by Joe Nobody
Bishop glanced at the map, “So, can you describe Robinson’s garage? What type of building is it?”
“It’s one of those inexpensive metal buildings, nothing fancy at all. Old man Robinson did more welding and equipment repair than anything else. He closed it up about six years ago when the economy got real bad. He died a few years later, and I think the county owns the place now since no one paid the taxes.”
The younger cowboy jumped in, “It sits all by itself off of the exit. Country Road 413 runs through here,” and the man pointed at the map. “It’s very isolated out there. If I were of a criminal mind and needed a hideout, I couldn’t think of a better place.”
Bishop studied the map again, memorizing as much as he could. He glanced up at Nick and asked, “What do you think?”
“I think you and I are going to walk I-10 again, my friend. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Bishop nodded. “I think the first step is to verify they’re actually there. Once I get a look at the place, we can decide what to do.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Bishop turned and looked at the gathered men. “I want to thank each and every one of you for volunteering to help. I won’t forget it. I think for tonight, Nick and I should go scout the place out. If we all go charging in there, they might hurt Terri. Nick and I’ll be back by sunrise, and we’ll determine the best plan of action then. You all go home and get some sleep—we may need you in the morning.”
Several of the men approached Bishop and patted him on the back or shook his hand. Every one of the men pledged to do anything Bishop needed to get his wife back.
After the meeting had broken up, Bishop turned to Pete and said, “I’ve got another issue. Nick and I used a lot of gas in the truck today. I’m not sure I’ve got enough left to make two round trips. Any ideas?”
Nick chimed in, “You could use some of Pete’s bathtub gin—that shit would power the space shuttle.”
Pete thought for a moment and replied, “No problem—just go down to the gas station and inquire about bartering for some fuel.”
“I’m not sure I’ve got anything with me of value, Pete. Roberto is a tough customer.”
“You’ve done business with him before. I’m sure your credit’s good.”
Bishop and Nick loaded up their gear in the back of the truck and drove the few blocks to Meraton’s only gas station. The place had been turned into what could only be described as a fort. Old cars and trucks ringed the facility, creating a wall. Barbwire, bartered from local ranchers, was woven throughout the barricade making access to the liquid gold stored in Roberto’s belowground tanks very difficult. Bishop pointed to the ever-present sniper on the roof and commented, “Roberto has a lot of kids. They sleep up there during good weather.”
A new protocol for requesting service had been established, thanks in no small part to the numerous attempts by various passersby to rob the place. Bishop stopped the truck in the middle of Main and honked twice.
A flashlight beam could be seen swinging back and forth behind the car-fence, evidence that someone was responding to the greeting. Before long, a voice called out, “Senor Bishop? Is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me, Roberto. Sorry to bother you so late.”
Shadows played through a small gap in the barrier, and then an armed man approached the truck. “Senor Bishop, what can Roberto do for you?”
“Roberto, I need gasoline. My wife, Terri, has been kidnapped, and we think we know where she’s being held. I’ve been driving too much lately and am running low.”
The thick-build Latino nodded his head, “Yes, senor, I heard about Miss Terri. I’m so sorry. I would be happy to give you some gas as she was always so kind to my children.”
“Roberto, I don’t have anything with me to barter with. I promise I’ll make it up to you later if we can come to an agreement.”
The station owner got an odd look on his face, apparently having trouble understanding Bishop’s intent. Finally, the translation registered and he began shaking his head. “Mister Bishop, Roberto will give you gasoline to contribute to the rescue. I’m only sorry my age and family do not allow me to accompany you to get Miss Terri.”
Without waiting on Bishop to answer, Roberto turned and yelled a few short bursts of Spanish toward the station. More flashlight beams began sweeping the area, and in a few minutes, two teenage boys slid through the opening, each carrying a five-gallon, red plastic can.
Roberto turned to Bishop and said, “Senor, if I may ask you to turn off the truck please. Sometimes a little fuel spills when using the cans. A fire would not be good.”
Bishop did as he was asked, the irony of it all making him smile. Here he was, parked in the middle of the street, the truck loaded with weapons of war, begging for a few gallons of gas to rescue his wife from kidnappers. He had an ex-Green Beret sitting next to him, and the visit to the gas-fortress was no doubt being covered by at least one sniper rifle. All of this, and Roberto wanted him to turn off the truck for safety sake. What a world we live in, he thought.
Bishop exited the cab and helped the two lads pour the fuel into the truck while Nick and Roberto talked about the latest Ford V-8 and how Caddy’s just weren’t what they used to be.
When the cans were empty, Bishop thanked the boys and turned to Roberto. The two men shook hands while Roberto said, “Senor, if that isn’t enough, please come back. We like Miss Terri mucho and want to help if we can.”
As he and Nick got back in the cab, the big man turned to Bishop and commented, “You should be nicer to people, Bishop. Terri’s probably getting tired of carrying your unsocial ass all of the time.”
Bishop responded with a grunt and put the truck in gear.
The men sat in silence eating the MREs. There wasn’t any problem between them, no ill feelings or issues unresolved. They had simply sat together and performed the same ritual so many times there wasn’t anything that needed to be said.
Deke finally rose from his perch and walked to a nearby drum to toss in his empty paper. Strolling to a cardboard carton, he looked at his watch and stated, “It’s time to feed the woman. Do you think she would like the meat loaf or the beef stew?”
“Why don’t you drape a napkin over your arm and go take her order. You might need the practice being a waiter before this is all over.”
Grunting, Deke bent and dug around in the box, eventually settling on the meat loaf because it was the most edible served cold. After making his selection, he looked up and commanded, “Well, come on.”
Moses sighed and lifted his rifle. It was a rule that no one had contact with a prisoner alone. As the two men walked to the makeshift cell, the escort noted Deke’s selection. “You’re going to give that to her cold?”
“Oh, now who’s the old softie? What? We should heat it for her?”
Stopping, Moses reached into his pocket and produced a chunk of C4 explosive. Unwrapping the soap-like substance, the guard took his knife and sliced off a small portion. “We’re not animals,” he commented.
At the door, the Deke yelled inside, “Move to the far corner if you want to eat.”
Removing the steel crossbar and opening the door, both men stayed back until it was verified Terri had complied and moved to the far corner. Stepping inside, Deke dropped the MRE on the floor and then lit the C4 with a metal lighter. The dangerous plastic flared, burning steadily with a yellow hue. “Use this to heat this meal. It will burn long enough if you hurry.”
He then checked the water in the milk jug, noting the woman had consumed a few inches of the liquid.
Backing out, the men replaced the bar and returned to the main area of the garage.
“Any word on when the client is going to be here?” One of the others asked.
“In the next few days is all I know. Our instructions are to keep the girl here until he arrives.”
A grimace crossed the face of the man, an unusual display of emotion that didn’t pass unnoticed by the leader.
“What’s up, Chief? Why the sour puss?”
“I don’t know, Deke. This job just feels wrong. I’m up for a snatch and grab as much as the next operator, but this one ain’t sitting well with me. That lady in there ain’t no drug dealer … or terrorist mastermind. Hell, she reminds me of my sister.”
“You know the rules, Chief. We do what we’re hired to do—it’s just a job.”
One of the other men chimed in, “He’s just pissy because he took one in the chest from her pistol. That bullet bouncing off his armor must have stirred up some pussification inside. Next thing ya know, he’ll be looking at all our asses and wanting to decorate the place.”
Chief turned to his antagonist and grabbed his crotch, “I got your decorations . . . right here, bitch.”
Muffled chuckles sounded around the group. Deke, always observing his command, couldn’t let it go. “Chief, ignore that fuckstick—that’s an order. Now explain to me what’s rolling around inside that overprotected cranial cavity of yours.”
“Oh, come on, Deke. You know exactly what I’m talking about. This isn’t our typical gig.”
“Chief’s right,” added another, “It’s like we’re playing some sort of high school social game here. I think this job smells more of someone’s personal vendetta than protection.”
Deke thought about the team’s growing sentiment. If he were to be honest with the men, he would have to admit to having similar feelings. This entire contract was way, way out of their normal line of business. But, then again, their normal line of business didn’t exist anymore.
“Look, guys,” Deke began. “I hear you, and have to agree. One thing we’ve got to keep in perspective is that the world has changed. Most of the rules have evaporated. How we used to make a living doesn’t exist anymore.”
Bishop and Nick had a much longer drive than the horseman had ridden. Going cross-country as the crow flies with off-road vehicles and horses was a much shorter distance than taking the rare highway in this part of the world.
Bishop removed the fuses from the pickup’s electrical system so they could drive without brake, interior or dash lights and accidently giving away their position. Using his night vision monocle to steer while Nick rode ready to rise out of the sunroof with his rifle, the truck became as stealthy and protected as was reasonable.
Traveling down the highway at night without headlights took a little getting used to, and Bishop could sense the nervousness in Nick’s voice. “So if you’re not using headlights, how do bears and moose and stuff know the truck’s coming?”
Bishop laughed, “I don’t know about moose, I’ve not seen any around these parts for a while. I don’t think bears aren’t nocturnal, and deer see well at night. I think the lack of headlights probably lets them get out of the way without being a ‘deer caught in the headlights.’”
Despite having Terri’s night vision pressed against his eye, Nick wasn’t convinced. “Bishop, this just seems like a bad idea. You’re going what, 50 miles per hour and using that little scope? How will other cars see you?”
“What other cars? Jeez, Nick, we’re out in the middle of the desert after the shit has hit the fan. I’ve not seen a car on these roads since those Colombians. They would use their headlights.”
“Well. . . . Okay. . . . If you say so.”
“You’ll get used to it, or end up with a black eye. You shouldn’t press that thing so hard against your skull, buddy. If you break it, Terri’s going to kick your ass.”
“What are you doing looking at me? Keep your eyes on the road, damnit!”
Bishop couldn’t resist, and pushed down on the gas pedal, the truck accelerating to almost 70.
“Okay, okay, okay. I’ll shut up - just slow down, please.”
A few hours later, Bishop pulled the pickup to the side of I-10. This part of West Texas was sparsely populated, and while rare, abandoned cars did exist along the interstate. Bishop declared, “According to this map, the exit is about two miles ahead, just around that next bend. I wanted to stay back because I’m pretty sure these guys will have night vision and possibly thermal imaging. It would suck to announce ourselves by driving too close.”
Nick agreed, “Given what you’ve told me about their equipment and tactics, I would say it’s almost certain.”
“This is going to be very tricky. Thermal is next to impossible to defeat. We have to find a place to observe the building without being detected.”
The two men exited the truck and made for the open desert that surrounded the big road. The curve in I-10 had been constructed to bypass a small outcropping of foothills. The elevated, rocky terrain signaled the northern most edge of the Glass Mountains.
As they approached the rise, Nick stopped and whispered to Bishop, “Don’t go for the highest point on that ridge. If I were them, that’s where I would put a trip line or two. Pick a spot that’s high enough, but not the obvious choice.”
Bishop voiced his agreement, “’Bout time you started earning your pay.”
Caution was more important than speed when going up the hillside. The terrain was littered with small gullies, clusters of scrub oak, and knee-high cactus beds. The duo’s progress slowed even more as they approached the summit, taking every precaution not to expose the thermal signatures of any part of their bodies.
Nick whispered, “At this time of night, with the cool air, our body heat will look like a Vegas neon sign if anyone’s watching. We’ve got to find somewhere that will allow for maximum visibility with minimal exposure. Vegetation does a good job of blocking radiant heat, but I don’t see much around.”
Bishop continued to move along the backside of the ridge, looking for a good spot. The two stalkers had traveled almost 50 yards before Bishop waved Nick down and pointed. A slab of sandstone the size of a pool table had split away from its mother formation, probably before humans had inhabited this section of North America. The “V” shaped opening had been the perfect place for a larger-than-normal cluster of oak to take root and make a stand against the harsh desert terrain.
The trees had littered the area, with a significant amount of fallen limbs, dried leaves, and other dead vegetation. The rock formation had acted like a dam on the river of air that constantly swept over the hill—the narrow gap blocking the wind from naturally scattering the debris.
“Perfect,” Nick whispered, “Now if we can just see the building from there.”
Bishop pulled his baklava mask out of his back and pulled it over his head. “Until my body heats this up, it should work for a few minutes.”
Crawling up behind the formation, Bishop slowly peaked through the brush. Raising his night vision, he scanned the area below and could clearly make out the shape of a small metal building and gravel parking lot.
Backing away, he motioned for Nick to see for himself. “I think this vantage is perfect, but take a look.”
A few moments later, the big man crawled back, nodding his head. “I don’t think we’re going to do any better. Did you notice the trash?”
“No, what trash?”
“There’s a barrel full of trash to the south of the building. I don’t think it’s left over from the original occupants. Someone’s staying in that structure.”
“I can’t believe the guys we’re after would make a mistake like that. That’s Basic Concealment 101.”
Nick thought about Bishop’s remark for a moment, and then replied, “They’re probably bored or cocky. Either one can make you sloppy. Besides, put yourself in their shoes, would you expect anyone to discover this hideout?”
Bishop wasn’t convinced. “I don’t know, Nick. I’ve never seen anybody execute small unit tactics like they did. Their weapons and equipment were top shelf. If it was the same guys, they infiltrated an Army base that was locked down pretty tight. I can’t believe an organization like that would screw up with waste discipline.”
“Nobody is perfect, my friend. Let’s take turns keeping a watch on the place. It could be interstate refug
ees and not some super bad-ass team, too.”
Bishop and Nick decided the best way to remain undetected from below was to push Bishop’s rifle through the brush pile, and use the long range 24-x scope. Unless fired, the rifle would remain the same ambient temperature as the surrounding rocks and shouldn’t be detectable from below.
Nick suggested, “Let’s take turns scouting the place. The guy that’s off duty can watch our six and make sure no one sneaks up on us.”
Bishop agreed and took the first shift.
It took a while to find a position that was both comfortable and concealed. Nature’s random compilation of the dead refuse didn’t naturally provide a good spot for a man with a rifle. Taking his time with slow, deliberate movements, Bishop eventually managed a good line and proper brace for the weapon.
The moon was about half full, and the sky above was absolutely clear. It was one of those crisp winter nights where there was plenty of light to see the surrounding terrain without using night vision. We caught a break there, Bishop thought. Getting the night vision monocle to cooperate with a high-powered scope was always a difficult task of focusing two different devices while obtaining the perfect eye relief.
The building was less than 200 meters away, too close for the optic to be used at full power. Scaling down the magnification to 8-x provided the best all-around view of detail and width of field. A quick scan revealed what one would expect from a deserted business on the outskirts of civilization. The windows appeared to be completely dark, either covered to hide internal lights or displaying the natural blackness of an unoccupied space. There was no way to be sure.
The parking lot of the former garage was pea gravel and mixed stone, tough desert plants having taken root in several spots. The paint on what would have been the public door was faded and chipped, the visible windowsills matching in both color and disrepair. The raw wood exposed by the lack of protective pigment sported a bleached color of gray; evidence that the sun had ruthlessly attacked the surface for some time.
