Copperheads - 12

by Joe Nobody

  The SAINT team maintained their defensive position, watching from afar as the two local forces barely avoided a collision. It soon became obvious that the men in the truck were heading for the boat.

  “They’ll strip everything of value off Hannah’s party barge in a matter of minutes,” Grim broadcast, watching as the men from the pickup climbed aboard the abandoned boat. “Are we going to stop them?”

  Bishop peered at his wife and stated, “That’s not why we’re here. That’s not our job.”

  “She is a citizen of the Alliance,” Terri countered. “The boat is her property.”

  The Texan didn’t like it. “So? We’ll tell Sheriff Watts where it's located when we get back. Technically, we are an invading force, leaning way over the edge without a safety net. I don’t want to get my team shot up over some damn boat.”

  “Didn’t you and Nick just invade Oklahoma not long ago?” she reasoned.

  “That was different.”

  “How so?”

  “We were after known … we went to … aww … damn it!” Bishop looked at Kevin, the team leader’s face colored with his obvious frustration. “Let’s form up at Grim and Butter’s location. Let them know we’re all coming in.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  A few minutes later, the SAINT team had gathered less than 50 yards from the pickup parked near the bow of Hannah’s houseboat.

  Bishop detected one of the four locals had remained next to the truck while the other three scouted the beached vessel. “Butter, take out the sentry next to the truck. Don’t kill him, but don’t let him warn the others.”

  “Can I give him a headache, sir?”

  “If necessary. I’m sure your rifle barrel against his ear will do the job. It not, convince him with a bit more enthusiasm.”

  The big man turned to move but then froze when a voice called from the boat back to the pickup. The words were in Spanish.

  “What’s he saying?” Bishop asked his wife.

  Terri started a running commentary, translating the words in a whisper. “This is how they did it!” shouted the man on the boat. “There are boot marks all over the deck. This is how those bastards hit the convoy and got around our people.”

  The man beside the pickup rubbed his chin, obviously deep in thought. Finally, he shouted back, “Torch it,” and then calmly moved for the cab.

  “Torch it? Are you sure?” Bishop asked his wife.

  Terri nodded with enthusiasm. “Yes.”

  “Butter, I’ve got the driver. You stay here with Terri.”

  “Yes, sir,” the junior team member replied, but Bishop was already moving.

  With the driver behind the wheel, Bishop’s job was more difficult. Despite every vehicle having a blind spot in its mirror system, it was nearly impossible to tell exactly where that opportune avenue of approach was located.

  Fortunately for the SAINT team, the vehicle hadn’t been parked in a spot selected for its defensive attributes. There was a significant growth of mesquite and scrub elm less than 10 feet from the driver’s door. Bishop was soon behind that patch of shrubbery, keeping the head-high vegetation between him and the truck’s occupant during the approach.

  The last bit of open space, he decided after a chest full of air, was best crossed with a full head of steam.

  Pulling down his balaclava and snapping the carbine to his shoulder, Bishop unsafed the weapon and moved toward the pickup at an extremely brisk walk. The occupant never saw him coming, the driver’s attention focused on his comrades and the boat.

  That quickly changed when Bishop’s rifle barrel pressed against the man’s temple. “Did I just hear you order those men to torch my boat?” the Texan growled.

  The man jerked, but not too much, his hand automatically reaching for the pistol lying in the nearby seat. He stopped the movement just as Bishop’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Don’t do it, my friend. You’ll never make it.”

  “No hablo English, Señor,” the driver mumbled.

  Bishop didn’t believe him. “That’s too bad, because if I see smoke coming from my boat, I’m going to scatter your brains all over the inside of this nice Dodge truck.”

  The man inhaled and then shouted a string of orders in Spanish. Grim’s voice sounded in Bishop’s ear, “Terri says he told his men to stop and come to the front of the boat.”

  “I want you and Butter up here with me. Kevin and Terri are to stay back and cover us,” Bishop ordered in a whisper.

  The Texan then pushed the barrel of his weapon tighter against his prisoner’s head, “Don’t be stupid and you’ll live another day. Test me and you will die. Clear?”

  “Yes, Señor. Are you one of the vigilantes? Are your men the ones who killed the truckers?”

  The question caused a deep frown to furrow Bishop’s face. Surely, the man pinned by his blaster was one of the culprits? The Texan decided the guy was already cooking up an alibi.

  The three men on the boat appeared just then, moving toward the bow cautiously, their AK47 battle rifles up and ready. Bishop was about to give his hostage instructions concerning those weapons when first one and then an entire salvo of shots rang out.

  Bishop knew in an instant that the angler’s friends had arrived.

  One of the boatmen fell in withering agony as incoming rounds pinged and slapped the vessel’s fiberglass hull and steel railings.

  More lead slammed into the pickup, the Texan diving for cover as the Dodge’s sheet metal and glass absorbed a wave of high-velocity punishment.

  Bishop rolled hard, tiny eruptions of Mexican soil chasing him as he scrambled for the lowest spot he could see.

  Now the AKs from the boat were singing their song, the return fire drawing the attention of new arrivals, prompting others to duck for cover. Sensing a lull, the Texan gathered himself for a mad dash back to the safety of his team. He had just reached a knee when his former hostage hit the ground beside the truck in a tangled heap. Blood poured from the man’s shoulder, his face cringing in pain.

  For half a second, Bishop didn’t care. He was convinced the wounded man was a murdering son-of-a-bitch and wasn’t worth risking a hangnail, let alone getting shot.

  Then a flash of memory rolled through the Texan’s mind. He remembered the exchange between the wounded man and his men on the boat. “This is how those bastards hit the convoy.…”

  Frustrated, wanting badly to go home, and desperate to get Terri out of what now had become an active combat zone, Bishop made up his mind to get some answers and then get the hell out of Dodge.

  With three quick steps, he grabbed the wounded guy’s good arm and pulled the bleeding fellow to his feet. “Come on,” Bishop barked. “This way.”

  A blizzard of lead was flying between Hannah’s boat and the local villagers. While outnumbered three to one, the waterborne shooters were far better armed.

  All of this passed through the background of Bishop’s consciousness as he pulled, pushed, and helped his wounded hostage back toward friendly lines. Halfway there, the man’s legs gave out, his complexion as gray as the local sands. “You’re going into shock from blood loss,” the Texan informed his prisoner.

  Doing a quick check of the man’s soaked shirt and shattered shoulder, Bishop grumbled, “Fuck! Am I going to have to carry your big, smelly ass?”

  There wasn’t any response. With a deep sigh, the Texan swung his carbine around to his back and hissed, “I sure hope you are worth the effort.”

  Growing angrier by the second, Bishop took a deep breath, bending in preparation to heft the sizeable bandito onto his shoulder. The sound of a boot scraping across the soil caused the Texan to pause.

  Butter was there, Grim right beside him. As the senior SAINT member covered their egress, Butter scooped up the prisoner like he was a small child and then glanced at his leader. “You okay, Boss?”

  Before Bishop could answer, a bullet cracked by the team’s heads, their movements evidently drawing unwanted attention.
/>   “Yeah. I’m good. Let’s go!” Bishop responded, hustling for cover.

  Two minutes later, the panting trio, along with their prisoner, arrived to find a diligent, worried, Terri with Kevin. Her smile made it was clear the missus was happy to see her husband unscathed.

  “Talk to him,” Bishop said to his wife. “Find out what in the hell is going on around here. Butter, see if you can slow down his bleeding long enough for us to get some Intel.”

  Terri studied the stranger for a moment as Butter tore open the blood-soaked shirt.

  “Why are the villagers shooting at you?” her first question fired.

  “They do not like us, pretty lady. Are you an angel? Have I already passed to the other side?”

  “And why don’t they like you?”

  The wounded fellow actually tried a shrug but regretted it. Sucking a chest full of air, he winced from the pain. “Why? I’m not sure. I don’t think they like any strangers.”

  “Why did you attack the convoy of trucks?” Terri pressed.

  For the first time, the fellow on the ground seemed to be taking her seriously, his eyes boring into Terri with an intense focus. “We did not shoot up the trucks! They were our customers. We sold them the food.”

  Terri kept her expression neutral, reacting with no more than a tilt of her head. “So did the villagers ambush the trucks?” she asked, nodding in the direction of the distant gunfire.

  Again, his movement caused the stranger a gasp of pain. “No,” he finally managed as Butter’s hands moved quickly trying to stem the flow of blood pouring from the wound. “They are not capable of such a thing,” he continued with a dismissive tone.

  Terri wasn’t sure why, but she believed him. “Then who murdered those men on the dam?”

  Before he could answer, Kevin’s voice sounded with urgency, “Sir! I’ve got movement … a third party … at least 20 men. It looks like the village is sending reinforcements.”

  Bishop’s head snapped around, his gaze moving in the direction where Kevin’s sniper rifle pointed. Again, the Texan took control of the big optic, scanning a larger group of very old and very young men, all carrying an assortment of ragtag weapons. It reminded him of pictures of the German Army toward the end of WWII when all of that nation’s prime manpower had been consumed – the village was scraping the bottom of the barrel. It didn’t matter, however. A rusty shotgun was as deadly as a well-oiled blaster. “Shit, we’re going to get caught in the middle.”

  The team’s leader then turned to watch Butter work. “Can he be moved?”

  The big man didn’t speak, instead flashing a look that said, “No. He’s not going to make it much longer anyway.”

  Terri caught it as well, moving closer to the dying man’s face and demanding his attention. “So who attacked the truckers?”

  “Qu … Quay,” sounded a weak gasp.

  “Who?” Terri asked.

  There wasn’t any answer. The light had left the man’s eyes.

  “He’s gone,” Butter announced, shaking his head and then moving to repack his medical gear.

  “Damn it,” Terri hissed. “Who are the Quays?”

  “Vigilantes,” Bishop responded, his eyes scanning the perimeter. “That’s what one of the guys on the boat said.”

  “I know that,” Terri replied. “But who are they? Where are they?”

  Her husband didn’t answer, his head pivoting between the gunfight at the boat and the approaching men from the village. “We have to move.”

  “No shit,” Grim snapped. “This place is getting crowded. Which way, boss?”

  Bishop was about to announce his decision when the distant gunfire abruptly stopped. Every Alliance ear focused toward the shore, waiting and hoping for another round to ignite the next phase of the battle. Nothing but the light morning breeze reached their ears.

  Grim and Bishop exchanged knowing looks. “This ain’t good,” the ex-contractor warned.

  “No kidding,” the Texan concurred.

  “What?” Terri asked, not understanding.

  “One side or the other has won,” her husband explained. “If it was our dead friend’s compadres, they’re going to come looking for him. If his enemies claimed victory, they’re going to come looking for him. Either way, we’re in the wrong place at a very bad time.”

  “East,” Bishop then announced. “Grim, take point. Same formation we used on the way in. We’ll go east for a mile or two and then cut north for Texas.”

  “Roger that,” Grim said, hefting his pack and weapon. “Give me five minutes’ head start. I assume you want to cover some ground until we’re clear of the local festivities.”

  Bishop nodded, “Yup. Get us out of here. Speed is life right now.”

  Without another word, Grim moved off.

  Only a few minutes had passed before the veteran’s voice sounded on the radio. “Too late, Bishop. They’ve already cut us off. We can’t go east unless you want to fight your way through.”

  “Damn it! I was afraid of that,” the Texan hissed into his mic. “Get back here.”

  “What’s going on?” Terri questioned, her husband’s expression causing even more concern.

  “We can’t go west because of the reservoir,” Bishop pointed. “We can’t go north because of the fisherman’s uncle and his friends. It’s a bad idea to head south and deeper into Mexico. Now the new group of villagers has us cut off. We’re surrounded … in a way.”

  Grim reappeared, running at a slow jog. “There are at least 20 of them, spread out in a picket line and heading our direction. We’ve got three, maybe four minutes before they spot us.”

  Nodding his understanding, Bishop turned back toward the north and then slowly scanned the lake area. “Hope somebody brought sunscreen, ‘cause we are heading out for a boat ride.”

  “Huh?” Grim questioned.

  “Let’s take Hannah back her boat … or at least what’s left of it. The engines should be okay – right?”

  Grim had to think about that one for a bit, finally nodding his head. “I suppose. But what about the villagers? I don’t think they’re just going to let us sail away into the sunset.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. If anybody has a better idea, I’m all ears,” Bishop countered.

  “What are you doing, Bishop? We’re not going to kill those people, are we?” Terri asked.

  “No. We’ll see if we can sneak past them, and if not, Kevin will slow them down long enough so we can get by,” Bishop said, then added, “at least that’s the plan.”

  Just then, an excited voice sounded behind the SAINT team, a quick burst of Spanish announcing the arrival of the larger group.

  “Time to move!” Bishop barked, waving everyone toward the lake.

  Hustling ahead, Grim took his standard position at point. He was soon followed by the short column of Alliance personnel.

  They passed through a series of drainage gullies, large ditches cut by runoff pulled toward the reservoir. “Let’s hope we can stay out of their sights until we reach the boat.…”

  His words were cut off by the whiz and crack of two bullets snapping overhead, immediately followed by a series of excited, shouting men.

  Diving for cover, the team from Texas crawled and scurried to the nearest cover, weapons coming into play as everyone searched for a target.

  Bishop almost shot Grim as he came flying over a low crest, a string of bullets chasing the ex-contractor as he hit the ground sliding like a baseball player trying to steal a base.

  “Fuck!” Grim snarled, rolling back to face the enemy and wiping a thick coating of Mexican soil from his face. “We ran right into them.”

  “So I see,” Bishop responded, ducking as someone up the draw managed a close shot. “Nice job picking the route, old buddy.”

  After spitting a mouthful of grit, Grim threw a scowl at his friend, “What? What the hell do you mean, ‘nice job?’ It sure as shit wasn’t my idea to try and hijack the boat.”

  Before Bis
hop could return the banter, the incoming fire increased in tempo, pushing the Alliance members lower into the sandy earth. Butter, watching their rear, made things worse.

  “They’re coming up behind us, sir. The gunshots are guiding them in.”

  Bishop locked eyes with his wife, sending an unspoken message – we’re in trouble here. Serious trouble. Instead of vocalizing the obvious, he said, “I didn’t want this. You know I tried to avoid it – right?”

  She nodded.

  The pain was obvious in Bishop’s eyes. Regret. The look of a man who was about to do something evil and was already asking for forgiveness.

  Terri understood immediately. The nightmares. The memories that haunted her husband every night. Yet, like so many times before, he had no choice.

  Bishop got down to business. “Kevin, push them back and keep them down. Try to scare them for the first few shots … chase them away. Terri, you and Butter hold off the guys on our ass. Keep them back. Grim and I are going to flank the gentlemen to our front. Remember, people, we only want to break through, not be the cause of the second massacre this week. Questions?”

  There were none.

  Terri was rolling to join the big kid while Kevin found good support for his rifle. Grim looked at Bishop and said, “Right or left?”

  “Left … south … they’ll be expecting us to try and go north.”

  With the exchange of a simple nod, the two SAINT men pushed off just as Kevin’s rifle roared its first shot.

  Bishop and Grim moved quickly, both men instinctively using their ears to track the escalating firefight behind while using their eyes to scan for trouble ahead.

  Crawling up rises and sliding down into trenches, the duo worked in perfect unison, one always covering the other’s movements and ready to engage. Never were both exposed, seldom were both moving at the same moment.

  Behind them, Bishop tracked Terri and Butter’s rate of fire. He knew if either side of the pincher were going to overrun his team, it would be the larger group.

  For a split second, the Texan was again filled with pride. He knew that even the best-trained soldiers would find it difficult to control their rate of fire when finding themselves in such a tight spot. His wife and the kid were in the fight, but their shots were regulated, disciplined, and hopefully selected with care. There was no rhythm of panic, no hailstorm of wasted ammunition.