by James Hunt
He glanced at her from the truck, shaking his head as Mulaney’s assassins stepped from their vehicles, guns aimed at the truck.
Kara couldn’t see their grandfather, and she prayed that he was still alive. She saw Ben hold the rifle in his hands, and as the gunfire died down, she heard a man’s voice break through the ringing of her ears.
“We don’t want any more trouble!” he said from the cover of darkness. “Give us the Holloways, and we walk away with no more harm done.”
Kara glanced back to Terry, who was collapsed in a crumpled pile of exhaustion on the floor. It would be easy to give them back, and for some reason Kara believed that the thugs were being honest. But handing them over was to condemn them to death.
But before Kara answered, Ben stepped from around the truck and fired into the headlights of one of the SUVs, shattering glass.
Kara couldn’t see if he ducked back in time, but Mulaney’s thugs responded with another chorus of gunfire, forcing both herself and Terry onto their stomachs.
When the barrage ended, Kara slowly lifted her head and crawled back toward the door where the bullets had made a hole big enough for her to see through clearly. She saw Ben. He was still upright. Still breathing. She prayed that her grandfather was too.
“Last chance!” the man said, his voice hoarse.
Ben dispensed the empty casings and loaded a few more into the rifle. Kara looked back to Terry, gun in her hand. “I’m sorry.”
Terry nodded. “Me too.”
Kara positioned herself on the ground, aiming her rifle through the hole in the door, and waited for a shot. From her current location, she couldn’t see anything, but when the goons made their approach to the trailer’s only entrance, she’d be in a good position.
“Wait!”
Kara’s heart lurched. It was her grandfather. She watched in horror as he sat up from the truck bed, arms raised high. She frowned. What was he doing?
“Stop!” Running Water said. “Everyone.”
“Grandfather, get down!” Ben said, yelling from his position.
“No! No one else has to die here,” Running Water said. “Too much blood has been spilled already.”
“What is he doing?” Terry asked, his voice hushed.
Kara shook her head, watching her grandfather closely. “I don’t know.”
“You want to save your employer’s business?” Running Water asked, speaking to Mulaney’s men. “Then take me to him.”
“No,” Kara whispered.
“And who the hell are you?” The voice asked.
“My name is Jonathan Running Water,” he answered. “I am the last puhagante of the Chemehuevi tribe, and my name and voice carry great weight within our tribe. I can speak to the EPA on behalf of my people, in favor of drilling.”
“Grandfather, what—”
“Quiet!” Running Water barked harshly at Ben’s interruption.
It was quiet for a moment, the gunmen deliberating. During the silence, Kara heard her heart pound in her chest.
“Okay,” the voice said. “Walk over slowly.”
“I can’t,” Running Water yelled. “I’m crippled.”
“I’m sending two men to retrieve you. Anyone tries something stupid and we end this now.”
Kara watched two gunmen move toward the truck swiftly, grabbing hold of her grandfather and lifting him from the truck. She saw Ben, conflicted, struggling to keep still. He must have known Grandfather had a plan. At least Kara prayed that he had a plan.
The pair of men lifted Running Water from the truck and then carried him out of sight to one of the SUVs. Kara watched helplessly, wanting to fire, but knowing now that any sign of aggression could spark trouble.
“And now give us the Holloways,” the voice said.
“That wasn’t part of the deal!” Ben shouted.
Kara fumed, white-knuckling the rifle in her hands.
“They come out, now, or we come in,” the voice said, his voice bold, arrogant.
Kara adjusted the aim of her rifle and locked eyes with Ben. They both knew what came next. It was the culmination of their entire lives. But just before she squeezed the trigger, she heard a commotion near the men outside.
At first she thought they were mobilizing to move forward, but then she saw one of the SUVs spin around toward the road where four more pairs of headlights advanced up the dirt path.
77
Michael didn’t stop his truck until the thugs up ahead opened fire. Bullets cracked against his windshield, and he jerked the steering wheel to a hard left and braked. He ducked below the dash, his lower back cracking from the sudden change in motion, and reached for the shotgun as he opened his driver side door, spilling out the back as the three other vehicles slammed on their brakes, nearly running him over.
Ken Stillwater and Big Chief quickly got out of their vehicles and joined Michael by his truck, keeping low on their approach.
The gunfire was relentless, and Michael pictured the other side of his truck transformed into Swiss cheese.
“Who is it?” Stillwater asked, shouting above the gunfire.
“Mulaney’s men, I think,” Michael asked. “We hold them for as long as we can. They’ve got Running Water and his family trapped up there.”
Both Ken and Chief nodded, inching toward the truck’s tailgate, while Michael positioned himself at the truck’s hood. They all waited for a lull in their enemy’s gunfire, which dragged on forever. And just when Michael thought the bullets would chew through to the other side of the metal, they got their chance.
The three fighters aimed their weapons ahead and fired at the blockade of vehicles, one of them breaking free and heading straight toward them.
Michael squeezed the trigger, the recoil of the twelve-gauge shotgun knocking the stock violently against his shoulder. The front left headlight blew out, but the SUV charged forward on a collision course with Michael’s truck.
But while Ken and Chief retreated toward their vehicles, Michael stood his ground. He lined up the next shot and opened fire. The second shot hurt his shoulder as much as the first, but this one landed squarely over the windshield, shattering glass, and causing the driver to swerve a hard right, tipping the SUV to its side and send it rolling across the dirt.
Bits of glass and metal were flung from the SUV, the vehicle’s lights cutting out, casting itself into darkness, though the sound of the crash echoed for a little while longer.
Michael charged forward, shotgun up, and aimed at the wreckage of the vehicle while the goons up at the blockade opened fire again. Their aim was directionless and sporadic now that the SUV had crashed and blocked the road, giving Michael, Ken, and Chief a barrier to advance across.
Michael crouched at the wreck, the SUV flipped on its roof, and peered inside, finding two men on the front seats unconscious and a third struggling to free himself in the back.
Michael cracked the shotgun’s stock against the goon’s forehead, casting him into the same black nothingness as his partners, when a groan echoed from the back.
“Don’t move,” Michael said, keeping the weapon aimed in the darkness while Ken and Chief reached inside, gunfire still echoing on the other side, though it was growing closer.
“Shit,” Ken said, turning back to Michael in surprise. “It’s Running Water.”
Michael slapped him on the back. “Get him out, make it quick.”
Chief reached inside to give Ken a hand, and Michael positioned himself at the front of the wreck, peering around the side.
From his position, he saw Ben and Kara’s truck illuminated by the headlights of the other two SUVs. He retreated behind cover just in time as he saw two figures take shape in the darkness, firing at his position.
Ken and Chief had Running Water out of the truck. He was bleeding from his head and unconscious.
“Get him to your car!” Michael said. “Go!”
The men dragged Running Water through the sand, his lifeless head slumped to the side, and t
hen disappeared while Michael repositioned himself at the front of the wreck. He dropped to one knee and calmed his mind. He’d always had a keen ear, which he’d honed from years of hunting. Thankfully, it was one of the skills that age had yet to steal from him.
He closed his eyes, tilted his head to the side, and listened for the soft padding of boots against sand. The skin around his eyes twitched the harder he concentrated, and when there was a lull in gunfire, he finally heard it.
Michael dove straight out from the cover of the wreck, landing hard on his shoulder as he fired the shotgun at the pair of men advancing on them. The spray of the buckshot was enough to strike both and give Michael time enough to pump another round in each before they gathered their wits about them.
Fast as his old bones would allow, which had stiffened from the fall, the sand not as forgiving as he remembered, he pushed himself up and trudged up the hill toward the rest of the fight.
Michael’s lungs and legs burned on the hasty climb up in the compacted dirt and sand, and he crouched behind one of the SUVs when he reached the top.
The gunfire shifted toward the trailer, which had begun to fire back. It must have been Ben and Kara. He peered around the corner and saw that the assassins had turned off the lights of their SUVs, which meant that they were going to try and bum rush the trailer.
Michael knew he didn’t have much time.
Already exhausted from the battle, he charged forward, shotgun aimed ahead of him, and fired into the back of the first man he saw.
The figure smacked forward in the sand, and before Michael had an opportunity to find another target, they found him.
The lingering thunder of the shotgun blast was suddenly overwhelmed by the rapid firing succession of the weapon in the assassin’s hands, and Michael’s chest was shredded by bullets.
The gunfire and the pain that blasted his left side didn’t seem to match up, but he collapsed to the sand all the same. Paralyzed, he drew in a raspy breath and stretched his right arm, groping the sand until he felt the stock of the shotgun that he dropped.
Blood filled Michael’s mouth, the metallic taste lingering on his tongue, but he managed to listen to the words of the men that had come to make war.
Before Michael had a good grip on it, the man who’d shot him was already on top of him, and Michael turned, staring down the barrel of the assault rifle in his enemy’s hands.
It was hard for Michael to see the man in the dark, but he recognized the heavy breathing. It was the breath of a man that had never killed before. Michael was betting that he was a younger man, maybe spent some time in tactical training but not much time in the field.
Michael drew his last breath knowing that he had done everything he could, and in his sacrifice, he had saved some of his people. And now the warrior torch had been passed onto the next generation as they struggled to reclaim their people’s glory and dignity.
It was a death that made Michael proud. And one he hoped his people would remember.
And while Michael knew what came next, he closed his eyes, at peace with trying to save his people. He’d given his last breath for their cause. And he wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Kara watched through the bullet holes as the SUV carrying her grandfather flipped, and it was Ben who had to hold her back from running after him.
With the distraction of the approaching reinforcements, which both assumed were Michael and his loyal band of the tribal security council, Kara wasn’t sure if the cluster of old timers would be able to hold them off.
Kara turned from the door, the lights from the SUVs still blinding them. “We need to move. Now’s our chance.”
“We’re still outnumbered,” Ben said.
“Since when did you care about the odds?”
“I’m trying to keep both of us alive.” Ben let go of her arm. “We need to be smart about this.”
A few more warning shots were fired in both the direction of the cavalry and the trailer, but it was when the lights shut off of the SUVs that both Ben and Kara tensed.
“They’re going to make a move on us,” Ben said, scrambling toward the nearest window.
“What do we do?” Terry asked, still holding on to his girls.
Kara lined up a shot, trying to make out any movement in the darkness through the limited view of her position. “Sit tight. Stay quiet.”
The silence was deafening, and Kara cursed her eyes when they didn’t adjust fast enough. For all she knew, they were already on top of them. She hated lying down like this. She hated just waiting. She’d rather charge out and face them, but she couldn’t keep the Holloways safe if she was dead, and there was zero chance of recovering their grandfather too.
A gunshot fired, the blast more of a shotgun than rifle, and was quickly followed with the automatic gunfire of an assault rifle.
But the bullets were directed at them, and Kara realized that it must be Michael and the others. The old bastards were pinning Mulaney’s men down.
Kara jumped to her feet, glancing at Ben on her way out the door, his eyes wide with confusion. She saw him follow quickly in her wake as she burst outside.
Rifle at the ready, she made out the three bodies clustered near a fourth that lay motionless in the sand, and she stepped out just in time to watch them put one more in the defenseless man’s head.
The sight of the brutal murder shifted something inside of Kara, peeling away that one thin piece of humanity and morality that kept the strong from pure evil. It was a lesson that her grandfather had taught her, that there was both good and bad in every person, but we got to choose which side we wanted to listen to. We chose who we wanted to be.
And right now, Kara wanted to kill every single one of them.
The first darkened figure lined up in Kara’s sight dropped quickly, and despite the retaliatory fire of the other two, she didn’t hesitate on her hastened walk down the trailer’s ramp. She heard the gunfire, saw the flashes from the muzzles, but she kept her course despite Ben’s attempts to get her to stop.
The remaining targets scattered, heading for cover, but Kara kept a bead on the second target and fired, watching him drop, skidding into the dirt. But he still crawled, and Kara lined up the crosshairs again to finish the job.
Before she squeezed the trigger, Ben tackled her to the ground, the pair barely missing the gunfire from the right. They backed up to the truck, using what was left of it as cover, and Kara found the man she’d shot still crawling toward safety.
Ben tapped on her shoulder, pulling her attention away from the retreating thug, and pointed for her to head toward the tailgate while he pointed at himself and headed toward the hood.
There couldn’t have been more than one other fighter, not after Michael and the others had taken out that other SUV.
Kara crept toward the tailgate, keeping low, her eyes adjusted to the darkness now, as she clearly saw the pair of dead men in the sand. She waited.
With the lull in gunfire, her ears were ringing, so she focused on the patch of sand just beyond the corner of her position. Any movement there, and she’d make her move.
The silence dragged, and the longer Kara lingered in it, the itchier her trigger finger became. She was tired of dragging this on and on. It had been nothing but back and forth for the past year. It was time for this to end.
Without waiting for the gunman to appear, Kara emerged from the cover of the truck, rifle up and aimed, but her crosshairs found nothing but darkness.
Heavy breaths and a harsh grunt to her right pointed her attention in the same direction, and her heart skipped a beat when she saw Ben with a gun to his head.
“Lower the rifle,” the shooter said. “Toss it over to me.”
“Shoot him, Kara,” Ben said.
“Shut up!” the gunman thundered, moving anxiously behind Ben’s big frame, which acted as the perfect cover. “Drop it. Or I shoot him.”
Kara stepped forward, and the gunman stepped backward. She grimaced, readjustin
g her grip on the rifle. She was a good shot, but she didn’t know how good in these conditions. It was dark, she was exhausted, running on fumes, and the available space for a shot between Ben and the gunman was too close to comfort.
“Kara,” Ben said, his voice calm. “For Mom.”
Kara’s muscles trembled, and while she knew that Ben had accepted whatever fate was in store for him, she couldn’t bring herself to squeeze the trigger.
A gunshot.
Kara jumped and screamed when Ben fell forward, the gunman on top of him, but after she sprinted toward him and then rolled the gunman off him, her hands covered in blood, she was surprised to find Ben breathing and alive.
“Are you all right?” Kara asked.
Ben checked himself, running his hands over his body as he quickly nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”
Both looked at the bloodied body of the gunman who lay lifeless and face down in the sand, then back up to the trailer where Terry held a rifle, barely able to lean himself up against the doorframe. He then collapsed to the floor.
Kara made a move toward him, but Ben stopped her.
“No, go and check on Grandfather,” he said. “Hurry.”
Kara sprinted away from the trailer, stumbling down the compacted dirt of the paved road that led from her grandfather’s trailer and toward the main road that cut through the reservation. She passed between the SUVs, then weaved around the wreck and skidded to a stop when she saw the pair of rifles aimed at her.
“Kara?” Ken Stillwater lowered his rifle. “Thank God.”
Chief followed Ken’s lead, and the pair of old timers walked around Ken’s truck camper. Kara wrapped both of them in a hug.
“Are you two all right?” Kara asked.
“We’re fine.” Ken waved his hand, brushing off the worry. “Your brother?”
Kara nodded. “Where’s Grandfather?”
Ken and Chief exchanged a worried glance, and then Ken motioned for her to follow to the back of the camper where Running Water lay on his back, wet blood over his face, motionless.
