Renegade - 13

by Joe Nobody

  His effort as self-appointed choir director lasted for several minutes, many of those around Bishop joining the chorus. However, the chant soon grew old, and the group lost steam.

  Undiscouraged, the amplified voice became harsher. “These people,” he screamed, pointing toward Pete’s shop, “are supporting the dictator Brown! They are evil! They want to enslave us all!”

  Bishop started moving toward the loudmouth, gently shouldering his way through the multitude.

  Pointing to the restaurant, the vocal activist continued, spewing an ever-increasing level of despicable acquisitions. “These oppressors gave the dictator Brown money to further her vile agenda. Money earmarked to keep the tyrants in power. See? These men carry her guns! Look at them, on the roof, ready to murder you where you stand. Is that what Texas wants? Is this liberty? Are we going to stand by and let these bullies get away with this? No!”

  Bishop watched the kid lower his megaphone, and in a flash, spin and launch a baseball-sized rock at the pizzeria.

  The missile fell short, bouncing twice before harmlessly bouncing off the foundation. Still, the crowd whooped and hollered at the assault.

  Two of the kid’s comrades then stepped forward, hurling their own projectiles. One of the pitchers sported a big-league arm, his stone just missing one of the shop’s taped windows. A resounding roar rose from the crowd.

  Bishop watched as the agitators set down their backpacks, unzipping the tops to reload. He had now maneuvered beside the megaphone guy, holding up his sign and cheering the attack like everyone else.

  The two stone throwers now had the range. Lifting the ropes Bishop’s men had strung across the parking lot, they charged forward and launched a second salvo.

  All eyes were on the flying rocks with the exception of one man – Bishop. Sure no one was looking, the Texan’s elbow shot out, slamming into the cone of the megaphone just as the troublemaker was raising the device to begin another round of verbal abuse.

  A sickening crunch told Bishop his strike had been on target, the bullhorn wielder crumpling in a heap. Stepping over the stunned instigator, Bishop acted innocent and concerned, “You all right?”

  With a mouth full of foaming blood and spit, the kid tried to answer, his eyes wild with pain. Bishop reached to help him up with an open hand. As he pretended to lift the slight fellow, the Texan’s heel came down hard on the victim’s insole, eliciting another howl of agony.

  Bishop released his new friend back to the pavement and then stomped on the megaphone as he stepped away, grinding the metal device, and the hand holding it, into the sidewalk.

  A second later, Bishop was holding up his sign, mingling deeper into the multitude.

  The remaining two inciters were still active, but without their amplified cheerleader, their momentum was fading. Now desperate, they charged the restaurant, one of them producing a glass bottle with a white rag sticking from the top. Just as he raised a disposable lighter, a stream of water arced from the roof, striking the bomb thrower square in the chest.

  Somehow, he managed to light the gasoline soaked rag and throw the cocktail, Bishop watching the weapon tumble end over end toward the restaurant.

  The blast of a shotgun echoed through the surrounding buildings, the spread of buckshot striking the flying bomb in mid-air.

  The glass shattered, igniting the fuel in a spectacular fireball 10 feet above the ground.

  Bishop watched as the flaming liquid fell harmlessly onto the asphalt parking lot, the flames quickly extinguished by readjusting the hose’s aim. “Pug. You devil. I never knew they shot skeet in Korea,” Bishop grinned.

  Furious that their attack had been foiled, the two agitators waved and begged the crowd to follow them in a mass attack of the building. The throng did surge forward, easily pulling down the rope, but hesitated to charge headlong at the restaurant.

  A few of the braver souls did follow, and a moment later the night sky filled with a barrage of rocks, bottles, and anything else the gang could find to throw. Most of the missiles fell harmlessly short, a few bouncing off the structure’s façade. One lucky rock, however, found glass.

  The shattering sound of the window seemed to encourage the more aggressive revelers, the throng again surging forward. Bishop’s men responded with both hoses.

  The cold water helped subdue the activists, but it wasn’t enough. Again, a flaming bottle of gas was hurled, this time striking the side of Pete’s Pizzeria with a resounding whoosh.

  With the streaming water now redirected at the fire, a dozen brave souls charged, screaming and waving their signs wildly in the air.

  Bishop, frustrated he hadn’t managed to disable the troublemakers before it had come to this, looked on helplessly as the security men on the roof opened up with high-velocity salt.

  Howls of pain and fear, combined with the bellows of outrage filled the city around Pete’s. Bishop watched as those struck by the painful loads of biting, stinging rock salt fell, grabbed limbs, and pleaded for help.

  The mob, thankfully, fell back.

  What occurred next shocked Bishop. Holding their hands in the classic ‘don’t shoot’ position, several members of the panting throng shuffled forward, intending to help those lying on the ground. The Texan was proud that his men waved them forward, pointing their barrels skyward and promising not to fire.

  The shotguns broke the riot, the gathering now more concerned with helping their friends who seemed to have been hit with deadly buckshot. By the time the rescuers figured out that no one was seriously hurt, the energy driving the protest had bled off.

  Relieved, Bishop made his way to the back of the restaurant, waving to the sentry on the roof to let him pass.

  “We dodged a bullet,” he proclaimed to Pug, entering the back door.

  “For now,” the Korean responded. “I have a bad feeling about this. I think they’ll be back.”

  Otis drained his shot of whiskey, returning the heavy glass to the wooden bar top with far more force than he intended. His gaze switched immediately to the hovering bartender, who as he feared, was frowning.

  “Okay, buddy. You’ve had enough,” the barkeep stated with a firm tone. “Why don’t you go home, Otis, sleep this one off. The recount is just getting started. Maybe Diana will win after all.”

  Waving off the unsolicited optimism, the inebriated government worker slurred, “The fix is in, George. I’m out of a job. I’m out of work. The new guy is going to move the capital to Austin, and I’ll be out on the street begging for scraps.”

  “You don’t know that. Quit walking around with a cloud over your head and go on home. I’m cutting you off.”

  “Fuck you,” Otis protested, stumbling as he tried to dismount his stool. “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, Mister Goodie Two Shoes.”

  George, seemingly unaffected by yet another in his occupation’s stream of loud-mouthed drunks, grabbed Otis’s empty mug and wiped off the bar. “Thank God he only lives a few blocks away,” he commented to a nearby waitress. “He would have really been pissed if I had been forced to take his keys.”

  Otis staggered toward the door, his mind now occupied by the critical decision of which direction he should turn in order to find his way home. It was a difficult choice.

  “Give you a lift, friend,” a voice from the doorway offered.

  After taking a moment to focus on the face of the speaker, Otis smiled. “I know you. You’re that nice young man who bought me a drink a while ago.”

  “Actually, I bought you three drinks, but who’s counting,” the man chuckled. “Come on. I’m going by your house. I’ll drop you off.”

  Far too deep in an alcoholic fog to question the motive of a stranger, Otis smiled broadly and then leaned in to share a secret. “Do you know where I live? Because for the life of me, it escapes me at the moment.”

  “Sure,” replied the pleasant fellow. “Your house is on my way home. C’mon, I’ll give you a lift.”

  Given his unsure legs, O
tis decided it was too good an offer to turn down. A minute later, he was climbing into the stranger’s SUV.

  Four blocks away, Otis spotted his own car sitting in the driveway and recognized home. “Want to come in for a nightcap?” he asked his new friend.

  “Sure, why not?” the stranger replied, pushing open the driver’s door.

  Otis produced his key ring and fumbled to open the lock. Finally growing frustrated, he started to turn toward his new buddy when a something stung his skin. Looking down, the drunk spied a syringe full of clear liquid being injected into his arm. “What is that?” he managed to say.

  “A flu shot,” replied the stranger.

  “Oh,” Otis replied just before clutching his chest in pain and falling to the ground.

  “Well … if you have potassium flu,” snickered the young man.

  Another shadow appeared from the darkness, a second, clean-cut image joining the murderer. “Here are his keys,” stated the first. “Let’s load him in the car and get moving.”

  Three minutes later, Otis’s body was seated in the back of his eight-year-old Honda, covered by a blanket as the 4-door sped out of Alpha. Directly behind them was the stranger and his SUV.

  They drove through Meraton without stopping, maintaining a speed exactly four miles per hour over the limit. No one wanted to take any chances with a dead body aboard and so much riding on the operation. Five hours later, they arrived at the outskirts of San Antonio.

  The driver of Otis’s Honda pulled off the main highway, navigating a series of neighborhood streets. Finally, the two-vehicle convoy arrived at a non-descript, Bedford stone ranch with the garage door open and waiting.

  Quickly, the overhead entry was closed by a third man after the sedan was inside. A fourth soon joined them, a team going to work loading Otis’s car.

  If anyone had been able to peer inside, they would have observed a flurry of activity. Heavy bundles were shoved into the trunk and backseat while the dead man’s body was given a change of clothing.

  An hour later they were finished, the leader making one last inspection before giving his crew the thumbs up.

  Otis’s limp body was placed in the passenger side front seat, sitting upright and secured by both the seatbelt and an extra set of cords.

  Again, the two-vehicle parade was on the road, this time turning to drive into the heart of downtown San Antonio.

  They arrived at Central High School’s auditorium, the facility almost as busy as the night of the debate. Now, hundreds of volunteers from all over Texas were recounting the millions of votes in an attempt to settle the election results once and for all.

  The hustle and bustle around the gym weren't entirely due to those involved in the recount. There were food deliveries, cleaning crews, trash removal, and a whole host of activities required to keep the small army of election officials and volunteers tallying.

  The Honda was parked in one of the large lots surrounding the popular sports venue, the murderer’s SUV nearby. Again, four men could be seen working around the two vehicles.

  Two men emerged, both smartly dressed and displaying identification badges that flagged them as security personnel. A minute later, the assassin appeared, pushing a laundry cart full of clean tablecloths. Underneath the wash laid Otis. Under the dead government worker, over 100 pounds of high explosives were concealed.

  The two security personnel passed through the front entrance without question. They immediately headed for the back doors, passing through a sea of folding card tables manned by those counting votes. The entire basketball floor was covered with people working on voter registration documents and identification rolls, others totaling and retotaling ballots.

  Here and there were large carts, many laden with metal ballot boxes like those captured by Bishop’s game cameras.

  Making their way behind the stage, the two security types checked the area, making sure they were alone. They pushed the handle on an emergency door and motioned the killer and his mobile arsenal inside.

  Otis’s body was propped up in a dark doorway where it was unlikely he would be noticed. One of the henchmen checked, making sure the man’s wallet was in his back pocket.

  Then the laundry cart was pushed under the stage into a storage area strewn with props and costumes from previous high school plays. The murderer pulled back the table linens to access the ordnance and pressed a series of buttons.

  The three-man team then exited out the same doorway where the bomb had just entered. Calmly, they strolled through the parking lot and climbed into the waiting SUV.

  “Everything okay, Captain?” the waiting driver asked.

  “Good to go,” he responded. “Let’s get a beer. I’m thirsty.”

  The SUV was just over eight blocks away when the timer ended its countdown. Even at that distance, the vehicle shuddered from the detonation.

  The blast wave atomized the wooden structure of the stage instantly, the concentric wall of expanding, super-heated air compressed to the consistency of concrete.

  Any human body within 100 yards was crushed and evaporated at nearly the same instant, struck with enough force to powder bones and crush internal organs into pulp.

  Those not killed by the initial sledgehammer of air soon perished via the follow-on blizzard of supersonic shrapnel slicing from the discharge.

  Less than five seconds after the explosion had devastated the interior, the old steel supporting the domed roof began to moan and creak. A few moments later, it collapsed, thrusting a cloud of smoke and debris in all directions, eventually settling in the oversized crater created by the detonation.

  An eerie silence followed the attack and collapse, the warm San Antonio night undisturbed by either the cries of the wounded or screams for help. Not a single soul inside the massive facility had survived the strike.

  Chapter 18

  Cyrus climbed onto the bed of the pickup, hundreds of livid faces eagerly awaiting his words. “How many of you lost loved ones in this cowardly attack?” he bellowed into the bullhorn.

  Across the throng, dozens of voices sounded off, many of the responses accented with knotted fists punching toward the sky.

  Holding up a newspaper, Cyrus continued with passion and vigor. “I have here the latest edition. You all have read it. It says a man from Alpha … a government worker in the employ of Diana the Dictator Brown … is responsible for this heinous act of terrorism.”

  The chorus of rage and anger grew louder now, more throats contributing to the outrage.

  “They say this man, this Otis, this slaughterer of over 1,000 innocent lives planned even more violence and murder. No, he wasn’t happy with just annihilating our friends and family members. An entire arsenal of bombs and a map to my election headquarters were located in his car!”

  The mob was now growing feverish, fueled by injustice and fury over the attack. Cyrus continued to fan the flames. “And does anyone here believe the government in Alpha is going to bring those responsible to justice?” continued the governor.

  The response was more intense, a few members of the growing mob shaking rifles and pistols in the air.

  “Are we, freeborn Texans, going to let Diana Brown and her gang of thugs steal this election? She owns law enforcement. She owns the press. She owns the military, and now, she wants to own all of us!”

  A wave of outrage spread over the crowd, the shouts and cries of irate individuals melding into the chorus of bias and wrath.

  “How can we allow this injustice to stand?” Cyrus continued, his finger stabbing at his followers while his voice grew even more impassioned. “Diana Brown isn’t going to willingly relinquish her power. She refused to honor the results of a free and open election. We might as well just get on our knees in homage to the Republic’s new dictator!”

  That did it, the roar rising from the masses so thunderous that even the governor blinked in surprise. Texans didn’t get on their knees for anybody.

  “There is only one thing that people l
ike Santa Anna Brown understand. There is only one message that we, the freedom loving people of the Lone Star Nation can deliver. We must fight for liberty! We must take to the streets! The fields! The mountains! Once again, we must tell the world that Texas will not stand for injustice!”

  The gathered citizens were frothing now, their blood near the boiling point, fueled by Cyrus’s inflammatory rhetoric.

  “We must deliver this message in person. All of us must travel to Alpha and let the fascists there know that the people of this mighty Republic will no longer endure their tyranny.”

  “Burn them out! Burn them out! Burn them out!” Someone started chanting, more and more voices joining the incensed chorus.