“Maybe we could persuade them to—”
“No. Never,” Holmes interjected. “Kill them. Kill them all!”
“What did you say?” Jonesy had never fired on humans before.
“Are you unable to follow orders, mister?” The venom was replaced by menace.
“I-I just meant…y’know that…” Jonesy’s voice trembled.
“Yes, I know. And I meant what I said.”
Holmes gave his second-in-command time to gather himself. It would be Jonesy’s chance to redeem himself or be removed. Permanently.
Jonesy regrouped. “All right, take up combat positions and wait for my order!”
One corner of Holmes’ mouth curled up, more in a sneer than a smile. He was pleased that Jones knew which side his bread was buttered on.
“Okay, wait until they get about fifty yards away,” Jonesy called this time in a quieter voice. The six armed men approaching were closer now.
Holmes noted that in the shadows of the golf club and the overcast skies, his crew was barely visible—even to him.
“Steady, steady…”
Sandspit 7
Johnny Redmund was in front of the six-man team when he stopped about fifty yards from the golf club, but with no visible sign to inform him he had no idea.
“What's that place?”
Terry came up alongside, his eyes staring into the shadows cast by the building. “Hey, what’s that near the wall? Is that someone—”
Bursts of automatic fire from the direction of the golf club cut his words—and his life—short.
“HIT THE DECK! HIT THE DECK!” Chess screamed as he pushed Allan into the ground. Puffs of dirt kicked up all around by bullets from the concentrated fire. “GET BEHIND THAT MOUND.”
A small bank around two-feet high and eight-feet long was all the protection between Chess, his team, and death.
“Johnny, Terry, wait until we return fire, then haul ass!” Chess called out, his face buried in the cold—almost-frozen—ground.
“Ready?” he said to Mitch, Allan, and Glenn, who took out his 9mm pistol. “Fire!”
They poked the muzzles of their weapons over the mound and opened fire in the direction of the building. They couldn’t see any targets but hoped their fusillade would be enough cover for Johnny and Terry. Moments later, Johnny came tumbling over the small knoll and landed on Allan.
“Where’s Terry?”
“He bought it, dead before he hit the ground!”
“You’re bleeding,” Allan pointed out.
“Yeah, I stopped a couple, too.”
“Fix him up,” Chess told Allan. He didn’t want the youngest of the team to dwell too long on the death of a team member. Not when under fire. This wasn’t the time nor place. He had to get reinforcements.
Glenn passed a crossbow over to Chess, who called for it as he poured the kerosene on the cloth he’d brought with him, then tied off the rag just behind the tri-blade, broad-head bolt. Wasting no time, Chess placed his foot in the crossbow stirrup, cocked it, and pointed it to the sky. With his free hand, he took a Bic lighter from his battle jacket pocket and lit the cloth. Flames caught on instantly, and Chess fired the bolt into the air as another burst of 5.56mm kicked up dirt a few feet from his position.
“They don’t want our surrender, and they’re not conserving ammo, either,” Chess told his team.
Allan did his best to maintain a grip like the others, but his voice hinted at the desperation. “Who the hell is doing this and why?”
* * *
“Trouble. We got trouble!” Samantha, who had been tasked by Bob to watch out for any distress flares from Chess’ patrol, called. The distance from the fish market to the golf club house wasn’t that far, and the firing from the ambush should have been heard—under normal conditions—but the offshore winds and the sounds of the nearby sea prevented it. If it weren't for Chess’ idea of the makeshift flare, no one would be the wiser.
“A flare, someone fired a flare into the sky.” She said, running into the market.
“They've hardly been gone an hour. What direction was it?” Bob asked.
“This way.” Samantha beckoned Bob and Riley to follow her.
“Up there.” She pointed to the top of the hill, away from the town.
“Listen, listen.” Riley called for silence by holding up an open hand. “There’s shooting up there. They’re in a firefight!”
“Grab whoever you can and let's get moving,” Bob told the former veteran.
“Not you!” Riley said sternly. “You’re staying here.”
“But—”
“No buts, Bob, you haven’t got the combat experience. No offense.”
Riley was right, and Bob knew it. He’d just be a hindrance, not a help. “None taken, Riley. None taken.”
With little time to plan anything, Riley called on three of the remaining men from the Special Forces team when another volunteer emerged. “And where are you headed?”
“With you. It's about time I did my share around here,” David Grigsby answered while strapping on his old Colt Navy .44-40.
“You are, are you? You stay and take care of our home base and your wife, mister, and that's an order,” Riley told him in no uncertain terms. “It's just as important.”
Without further hesitation, Riley, Don, Ric, and Dave grabbed their M4s and headed up the hill—and the battle above. Those left behind would have the job of defending the market should an attack eventuate there.
An anxious David and Bob watched as Riley and his team departed.
“Do you think they’ll get there in time?” David asked.
“They better, David.” Bob replied emphatically. “They damn well better.”
* * *
“Hold your fire, hold it. You’re only wasting ammunition now,” Holmes told his crew.
“We can’t just wait ’em out. It’ll be dark soon, and those clouds look mighty threatening,” Jonesy said.
He did have a point, Holmes admitted—to himself.
“Too bad you didn’t have any grenades with you.”
Jones remained silent. He didn’t want to piss off the old man from the Washington spook department any more by telling him they did have hand grenades—back in their Terrace compound.
“What if we concentrate fire for a moment on one end and send a man down to flank ’em?”
Homes stared incredulously at this other member of the team. He’d apparently seen too many war movies or TV shows. Audie Murphy, this guy wasn’t, but…
“Great idea, soldier. Get ready!”
“But I—”
“It's your idea, so you can show us how it’s done.
Holmes nodded to Jonesy, who ordered the firing to begin once more.
“On the count of three, soldier. One, two, three…” Holmes watched as the latest hero scooted to one side of the crew and down the embankment toward the mound that protected his once former loyal contractors.
Hell, he might get one or two of them, and that will make our life easier, Holmes reflected.
* * *
“Why’d they stop then start again?” Allan called. His voice was high-pitched and frantic, but his actions under fire were anything but. After all, it wasn’t his first time under fire.
“I don’t know. Just keep your fucking head down, okay? Just keep it down.” Chess wondered how much ammunition their attackers had when he saw the first flakes of snow float down from the sky.
“Oh shit, that’s just what we need,” he muttered under his breath.
“CHESS!” Allan yelled. A man in a Canadian camouflage uniform with an M4 at the ready appeared from the side of the rise.
Chess had just prepared another makeshift flare and reacted instantly to Allan's warning. With the precision of a Swiss watch, he rolled to his right, aimed, and fired. The crossbow made a dull twang as it launched the deadly shaft into the attacker's forehead. The sound of contact with the skull wasn’t unlike that of a bat striking a baseball.
The sol
dier's bold plan had failed before it even started. The M4 fell from his grasp as he reached up and clamped both hands around the bolt that protruded from his head. He staggered a few steps, fell to his knees, then tumbled over.
“Holy shit!” Allan said as he watched the body flail about as it rolled down the hill. He then noticed movement below. He could tell it was Riley, even at this distance. “Chess, look. We got help coming.”
Chess moved to his other side, doing his best to stay concealed. He was grateful for the support, but was also concerned for the rescue party's safety. They were in the open and would make easy targets.
* * *
One of Holmes’ crew, assigned to monitor the area near the market with binoculars, reported on the new developments. “Mr. Holmes, sir. It appears the flare has brought reinforcements.”
“Let me see.” Holmes didn’t doubt him, just wanted reassurance. He had always been that way.
“We’re going to have to get them now or retreat. We’ve already lost a man, and when the others get here, we’ll be outnumbered.”
“Look, chickenshit.” Holmes was not in the mood to entertain these armchair soldiers any longer—not after his experiences with Etheridge and Terrace commander. “We still hold the high ground. And in case you hadn’t noticed, these new arrivals don’t have any cover. We can cut them down before they get near that knoll, and still have the numbers.”
“You’re mad. Fucking mad, I tell you. Mad!” Jonesy backed away. “I’ll not be a part of this any longer.”
“You’ll do as I tell you, mister, or you’ll die right where you stand.” Holmes raised his pistol.
“These reinforcements are gaining ground,” the soldier with the binoculars called.
“Well then fire on them! We can’t allow the two groups to join up. Come on, Mr. Jones, enough of this bullshit. We have work to do.”
The two started back toward the “front line” when the sound of a small car, screaming up the driveway to the golf club in high gear, caused them to halt. Anyone driving a car was extraordinary, but in the middle of a firefight, it could only mean trouble.
Was someone late to a tee-off? Holmes sarcastically wondered, but his intuition told him this wasn’t promising. He realized he and his crew were the trapped ones.
“Who the hell is this?” Jonesy yelled as an older-model Jeep Wrangler slid sideways on the gravel road, taking the bend before the parking lot.
“You!” Holmes seethed with anger when he saw the driver as the car skidded to a stop not ten feet from him. “You betrayed me for the last time, but no—”
“You know this man? Is he a—”
“Fuck off, you fool!” Holmes swiveled at the hip and fired a single shot, hitting Jonesy once in the head. He’d been looking for the opportunity for some time, and this was as good as any.
The shooting diverted Holmes attention. For a moment, that was all the driver of the car needed.
* * *
Even in his current state and against his own better judgment and that of his close friends, Chuck sprang from the open car door, his Desert Eagle already in his powerful hands. Bathroom hand towels—improvised bandages—could be seen in the top part of the thick black-and-red plaid hunting jacket, near his clavicle.
“Richard, we meet once more. But believe me, this, is the last time.”
“One question, if I may?” Holmes allowed his gun-hand to drop to his side. “If you are so skilled as an operator, a technician, and the gathering of information, how is it you managed to stay clear from my radar?” Holmes referred to the fact that every military/intelligence operative in the USA of any note—and who might be of further use to the schemes of the government, international business or the Chamber—was kept in his secure data base. No one escaped his tentacles.
“Sure,” Chuck—who the spymaster knew as Charles Black—said without lowering his weapon. “You’ve only kept files on the activities of American servicemen.”
“But you are an American!”
“I was born here, yes, but my passport says I’m French.”
“French? But how? Unless…” The more he kept Charles Black talking, the better his chance of getting the drop on him. “Ahh, the French Foreign—”
He never finished.
Chuck noticed Holmes angle his body to cover his right hand—and the pistol within—from sight. He’d suffered enough bullet wounds recently, and he wasn’t about to give the spymaster a chance to add more. And besides, his energy was also running low—it was now or never.
The Desert Eagle bucked once in Chuck’s hand. The .357 projectile left the muzzle at over 1200 feet per second and rocked Richard Holmes’ head back viciously. His legs staggered in a futile attempt to compensate for the imbalance of the upper body. He toppled over like a large tree, but sounded like a sack of potatoes when he hit the asphalt parking lot.
As Chuck watched the tiny flakes of snow land and dissolve in the dark red flow from the back of Richard Holmes’ head, he felt no joy over killing him. Yes, Richard Holmes—as far as was known—was one of the architects of the world’s destruction. And yes, he was still prepared to kill others to advance his cause of self—preservation. But almost as abhorrent, was that Chuck worked for him. For long hours to come, Chuck would admonish himself. The only comfort was that justice was finally served. Chuck briefly looked at the two bodies on the asphalt—the man Holmes shot and then at Holmes himself. In a world where humans were in short supply, they were still killing each other.
“Drop your weapons and come forward slowly!” Chuck called then took a step back to support himself against the Wrangler. He made it look as if he was getting a better position. The truth was he felt light-headed and feared collapse.
“It's okay, mister, don’t shoot. We don’t want no part of this anymore!” the one with the binoculars replied.
As the soldiers dropped their M4s and followed Chuck’s commands, Chess’ team—fifty yards down the hill—began to rise.
Sandspit 8
Allan grabbed Chess by the shoulder. “That sounded like Chuck’s gun, didn’t it?”
Chess hadn’t heard the Desert Eagle in action and didn't answer, but Allan hadn’t forgotten it.
“Look, they’ve dropped their weapons.” Mitch pointed to the attackers at the golf club.
“And Riley’s right below us now,” Allan called.
Chuck appeared above them just out from the shadows of the golf club and waved for Chess and his team to come forward.
“Damn! I told you it was Chuck!” Allan was the first to his feet. He was elated to be saved, but also to see Chuck again.
Allan led Chess and the others the fifty or so yards up the hill in his rush to be reunited with his pal—the one who had treated him like an adult from day one.
Riley and his team were a good two hundred yards behind and would have to play catch-up.
“Chuck, are you all right?” Allan called when he got to the parking lot and saw the man he admired so much leaning on the Jeep.
“I’d say he’s more than just all right.” Chess looked at the two dead on the ground and the five men who lay face-down on the asphalt, their hands clasped behind their heads.
“I heard you were in trouble, so I forced myself out of my sickbed. This fight was nothing compared to the one I had with Kath and Bob.”
“I can imagine. Kind of glad I wasn’t there to see it,” Chess said with a grin as he wandered over to the body of Richard Holmes. “So, this old bastard was behind these attacks, too.”
“There was only ever going to be one way to stop him—this was it.” Chuck’s voice trailed off slightly, but no one caught that.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were going to drive? Could’ve saved me the walk,” Riley yelled the moment he passed the tan brick of the side wall. “I’m not as young as I use to be, don’t you know?”
“Well, I just wanted to see your reaction when I beat you up here, old—” Chuck faltered, he was several feet from th
e Wrangler and made a lurching effort to reach it.
“Chuck! Oh, my God, Chuck!” Allan screamed.
Chess vainly tried to reach him before he hit the ground.
“Damn you, Chuck. You overdid it and now look what's happened,” Riley berated and rushed forward to help Chess. “Let's get him into the car and back to the others. Did you find a doctor's office?”
“No, we thought we’d check this building out first, then sweep back around the town—until we got ambushed.”
Riley shook his head. If Chuck has re-opened any of his wounds, they might need more medical supplies than just bandages and Tramadol.
“Put him the back seat and you drive like hell,” he told Chess, “but get him back safely. Allan, you go with him,” Riley said.
“Johnny, squeeze in the back, we’ll take you with us,” Chess told the other injured soldier.
“We’ll head back to the stores and see if we can’t find a doctor’s office, or at least a pharmacist.”
“All right, see you down there.” Chess didn’t hesitate and had the engine fired up before he sat down.
“Let's go and grab those rifles over there.” Riley pointed to the M4s relinquished by Holmes crew.
Riley watched the men move off as he would have in his old sergeant days before falling in behind. He had taken about five full steps before he turned back. “You guys want to come with us or sit here and freeze?”
The five surviving members of the abortive attempt to re-establish control in Holmes’ favor jumped up at their second chance and fell in behind the others.
“You can drop your hands but move on up front, and you can take turns in carrying him back, okay?” Riley pointed to the lifeless form of Terry Ashwood. They would take him back for burial, as—when possible—they did with all comrades who fell on the battlefield. The garden in front of the market would make as good a place as any. “If you want your friend, we’ll come back and get him later.” Riley referred to Jones. No one was the slightest bit interested in Holmes or his body. Let it rot in the elements.
Riley figured they had about forty to fifty minutes before full dark. The buildings and the stores were yet to be checked or cleared, and there was no way to tell if the foamer presence was over. The single most important matter now was to obtain more medical supplies for Chuck.
Beyond the Brink_Toward the Brink IV Page 4
