them were wounded, blood soaking their clothes. Behind them, on the stretch of road they’d just travelled, lay a dozen or more of their screaming companions, wounded to the point that they could not stand up and flee.
“He’s just trying to scare you!” Bryan screamed. “Stop a minute and let’s figure this out!”
From higher on the ridge, Conor watched the chaos unfold. He keyed his microphone. “Position Three is a go. Repeat. Position Three is a go.”
On the uphill side of the road, nearly forty men silently raised from concealed positions behind fallen logs. Among them was Conor, Barb, Doc Marty, Ragus, and Jason, along with most of the volunteers who’d come to participate in the defense of their community. They were a gritty and unwavering force.
“Fire!
” Conor bellowed.
At the sound of his voice, all of Bryan’s men, eyes wide with panic, turned to face the woods. Gunfire erupted and men began falling. There were screams as men launched themselves in all directions, tripping over collapsed friends, scrambling for the minimal cover available.
Thinking a little faster than his companions, Bryan dove over the shoulder of the road like a man hurdling from a burning building. On the steep mountain, his dive resulted in a vertical drop of nearly twelve feet. He hit hard, his breath leaving him, and then he was rolling out of control. He lost his rifle, unaware even of where it sailed off to. He slammed into a rock at high speed, his backpack all that prevented him from breaking his spine.
Behind him, above him, shots rang out. There were more screams.
“Kill or capture all of them,” Conor said into his radio. “We can’t leave any of them loose in the community. If in doubt, shoot.”
Leaping to his feet, Bryan attempted to run down the mountainside but tripped over a branch and went down on his chest. He slid in the soggy leaves, barreling face-first down the mountainside like a kid on a sled. The ride ended abruptly at the base of a poplar. Bryan wrenched his head to the side just in time, his shoulder catching the brunt of the force, wracking his entire body with agony. He cried out and rolled onto his back, cradling his arm and trying to clear his thoughts.
He listened for a moment, thinking he may have gotten away. If no one saw him, he could slip away if he kept quiet and moved cautiously. He looked up and it took him a moment to find the road he’d jumped from. Everything looked identical in these hardwood forests. It all blended together. There was a face at the edge of the road. A woman. She was looking right at him as she leapt over the edge in pursuit.
“Barb!” Conor yelled, launching himself from his position and tearing off after her. They were supposed to stay together.
Barb didn’t hesitate at Conor’s yell, tracking the fleeing Bryan with laser intensity. She knew who he was, knew he was the man responsible for all of this, and knew it wasn’t over until he was dead.
She was much more capable of controlling her descent. She practically skied down the slope on the soles of her feet, one hand dragging behind to steady herself, the other clutching a short rifle. When her slide arrested, she popped off two shots at Bryan but he managed to scuttle behind a tree like a rat in a spotlight.
He started down the mountain again, trying to keep trees between him and the female terminator intent on killing him. With his focus directed behind him, he missed the fact that the road had turned through another switchback and was now directly below him again. He fell off the high shoulder, dropping nearly straight down onto jagged chunks of slate and shale, then rolling into the road. Besides the paralyzing shock of pain at the fall, his hands were now shredded and bleeding.
He staggered to his feet, then began running down the road. It was smoother and easier to travel. He could hear the shuffle of damp leaves on the mountain above him. The girl was still after him and perhaps there were more behind her. He couldn’t tell and he didn’t have time to stop. It hit him that he’d never be able to outrun anyone on the road. His muscles were too spent, his body too battered. He leaped over the low shoulder again, figuring it was faster to roll down to the next point where the road crossed below him.
It was the same story but hurt worse because he knew what was coming. Rolling, sliding, bouncing off trees like a pinball, and slamming against rocks. He cried out when the pain was too much. He’d learned though. He was watching for the road this time and stopped himself before he dropped from the high shoulder, clutching a branch with bleeding hands at the last moment. He eased himself down, his feet sliding in the loose shale, then he was back on the road and running again.
A quick glance over his shoulder told him that he’d kept the distance between them but she was still coming. He could also hear a man’s voice now, yelling at the girl to wait on him. Bryan didn’t think she’d wait. She was relentless. She was an unstoppable machine with a level of determination and fitness for which he was no match.
Then he saw the tree laying across the road and nearly cried with relief. Beyond it were horses. He practically dove through the maze of branches, feeling them tug and tear at his clothing. He could hear the slap of boots on pavement behind him, knew the girl was closing on him. She fired at him as she ran but her movement sent the shots wild. They sang off nearby branches, launching bark and dirt onto him.
He burst from the far side of the tree and grabbed the nearest horse, yanking the reins loose. He struggled to pull himself into the saddle, yelling with the effort. The men he’d left there to help with the wounded were on alert from the shooting but didn’t know if it was friend or foe. Seeing their leader on the run, their hearts sank.
“Where you going?” one asked. “What happened?”
Bryan ignored them, kicking the horse hard and urging it desperately forward. He threw a quick glance behind him and saw the girl was nearly through the tree. She dropped, resting the rifle on a branch, and lined up a shot. Bryan flattened himself against the horse and yanked the rein hard, forcing the horse to veer to the side.
Three shots rang out in less than a second. Bryan heard the rounds whistle by him like angry bees but none connected. He couldn’t help but smile. Maybe he was going to make it. More gunfire rang out behind him. Had his men taken out the woman?
He soon realized this wasn’t the case. He heard the clatter of hooves behind him and his fear shot through the roof. There appeared to be no stopping this woman. He was certain she was gaining on him. How long before she got a clear shot? How long before a chunk of hot lead ripped through his back, shredding vital organs, and spilling his precious blood?
Ahead of him he saw a young woman on the road walking directly toward him. She had a rifle in her hands, carried across her body. She appeared to be trying to figure out who he was. When she caught his eye, something gave him away. She had the answer to her question and she raised the rifle in his direction, lining up her shot.
He couldn’t let it end like this, not when freedom was at hand. Thirty yards separated them and he ducked his head behind his horse, banking on the likelihood that this young girl would hesitate to fire on the horse. He was right; she held her fire. The clatter of hooves was getting nearer. An idea came to him, an act of desperation, and he went for it.
It was all he had.
As his horse closed in on the girl, he leapt from its back and onto her. She went down hard, her rifle clattering away toward the shoulder. She screamed and fought hard as Bryan swung around behind her, trying to shield himself from Barb. He pulled the tiny backup pistol from inside his coat, jamming it to the girl’s head as the other woman rode up on them. She reined her horse and came to a stop, her rifle aimed right at him.
“You’ll hit her,” Bryan said, his voice cracking, his mouth dry from sucking air. “You try to shoot me and you’ll hit her.”
“You assume that will stop me,” Barb said. “You okay, Shannon?”
“Not really,” Shannon replied, her voice straining against the arm wrapped around her throat.
“Put down your gun!” Bryan bellowed in a croaking scream that was barely human.
There was the sound of more hooves and then Conor was there too. He swung off his horse, his gun also levelled at Bryan.
“Let the girl go,” Conor said in a firm voice. “You don’t have a chance.”
Bryan’s eyebrows raised at the Irish accent. “It’s you! The Mad Mick himself!”
“It is,” Conor admitted. “Now let her go.”
“Get back on your horses and let me go,” Bryan said, jerking Shannon with his arm as he said it. “If you don’t, I’ll kill her.”
“And you’ll still die,” Barb said. “Just slower.”
Bryan swung the pistol toward Barb. “Then maybe you die too!”
Shannon took advantage of Bryan moving the pistol away from her head. She whipped the knife from her plat
e carrier and plunged it into Bryan’s knee. He screamed as she doubled over hard, like she was doing a sit-up. Shannon’s movement pulled Bryan forward with her, exposing the crown of his head.
Barb fired and Shannon felt Bryan’s body jerk at the impact. Warm blood poured down her neck and back, running beneath her clothes. She squealed and threw herself to the side. Conor put another round in Bryan for good measure, then retrieved the small pistol, cleared it, and shoved it in his thigh pocket.
Barb extended a hand to Shannon and helped her to her feet. Shannon extended her arms to her sides, grossed out and feeling contaminated.
“I’ll check on the others,” Conor said. “Can you help clean her up?”
Barb nodded, made her rifle safe, and shifted the sling to her side. She was helping Shannon doff her body armor when Conor mounted the stolen horse and rode back toward the downed tree. The men caring for the wounded at the booby trapped bridge were all dead or gone. Barb had taken care of them before pursuing Bryan, too busy to fool with taking prisoners.
He left the horse at the tree, climbed back through the maze of branches and stopped to speak into his radio. “Position Three, what’s the status?”
Doc Marty replied in a moment. “Seven prisoners. The rest either dead or getting that way.”
“Roger that,” Conor replied. “What about our people?”
“No casualties. One sprained ankle and one broken wrist. Both from falls.”
“March those prisoners down here so we can find a place to secure them,” Conor said. “It’s time to lick our wounds, grab a meal, and get some rest. We can deal with this mess tomorrow.”
“Anyone heard from Shannon?” Doc Marty asked. “She’s not answering her radio.”
“Had eyes on her a moment ago,” Conor replied. “She’s fit as a fiddle.”
Masters of Mayhem Page 29
