I wouldn’t wish a battle with these people on anyone in the government, but if the people heading this way are the same ones who chased us in Santa Cruz, I think I’ll be rooting for Swiss Family Nut Jobs.
Lindo slides out from beneath the Charger’s rear bumper holding my sound-suppressed handgun.
How did he know where it was? I wonder, and then I reach out to catch it when he tosses it to me. Gun in hand, I feel a little more confident, but we’re about to become the bologna in a much more heavily armed shit sandwich.
My bologna has a first name, I think, hearing the Oscar Mayer theme song run through my thoughts, its D-A-N-I-E-L. One syllable too many, but it doesn’t change the fact that a bullet storm is about to reduce us to the consistency of processed lunchmeat.
Lindo dives into the car just before the others arrive, recovering Young’s heavy hitting Desert Eagle and Wini’s revolver, which he hands to the pair as we arrive. Everyone but Lindo is breathing hard. Wini snaps at the car. “My purse.”
Lindo recovers the bag, and when Wini notices all of our confused looks, she opens the purse to reveal our boxes of ammo.
“You folks expecting a war?” Godin says, vacillating back to suspicion.
“Would’ve had better hardware if I was,” I say, holding up the Beretta. “This isn’t even my weapon.”
The whump of helicopter blades becomes a pounding as two unmarked Black Hawk choppers sweep down over the mesa and drop toward the ranch.
“Speaking of hardware…” Godin holsters his sidearm and hurries to the back of his SUV. He pops the trunk, reaches inside, and emerges with a shotgun. He pops five shells into the magazine loading port and has five more strapped to the stock. He gives the weapon a pump, closes the hatch, and rejoins us.
“Yo,” Lindo says, motioning to the sheriff’s holstered handgun.
“I make it a habit to not hand over my state-issued sidearm to anyone who asks for it by saying, ‘Yo,’” Godin says, “and before you rephrase, the answer is now, and forever, no fucking way.” A flash of mercy sweeps across Godin’s face. “But given the circumstances…” He draws a taser from his hip, turns it around and holds it out to Lindo, who rolls his eyes, but accepts the non-lethal weapon.
“What’s the plan?” Young asks. “Why aren’t we taking off in the sheriff’s—”
Two black SUVs roar over the long drive’s crest, speeding toward the lot. They come to a stop in different directions, forming a wall that blocks off the drive and kicking up a cloud of dust that conceals the five men who unload from each vehicle and take up positions on the far side. Each one of them is protected by armor and armed with the most sophisticated weaponry available. Harry’s family outnumbers them, but they’re significantly outclassed, even with our help.
Is that what we’re doing? I ask myself. Are we fighting alongside the people who threatened our lives, have been lying since we arrived, seemed to somehow screw with my mind, and who might have had something to do with Isabella’s disappearance?
The helicopters round the property and slow to a hover in the sloping field. Four mercenaries slide down ropes, hidden by the hill as they touch down. These are the same guys who took shots at me. Who tried to kill Wini. And who somehow covered it all up so that no one other than eyewitnesses knew any of it even happened.
Definitely fighting with the cult, I decide, and I’m about to strategize our next steps, when the whinnying horses grow louder. Their sharp cries sound off, like the animals are being tortured.
Is Harry going to release a stampede and attack during the confusion?
The helicopters rise again, each one carrying a man standing behind a mounted machine gun. They circle the compound, one on each side. Getting from the vehicles to better cover might be impossible.
“We’re here for the people you are harboring.” The voice booms from the SUVs, the speakers’ volume overcoming the choppers’ thumping blades. “Hand them over and we will leave you in peace.”
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
Harry has no love for us. Why wouldn’t he hand us over?
“You all are trespassing,” Harry shouts from somewhere in the house. “Leave now, or you’ll be facing trouble of your own making.”
“Sir,” the voice replies, sounding a little incredulous. “We are here for Daniel Delgado, Winifred Finch, Aaron Young, and Steven Cruz.”
Wini and I look at each other. Steven Cruz? Who is… I turn to Lindo. He looks unconcerned about his real name’s revelation, but he should be. Despite the randomness of our meeting, they figured out his identity. Probably through Uber. Explainable or not, he’s now part of the hunted.
“I don’t care what your business is, or who you have it with. You have thirty seconds to vacate my property!” Harry’s words reveal his disgust for what appears to be federal authority, far outweighs his displeasure for our ragtag group of UFO researchers and the local sheriff—all of whom he very nearly gunned down, and might have still been intending to kill. “And then we’ll unleash hell unto the Earth itself!”
In the silence that follows, I’m sure the mercenaries are discussing their options. If the weapons protruding from the homestead’s windows haven’t intimidated them, perhaps Harry’s rhetoric will?
The problem with that is we’ve only got one road out of this place, and they can just camp out at the end. I don’t picture Harry letting us stay, and there’s a good chance he’ll still kill us.
The racket kicked up from the horse barn pricks my ears again. What the hell kind of horses are they keeping?
Wini grasps my arm, nails digging U shapes into my skin. “Dan…” She looks into my eyes, afraid…but not for herself. “Do you hear them?”
I focus on the sound and it doesn’t take me long to hear what has Wini upset. I wish I couldn’t hear it, because it means we’re surrounded by enemies. Hell, it might even mean the mercs are the lesser of two evils. There are horses in the barn, but that’s not all.
Mixed in with the whinnying, are screams.
Of people.
Of children.
I look toward the barn’s closed doors, two hundred feet away from our position, and wonder how we can cross the distance without being gunned down by one side or the other.
We can’t, I decide, unless they’re already busy with each other.
Using my sound suppressed Beretta, I lean down below the Charger and take aim. Two nearly silent shots later, a soldier is shouting in pain. I turn around, aim at the house and fire three rounds into an open window. A half second later, Harry follows through on his threat to unleash hell unto Earth, and the mercenaries reciprocate in kind.
17
I’m not sure what I was expecting when I started a shootout between fanatics and hired guns—honestly, I didn’t really think it through—but it wasn’t this. The ferocity on display is generally reserved for lifelong rivalries. Historic battles come to mind. Gettysburg. Stalingrad. Cannae. New Zion Ranch. Though something tells me that no matter the outcome, no one will ever know what happens here today.
As the bullets and buckshot fly, it’s hard to tell if either side is making progress. I doubt Superman could hear a shout of pain over the thunder of gunfire. On the plus side, none of the gunfire is directed toward us. Yet. As soon as one side gains the advantage, that could change.
“We need to get the hell out of here!” Young shouts.
“Not without getting in that barn,” I reply.
Young looks incredulous. He didn’t hear the screams, or didn’t comprehend their meaning.
“There are children in there!” I shout.
Godin turns toward the barn, looking surprised and then determined. “You’re sure?”
I nod, though if I verbalized the answer it would be a less definitive, ‘Pretty sure.’ I can’t be certain about what we’ll find behind those red walls, aside from horses, but I won’t leave without finding out. My gut twists. The barn is just another envelope, promising relief or pain upon its
opening. And yet, even though it might get me killed, looking inside the barn is a much easier decision to make.
My hand rests on my pants pocket, feeling the rigid envelope within. Should I open it? What if I die without knowing?
That would be okay, I decide, and I return my attention to the barn.
I can’t hear the screaming anymore, but I can’t hear much of anything over the gunfight.
“All of you…” I motion to the group. “…in the SUV.” Then to Godin. “When those barn doors open, pull in backwards. Fast as you can. When we’re ready to run, we’ll go off road.”
I doubt the sheriff is comfortable taking orders from a stranger, but I think he’d prefer to be behind the wheel of his SUV more than running through the open parking lot.
“We should just go,” Young says. “If there’re kids in there, they’re probably armed and ready to kill.”
The pastor’s point is cowardly, but valid, so I don’t bother scolding him. Different perspectives keep people from making uninformed simple-minded decisions, but in this case, my course is set. An errant stream of bullets chews up the Charger’s backside, likely fired by an injured merc. Three feet to the right and we’d have been cut down.
I reach up and open the SUV’s driver’s side door. Moving slowly, the motion goes unnoticed. Young crawls in first, followed by Godin. I open the back door allowing Wini to climb in. I motion for Lindo to follow, but he shakes his head and pushes the door shut. “I’m with you, man.”
I’m stunned by his bravery, or is it loyalty? Before Godin can close his door, I catch it with my hand and reach up. “Shotgun.”
He slides it down to me and gently tugs the door closed. With everyone ducked down, the vehicle still looks empty. I turn my Beretta around and hand it to a grateful Lindo, who says, “Let’s do this, hombre.”
For the first time since taking cover, I do a full sweep of the area, taking in both sides of the confrontation. The two mercenary SUVs are toast. The windows are shot out. The tires are flat. Steam roils from the engines. I don’t see any smoke yet, but I do smell gasoline. Six of the eight mercs pop up and down like heavily armed whack-a-moles, firing tight and concise three-round bursts, picking targets and conserving ammo.
More gunfire from the hills in the field, but it’s less frenetic. Loud pops and the glint of scopes reveal the presence of several snipers. The assault from the SUVs makes more noise, but I’m guessing those snipers are claiming the lion’s share of casualties. At the same time, they’re exposed and under constant fire from a barrage of bullets coming from within the massive, solidly built house, and several other buildings.
Firing from deep within the rooms, rather than near the windows, Harry’s family can remain unseen until they pull a trigger. As soon as they do, return fire zips toward their positions. There are advantages to both sides, but the mercs have yet to unleash their real firepower. The helicopters continue to circle, but neither machine gunner has opened fire. I’m not sure why they’re holding back, but I’m happy for it. Those big guns might end the fight fast, and I need it to continue until we’re through the fence, back in town, and out of sight.
A high pitched shriek reaches my ears through the gunfire. A small body wearing a prairie dress dangles from the home’s second floor window. There’s a lull in the gunfire from the SUVs and I hear a distraught man say, “What the fuck?”
A second says, “We’re fighting kids?”
When a pair of hands reaches, takes the girl, and yanks her back inside, a third merc, whose voice sounds like the one that boomed from the loud speaker, shouts, “Doesn’t matter. Do your god-damned jobs!”
A rage-filled bellow from the house confirms the worst. The girl is dead, a child soldier molded by sick minds. It’s too late for Harry’s children, but maybe not for those in the barn.
The gunfire from the house intensifies, all of it directed toward the SUVs, pinning the men behind the vehicles. A spark ignites the spilled gas, setting one of the vehicles ablaze. The heat is intense, but the flames and black smoke help hide the mercs. In their rage, the cult members stop paying attention to the snipers, and I see two more fall before I’ve seen enough and sense our opening.
I give Lindo’s shoulder a backhand smack, say, “Now!” and break from cover. Gunfire from the house buzzes through the air above us, but continues to ping off the SUVs. The mercs, still pinned, never see us move.
We reach the barn without taking fire, and throw ourselves into the doors. Neither budge thanks to the padlocked latch.
“Locked,” Lindo says and he steps back to shoot the lock.
A bullet punches into the door, two feet above where Lindo was aiming. We turn toward the house and spot a young man chambering a fresh round into his hunting rifle. Three more family members join him in the room, taking aim at us. Whatever is in this barn, they really don’t want us to find it.
I shove Lindo and shout, “Around the back!”
Our sprint around the corner is punctuated by an explosion of wood, shattered by a high caliber round. Glancing at the destroyed plank gives me a good idea of what would have happened had the bullet struck one of our bodies.
It’s not pretty.
The hundred-fifty-foot sprint down the side of the barn is uneventful, but leaves me winded. Lindo rounds the corner first, weapon raised. His stance and grip look decent. How many times has he watched John Wick? I wonder, and then I step out behind him, shotgun raised and ready.
We move to the back door. It’s identical to the front, including the thick padlock. Lindo raises his handgun again. I’m about to stop him, unsure that a 9mm packs enough punch to ruin the lock, but before I can speak, Lindo freezes like he’s spotted something. I peer at the lock, wondering if he’s spotted a booby trap, but then he whispers, “shit,” and turns toward the barn’s far corner, raising his weapon at a target that doesn’t exist.
Until it does.
Two of Harry’s eldest sons charge around the corner, weapons raised—sent to intercept us. I start to raise my shotgun, but Lindo is already prepared. He fires two sets of two bullets. Each of the young men is struck center mass, and in the head.
When Lindo turns to face me, an air of ‘no big deal’ wafting off of him, I shout, “You are not an Uber driver!”
“Get the lock,” he says. “More are coming.”
“How the hell do you know that?” It’s not that I don’t believe him, but I’m not comfortable fighting a battle with someone I’m no longer sure I can trust.
“Satellite imaging,” he says, and when he sees the utter disbelief in my eyes, he leans closer, pulls down his eyelid, and opens his eye wide. I’m about to ask what I’m looking for when I see flickers of light from within his pupil. “Embedded retinal display. I’ll explain everything—if we survive.”
When he turns and raises his weapon to fire, I decide that the little he’s given me has to be enough. I take a step back, aim the shotgun at the lock, and blast it off. I shove the door open while Lindo fires sound-suppressed rounds toward the corner, holding whoever is coming at bay.
“We’re in,” I say, and I slip into the darkness.
Lindo squeezes off two more rounds, and I make a mental note that he’s got four left. He slips inside behind me and closes the door behind us. The booming report of gunfire is muffled and mostly drowned out by the sound of horses whinnying and stomping their hooves. The screams I heard from outside have gone silent.
“I don’t suppose that thing lets you see in the dark?” I ask.
“Actually,” he says, and then lights flicker on around the large barn, revealing two rows of stables and Lindo standing by a light switch. Lindo slides a long plank down across the doors. The old fashioned lock is crude, but it will stand up to a shotgun blast better than the metal padlock.
The barn smells like it’s supposed to—horse shit and hay. But there’s something off about it. Smells that don’t belong. My stomach lurches when I realize the fetid odors are human.
&nb
sp; “Hello?” I say, creeping deeper into the barn, shotgun raised. “We’re here to help.”
When I get no reply, I ask Lindo, “Can you see anyone?”
“It’s a satellite, man, not X-ray vision,” Lindo says, “But I can tell you that those crazy bastards are sending more people our way. Whatever is in here, they don’t want us finding it.”
“Or taking it,” I add, and I move deeper into the barn. Horses flare their noses at me as I pass, but they seem to calm from the human presence.
The barn’s rear door shakes from an impact that makes me jump.
“Little warning next time,” I say.
“Three of them back there,” he says. “Two more en route.”
“Watch the doors,” I tell him and hold the shotgun out to him. “You have only—”
“Four rounds left,” he says. “I know. And thanks.” He takes the shotgun, drops to one knee, and places it on the concrete floor beside him. Then he aims the handgun toward the rear doors and waits. Whoever he is, this isn’t the first time he’s seen action. Between our crew, the cult, and the mercs, he might be the calmest person on the ranch. It’s disconcerting and comforting at the same time, the latter because it means he knows what he’s doing, the former because he could turn against us. Here I felt guilty for involving him, and all along, he was playing me.
Obsess over it later, I tell myself, and push onward.
Where I see horses, I continue past. Where I don’t, I peek inside. I’m two stalls from the end when I hear whispering.
I slow my approach. “I don’t have a weapon. I can take you away.”
Both are half-truths and possibly outright lies, but my guilt is diminished by the hopes that I’ll find Isabella.
“I’m going to peek in,” I say. “I’m not here to hurt anyone. I promise.”
The Others Page 11
