Copperheads - 12

by Joe Nobody

  Bishop looked at his wife, a glass of water halfway to his lips. Terri shrugged and then fixed her gaze on Bella. “I was afraid you would say that.”

  With a swift, smooth motion, Terri reached into her boot and withdrew a small automatic pistol. When Castro spied the weapon, he immediately reached for his waistband.

  Bishop reared back and threw the heavy crystal tumbler. Just as Castro’s hand was bringing his pistol up, the whizzing, glass missile smashed against his head with enough force that the bodyguard stumbled backward while grunting with pain.

  The plantation strongman shook his head to recover but not fast enough.

  In a flash, Bishop was on him, three rabbit punches landing in a drum-like cadence. Reeling backward, trying to get away from the stinging blows, Castro stumbled and dropped his weapon.

  The near-fall gave the security chief some much-needed space between himself and the charging Texan, Castro putting it to good use. Recovering from the speed and surprise of Bishop’s assault, Castro now set himself, ready to meet the attack on more even terms. Rolling his weight to a back foot, the Mexican’s left leg sailed through the air in a perfect roundhouse kick, the arch of his boot on a perfect trajectory for Bishop’s chin.

  The Texan, however, wasn’t there, and Castro’s powerful strike found nothing but empty air.

  Bishop was already moving again, sidestepping the incoming kick and moving closer to Castro as the enforcer tried to regain his balance.

  A brutal punch landed against Castro’s ear, and then the heel of the Texan’s boot struck the larger man in the side of his knee with bone shattering force. Howling in agony, Bella Dona’s bodyguard dropped down, withering in pain as he collapsed to the floor.

  Like a wolf smelling blood, Bishop bounded in for the kill. Stepping on Castro’s wrist, the Texan raised his other foot, clearly taking aim at the downed man’s throat and preparing to unleash a vicious coup de grace.

  “You’re not very good,” Bishop stated with emotionless eyes. “But then again, your kind never are.”

  “Stop! Please!” Bella Dona whimpered, ignoring Terri’s pistol pushing against her head.

  “How tender,” Bishop grunted, never taking his eyes off the prone man under his boot. “Honor among the evil. How many of your slaves begged for mercy? How many souls pleaded for their lives right before this piece of shit killed them?”

  Not waiting for an answer, Bishop reached down and grabbed a handful of Castro’s ponytail, dragging the groaning man across the floor. The enforcer’s pistol was in Bishop’s hand a moment later.

  No sooner had the guard backed out of the door than Castro found his voice, “You’ll never get off this plantation. You are already dead. Even if you kill us, my men will tear you apart.”

  “Perhaps,” Terri shrugged. “If that’s true, then we have nothing to lose – right?”

  Bella Dona said, “Stop this, please. If you let Castro and me go, I will free the prisoners and allow all of you safe passage from the plantation.”

  “It’s too late for that,” Terri replied. “You had your chance. I can’t trust you, and I’m the one holding the gun.”

  “So what happens now?” Bella Dona asked.

  “We wait,” Bishop replied, pulling up a chair where he could keep an eye on Castro. “I hope you didn’t have big plans for this evening because we’re not going anywhere.”

  “It’s time,” Grim stated, peering at his watch.

  “Now or never,” Kevin nodded, turning to hustle away for his assigned position.

  “Good luck, men,” Grim said to the gathered truckers.

  The sleepy encampment suddenly came alive, hustling shadows moving in every direction at the edge of the campfires.

  For the past week, Grim had ordered the truckers to start their engines every night at dusk, pretending to charge the rig’s batteries and keep the engines lubricated. To the plantation’s militia in the surrounding hills, the cranking motors were nothing new.

  Kevin found his sniper rifle right where he left it 30 minutes ago. Slinging the long-range weapon, he began climbing to the top of a trailer.

  Reaching the roof, he crawled to the low ring of sandbags that had been his station during the drive south from Texas. It was a well-constructed nest, with good cover and excellent bracing. His motions were smooth and confident, practiced every night since Grim had hatched their escape plan.

  As he chambered a round into the rifle’s breech, the audible whoosh of a huge fireball rolled across the camp. Men were scurrying along the perimeter with torches, setting gasoline-soaked brush and gathered firewood ablaze. Grim had called them blocking fires and smoke screens.

  A wall of flames rose between the Diesel Rivera and the surrounding forces. In moments, the blaze began to die down, but that was by design. A thick, grey smoke began to rise, blocking the plantation men’s view of the encampment on the north side.

  With even, measured motions, Kevin adjusted his aim, bringing the armored unit to the south into the crosshairs of his optic. The high outcropping was an anthill of activity now, the images of men darting here and there indicating that the alarm had been sounded.

  Kevin watched a man climbing on top of the tracked gun, heading for the cannon that protruded like an insect’s stinger from the turret. For a passing moment, he was tempted to knock the man off the machine before he could reach the deadly weapon, but that wasn’t his job tonight.

  Instead, he lowered his aim slowly, moving down the steep, rock face under the APC’s tracks. He bypassed a machine gun emplacement, several sandbagged fighting holes, and dozens of scrambling men.

  Finally, the crosshairs happened upon a single, tiny, glowing strip of tape. The fluorescent green hue was less than an inch square, yet its ghostly presence was like a neon sign in the powerful optic.

  Kevin had done the math over a dozen times. He knew the exact distance to the target, had measured and verified the angle. There was no wind. The humidity wasn’t a factor.

  He centered the crosshairs on the tape and moved his finger to the trigger. A roll of socks was taped to the rifle’s buttstock, the padding designed to keep as much of the twitching, throbbing, shaking, inhaling human body away from the weapon as possible.

  Only Kevin’s cheek and trigger finger touched the long-range tool. He began to control his breathing and relax every muscle in his body. He was a puddle of goo, a boneless, muscle-less bag of liquid with one moveable part – his finger.

  He squeezed gently on the trigger, gradually building the pressure. The shot was just over 800 yards. Not an incredible distance for a man of his skill and training, but the target was very small.

  The rifle roared, the powerful bullet splitting the air at supersonic speeds.

  The distance and elevation required a lobed, arching trajectory, gravity and air friction bleeding the energy from bullet the moment it exited the muzzle.

  Almost a full second later, Kevin knew his aim had been true.

  Grim had mixed the fuse, a concoction of chemicals, gasoline, and rags. It had taken the old warrior three nights of sneaking through the enemy’s lines to carry and plant the explosives.

  Kevin watched the telltale spark and flash as the fuse burned. Soon the strobing illumination increased in intensity as multiple lines of burning cloth branched and forked their way to the bombs.

  “Pipe bombs aren’t very potent against armor,” Grim had informed the younger man. “Smokeless powder, like we removed from the ammo, doesn’t accelerate enough to generate much of a kill radius. Against armor, it is practically worthless.”

  Grim, however, had a better use. “Ever heard of a Bangalore torpedo?”

  Kevin had indeed heard of the weapon. “Isn’t it a tube of explosives used by engineers to clear mine fields and other obstacles?”

  “Yup, sure is. We’re going to make our own Bangalore torpedoes, son. And we’re going to remove one big-ass obstacle.”

  The 25mm cannon on top of the APC opened fire just t
hen, distracting Kevin from the sizzling fuses. Quickly adjusting his weapon, the SAINT shooter found the outline of the tracked war machine and soon had his crosshairs centered on the man-shape at the top of the turret.

  Squeezing the trigger as before, Kevin was about to send the shot when his optic was bleached white by the explosion.

  Over 100 pounds of tightly packed gunpowder exploded at that instant, compressed into nooks and cracks within the rock face. A curtain of earth, stone, and dust erupted from the beneath the heavy armored vehicle, blasted into the air by Grim’s Bangalore pipes.

  The explosion was a sign for the truckers to roll. At the same moment, the convoy’s two belt-fed weapons began peppering the surrounding militia with automatic fire, a shroud of deadly lead showering the now confused troops in the hills.

  Kevin’s job was to engage the armored vehicle to the south, just in case Grim’s improvised explosive device failed to do the job. The SAINT sharpshooter felt the trailer beneath him begin to roll, relieved that the convoy was moving.

  When the dust finally began to settle, Kevin had to smile. The tracked APC was still on the hilltop but was no longer a threat. Half of the outcropping that had been supporting the heavy armored unit had been blown to bits. The earth could no longer support its weight. The armored vehicle was lying helpless on its side, a great wounded beast in its final throes of death.

  Gunfire raked the convoy, the plantation’s forces now recovering from the shock and awe of Grim’s pyrotechnics. The pickups surged forward, raking the dismounted troops with deadly fire. Kevin and the other trailer top shooters joined their comrades as the trucks began to pick up speed.

  The incoming fire grew intense, bullets sparking off the metal trailer and whacking into the sandbag wall that surrounded Kevin. One of the lead semis was on fire now, another swerving side to side and finally slamming into the ditch and erupting in a ball of flame. Grim had warned that causalities were inevitable.

  Neon lines of red and green fire filled the air, tracers coming in and going out. There were shouted orders, the screams of the wounded, and explosions all around.

  Kevin was working his weapon as fast as he could find targets, firing at muzzle flashes, shadows, and anything that moved along their path.

  The lead trucks had been modified, up-armored with sand bags, shielding the doors of their trailers and even spare tires and wheels. They needed every inch of plating, every extra pound of protection.

  Then, much to the surprise of the militia commanders, the lead truck made an unexpected move.

  Rather than turning north and making a run for Texas, the column of rolling iron ventured south toward the plantation.

  So shocked were the local troops, they temporarily stopped shooting and began staring at their officers with puzzled, confused eyes.

  The pace and rhythm of battle changed in that moment. Despite being outnumbered and outgunned, the convoy shooters managed to get over the top, pouring more rounds into the enemy than were being received.

  Under Castro’s strict orders, the ring around the gringo trucks had been far stronger along the northern side. That’s where the trucks would attempt to run. That was the direction where help from Texas would arrive. That was where Castro concentrated his assets.

  The first truck slammed into the two pickups forming the roadblock at 40 miles per hour, shredding the lighter vehicles into scrap and throwing the defenders over a hundred feet through the air. The convoy poured semi after semi through the newly created opening, guns blazing in every direction.

  Kevin knew they had punched through when the blizzard of lead suddenly stopped. Now, nothing but fresh, cool night air was flying past his head.

  “I sure the hell hope you know what you’re doing, Grim,” the kid whispered to the moon.

  Still, he had to admit – it was good to be going on the offensive. He just hoped the militia they had left behind wouldn’t catch up too quickly.

  April awoke with a start, her groggy head trying to determine if the noise had been a dream or reality. Before she could even rub the sleep from her eyes, another muffled explosion rolled across the fields like a distant thunderstorm approaching from the north.

  In fact, April would have thought the noise was nothing more than the weather if it weren’t for the nearly continuous crackling and popping sounds. Any survivor of the apocalypse recognized gunfire. A memory burned into the brain’s core, it was a sound no one ever forgot.

  Her deepest fears were confirmed when she rushed to her door and peered into the barracks. There she observed dozens of frightened faces staring toward the north. There were hushed whispers laced with fear, a few of the braver souls actually standing and staring toward the source of the noise.

  April’s first thought was of the huge man being held prisoner with May. Were the Texans coming to rescue their friend? It was clear from the noise outside that a battle was being fought. Would the fighting come to the Castle?

  Without any sort of plan or forethought, April threw on her clothes and sandals. Some unexplainable force was drawing her toward May. She had to help her sister.

  From building #11 to the detention center was only a distance of a few city blocks, yet April stayed in the shadows and advanced carefully. Being outside after hours was against the rules. If she were discovered, the punishment would be severe. Only the security forces were allowed outside of the barracks.

  The occasional torches that served as streetlights only illuminated small pools of earth here and there. April was careful, lingering in the darkness, peeking carefully around corners before crossing any open spaces.

  Pounding footsteps gave her a fright, but the two security men running past didn’t even glance her way. In the distance, she could hear shouting but couldn’t make out the words. A cloud of stress hung over the plantation.

  By the time she was enroute to Castro’s office, the distant gunfire had ceased. However, she quickened her steps when she noticed the foreboding glow from a large inferno on the north horizon. Suddenly, chaos ruled the night … more shouting, followed by another group of hurrying men, the distant rumble of an engine, and then eerie silence.

  For the first time since she’d been in Mexico, April found Castro’s office vacant. Even if the headman weren’t on duty, there was always someone sitting at the heavy, oak desk. The chair was empty and cold.

  Mustering every ounce of courage she had, April ventured further inside toward the metal door that led to the cells at the rear of the building. Again, she was stunned. No one was guarding the hall. “What on earth is going on?” she whispered. “Has the whole world gone insane?”

  A radical thought then occurred to April, a concept so foreign to her thinking that she worried for a moment about her own rationality. Even if she could open May’s cell, there was no place to take her sister – no place to hide a fugitive.

  Yet, this was an opportunity. She had never seen this building unguarded. She had never felt such a sense of panic surging through the plantation. She had to act.

  In desperation, she struggled to recall minute details of the last time she’d last seen Castro. He had been seated at his desk, cleaning the big Texan’s rifle. There were no clues in that previous conversation. No threats, hints, or predictions.

  April stared at the desk hard, noting the bottle of cleaning fluid still sitting exactly where it had been before.

  Her mind traveled back in time, to an evening not long after her arrival at the plantation. Castro had brought her to this facility, partially to impress her, partially to assert his authority, but mostly to frighten the new woman that held his interest.

  He had given her a tour of the cells, shown her the interrogation room complete with its horrible array of saws, pliers, sharp instruments, and a wooden floor stained purple from the blood that had been spilled. She remembered how the walls stank of pain, suffering, and fear. She briefly wondered why such a place was necessary. “Follow our law, be accommodating to me, and you will never have t
o visit this room,” he had warned.

  When they returned to the front office, he had grabbed her roughly, bent her over his desk, and begun to satisfy his needs. So vigorous was his pounding into her flesh, the desk had begun to scoot and scrape across the floor.

  When he had fallen off her, exhausted and panting, April had noticed a floorboard had been jarred loose. There was a compartment hidden there. She could see the handle of a pistol, some papers, and a ring of keys.

  She had forgotten about Castro’s secret vault until now. Not knowing what else to do, she ducked behind his desk and began searching for the stash.

  A minute later, she discovered the opening, easily lifting the two slats of wooden flooring away to reveal a sizeable partition. Inside she found the Texan’s rifle, along with several magazines of ammunition and a variety of personal effects. A set of keys was resting under the heavy weapon.

  She had seen the huge man from Texas in combat, had watched horrified as he had thrown Castro’s enforcers around like they were children fighting a wild bear. He had been trying to take her some place. He and her sister had a plan of escape. Did the big soldier know how to get out? Would he still be willing to help?

  She grabbed the keys and the weapon, struggling to lift the heavy rifle and ammunition. A moment later, she was at his door, fumbling for the right key to undo the lock.

  Butter had heard the distant battle as well, rising from his bunk as the muffled sounds of gunfire and explosions had drifted through his cell wall. “Is Mr. Bishop really coming for me? Is he going to give me a second chance?”

  The thought gave the big kid a renewed optimism, the need to survive now rushing through his core. “Everyone makes mistakes,” he announced to the empty room. “Miss Terri knows I’m a good person.”

  The hope of rescue fueled Butter’s mind with positivity. He wanted to set things right and enjoy his life again. He wanted to live.

  The rattle of the keys outside his cell sent him back to his bunk. He would play possum, draw the guards in, disable them, and make his escape.