by Joe Nobody
He counted 26 prisoners as they were marched to the gas station’s parking lot. They were beaten men, covered in dirt and grime, their faces void of any expression. “Zombies,” Bishop whispered.
Once they had arrived at the old pump islands, the six guards told them to sit down and shut up. “No talking, no movement, no funny business,” snapped a harsh-looking man who was clearly in charge.
The captured men did as they were told, the ragtag lot taking a seat on the cold, wet concrete without comment or protest.
Jeers and catcalls hissed from the departing buses, the winners clearly taunting the losers. It was to be expected, Bishop thought. If Mineral Wells had won this fight, their people would be doing the same thing.
Just as the remaining vehicles were preparing to depart, Bishop’s faith in his wife’s analysis returned. There, rolling up the road, were three Texas National Guard Humvees. Pug had mentioned seeing the military units during his reconnaissance. The Texan hoped Cyrus was finally on his way to revel over his first conquest.
It quickly became clear that a dignitary was seated in either the 2nd or 3rd unit, as the lead Humvee cruised boldly into town while the other two lingered some distance back.
The point unit cruised the full length of the miniscule business district, flipped a U-turn and then stopped right in the middle of the village. The door opened, and Captain K emerged.
Bishop’s heart began racing at the sight of the man, an individual who had done more to harm the reputation of the SAINT program and the security of the Alliance than all other renegades and traitors combined.
Kilmore was cautious and smart, patrolled around the military transport, taking his time, listening to every peep and chirp. For a second, Bishop wondered if the man had received some sort of intelligence warning him of SAINT One’s intent to hunt them down. Just how deep did the disloyalty go? Did Nick have another traitor in his organization? Did Cyrus have spies in Meraton?
It was possible, Bishop decided, watching his nemesis through a narrow slit of dead brown foliage. We had eyes and ears on them, he pondered. Why wouldn’t they have people watching us?
The thought sent a chill down Bishop’s spine, a wave of ice that made the wet ground’s numbing cold pale in comparison. Was the hunter about to become the hunted? Had he led his own men into an ambush?
Kilmore then stepped over to the gas pumps and began talking to the guards in charge of the prisoners. Bishop couldn’t make out their words, but given the occasional bout of laughter, they were obviously enjoying themselves.
Finally, Captain K seemed content with the situation. Bishop watched as the SAINT Six leader keyed his radio and spoke into the mic. The other two Humvees revved their engines and began rolling toward the lead unit.
Bishop had been hesitant to use his team's radios for fear that SAINT Six would dial in the same frequency. But no longer. Now, the Texan had an additional asset at his disposal. He could talk to Grim and the boys without letting Kilmore know they were here.
As expected, SAINT Six’s additional shooters deployed exactly like Bishop’s own team would have if protecting a VIP. Rolling out of the Humvees, they quickly spread out to form a perimeter.
The first man hustled right past Butter and Pug’s junk pile, taking a knee just on the other side of the heap and facing outward.
The second man ran Bishop’s direction, and for a hectic few seconds, the Texan thought he was either going to have to kill the guy or be trampled underfoot. The time wasn’t right for either move.
The sprinter stopped, however, positioned just 15 feet in front of Bishop’s nose, his head on a swivel scanning left and right for any sign trouble.
With a nod from Kilmore, Cyrus emerged.
Bishop watched the crooked politician stand beside his ride, his head surveying all around at the village he’d just conquered.
“This is it?” Cyrus bellowed loud enough for all the hear. Again, “This is it?”
The governor was walking now, Captain K and another Six member in tight to protect the wandering man. “You mean to tell me that we lost 180 men and six hours for this speck of fly shit? Seriously? What the fuck is the matter with that equation?” he continued to roar.
Without waiting for an answer he knew would never come, Cyrus then paraded toward the prisoners. Oh shit, Bishop thought. This can’t end well.
Stopping in front of them, Cyrus began to scold. “Why on earth would you men fight to protect this worthless, one-horse town? Life here has to suck! Which one of you is in charge? I was told we had captured a leader. Who is it?”
Bishop inhaled a bit too loudly when he saw Abe’s battered frame rise in the middle of the gas station’s lot. “That would be me,” he managed through bruised lips.
Cyrus actually smiled, waving Abe forward. “Come to me. Come on. I want to speak with you.”
Abe hesitated, which was a mistake. Two guards appeared on either side of the mature farmer, shoving him hard toward the beckoning governor. A minute later, he was on his knees in front of Cyrus.
“Are you from this unimpressive, little colony?” Cyrus asked.
“I have lived here all my life,” he responded.
“So tell me, why did you fight us? Why are you siding with the dictator who wants to enslave all of Texas? Why do you support Diana Brown?”
“Because I was in your camp two days ago,” Abe words were passionate and honest. “I heard your men talking about burning Mineral Wells to the ground and making an example of us. This is my home. The only one I’ve ever known. I wouldn’t let anyone do that without a fight.”
Cyrus blinked once, then twice, the tomato producer’s words soaking in slowly. “So, you admit you’re a spy?” Then, without missing a beat, the governor turned to the nearest guard and said, “Did I just hear this man confess to espionage? Didn’t he just say he was a fucking mole?”
“Yes, sir. He did,” came the grunted response.
“And how, gentlemen, do we deal with spies? We hang their asses; that’s what we do! Somebody get a rope. Right now!”
Shrugging, Kilmore moved to answer the boss’s demand, retrieving a tow rope from the back of a Humvee.
Bishop wanted to end it all, right then, but he couldn’t. The angles were wrong, the placement of SAINT Six’s outer ring sure to result in the death of one or more of the team.
Butter and Pug were the most exposed, an alert Six man standing guard immediately behind their position. If either one of them so much as adjusted his aim, both would be sprayed with deadly fire in a heartbeat.
Grim and Bailey, on the other hand, didn’t have a clear field of fire due to the location of the prisoners.
Then there was the vigilant guard positioned less than 20 feet from Bishop’s own rifle. The Texan’s weapon was pointed in the right general direction, but even if he moved just an inch a minute, there was a chance he would alert the sentry.
Kevin was the only member of his team that wasn’t compromised, but the sniper could only shoot and aim so fast. No doubt he would hit one of Kilmore’s guys, but that was about the only guarantee. Even that thin advantage was about to disappear.
Marching Abe toward the closest tree, Cyrus and his two protectors now approached Kevin’s spot in the woods. At Kilmore’s urging, his man tossed the line over a 10-foot branch as the farmer was shoved forward by the butt of Captain K’s carbine.
It took the Six member a bit to tie a noose. From Bishop’s vantage, the guy wasn’t overly skilled at lynching, but the knot seemed good enough for Cyrus.
Abe, for his part, held nothing but rage in his eyes. No fear, no begging, nothing but fiery disdain for the man about to end his life.
Draping the noose over Abe’s head, Cyrus then pretended to have a thought. “I will spare your life, spy, if you tell me the names of the townships who sent men to help you.”
Abe swallowed so hard that the rope moved up and down on his neck. “I can’t do that. We didn’t have any help.”
“B
ullshit!” Cyrus spat. “This flea-bitten shit hole couldn’t have mustered more than 100 men. Which of your neighbors contributed manpower, sir? Tell me, and you can go home to your miserable homestead and family.”
Sticking to his story, Abe repeated his claim. “Our men came from the surrounding farms and ranches. They were all local.”
Shaking his head in disbelief, Cyrus motioned to Kilmore’s man to tighten the rope. Abe was lifted to his tiptoes, his spine straining to relieve the pressure on his neck.
“Tell me … or die,” Cyrus snapped, clearly about to lose his temper.
“I am telling you the truth,” Abe lied.
In a flash, Cyrus’s entire attitude changed. Like he was experiencing a eureka moment, the governor pivoted while ordering, “Let him stand easy. I have a better idea.” Then he was off, heading toward the nearest building.
On the way, the governor stopped by the nearest Humvee, and after digging around inside for a moment, produced a grenade. Oh shit, Bishop thought. Now we’re going to commit mass murder via shrapnel?
Instead of heading for the huddled prisoners, the governor turned toward Abe and said, “Do you know what this is?”
“A grenade,” the farmer croaked through a tight throat.
“This is a thermite grenade, to be exact,” Cyrus bragged, tossing the heavy device up and down as if it was a ball. “And if I throw it into one of your beloved village’s buildings, it will burn to the ground. Do you understand?”
Abe nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“I have an entire case of these nasty things,” Cyrus continued. “More than enough to torch every single structure in this piece-of-shit-town. If you tell me which of your neighbors sent help, I’ll use these on their homes and businesses, sparing Mineral Wells. Who helped you?”
“I already told you. No one helped us,” Abe repeated.
“Fuck you!” Cyrus barked, pulling the pin on the device. A moment later, it was arcing through the general store’s window.
A pop … then a thump sounded as a bright flash expanded in the interior. Three seconds later, the first blaze appeared as the molten phosphorous began to consume fuel. Within a minute, the flames licked the store’s openings, and the entire business was engulfed.
The pyre cast wicked, dancing, red shadows all through downtown as the inferno continued to roar out of control.
“Who helped you?” Cyrus again demanded, moving to pick up another grenade.
“No one helped us. It doesn’t matter what you do to me or this town. The answer is going to be the same.”
The scorching building gave Bishop the break he’d been waiting for. The cracking, hissing flames were growing louder by the second, the distorted light interfering with Six’s troublesome outer ring.
Still, Bishop hesitated. Kevin had a clear shot at any target. Given the display he’d just witnessed, the Texan was having doubts that Kilmore was the most deserving of the sharpshooter’s attentions.
Bishop had never been a huge fan of Cyrus. All along though, he had assumed that the politician was merely a puppet for the more aggressive SAINT commander. Now, after what he’d just seen, his mind began to contemplate the value in eliminating Governor Young.
We don’t do that, he considered. We don’t assassinate political opponents. That’s not the American way … not the Alliance way. Yet, the man was central to the issue, responsible for a growing number of dead. Despite the emotion swelling in his core, Bishop knew that he was venturing into an area that might possibly have ramifications far and beyond the current election and who would lead the Alliance.
If he put Cyrus down, someone worse might step into his place. Hell, for all he knew, Kilmore was next in line. There was also a chance that the governor’s demise on the battlefield would elevate the man to martyr status. “Remember the Alamo,” might be replaced with “Remember Young!”
The mental vacillation was all too deep for Bishop, the few nanoseconds of thought he could afford now pushed aside. We came for SAINT Six, he confirmed. Stick to the mission.
Chancing the background noise would mask his voice, the Texan keyed his mic. “Grim, take out the guards on my mark. Kevin, nail that asshole over by Butter and Pug. I got this jerk to my front.”
Cyrus was now screaming at the top of his lungs, barely an inch from Abe’s face. Without warning, the governor became silent. He was through talking. He turned to Kilmore and calmly instructed the bodyguard, “Stretch his fucking neck.”
They hadn’t bound Abe’s hands. As the rope was pulled taut, the grower’s natural instinct was to grab for the noose that was crushing his throat.
As Abe’s arms strained to prevent his weight from closing his airway, the poor man’s legs were kicking wildly. Cyrus thought it was funny, an evil chuckle rolling from the governor’s throat.
The man in front of Bishop couldn’t help himself, turning to watch the show. At a snail’s pace, Bishop moved his M4’s barrel, bringing his target’s chest to the optic’s center.
At the same instant Bishop began to squeeze the trigger, he broadcasted, “Fire!”
Absolute bedlam erupted in Mineral Wells.
Bishop’s round struck the SAINT Six man directly in the chest, the impact of the point-blank bullet almost knocking the stunned sentry to the ground. The Texan knew he probably hadn’t killed his enemy, given the obvious armor under the man’s shirt.
Bishop kept firing as his target tried to raise his weapon while staggering back, the Texan praying for a head shot as he pulled himself from under the net of leaves. He spotted his nemeses go down, collapsing on the earth and not moving.
Kevin, having plenty of time to size up his prey, opted for a “deodorant shot.” The round slammed into the vulnerable area just below the shoulder, finding the armpit gap not protected by body armor. His aim was true, the bullet expanding as it passed through the upper arm and into the chest cavity, turning heart and lung tissue into mush. The Six rifleman fell in a heap beside Butter’s scrap hide, lifeless before he hit the ground.
Grim and Bailey, throwing back their tarp, opened with a deadly barrage at the guards surrounding the prisoners.
Bishop, finally free of his camo, realized Captain K was already moving, he and his teammate pushing the now cringing governor back toward the up-armored Humvees.
Just as a holographic dot on the Texan’s weapon centered on Kilmore’s back, the Six commander changed direction causing Bishop’s shot to go wide. Instead of taking down the captain, the other Six member crumpled into a heap, his body then somersaulting as it skidded across the pavement.
Cursing, Bishop tried to re-center his aim. A heavy blow to the head knocked the Texan rolling to the ground.
Stunned, it took Bishop a second before he realized that his initial target had been playing possum. Cursing his stupidity, he tried to stand but was too slow.
A shoulder slammed into Bishop’s ribs as the attacker lunged in, both men tumbling hard across the ground. The Texan spotted the glint of a knife blade, managing to block the thrust with his carbine’s stock at the last second. With the brimstone glow, he could see his adversary’s eyes searing with anger, their haunting hue like some primordial demon out to harvest a soul. The dagger again sought flesh, the slash barely avoided for a second time.
Listing hard away from the hellish fire, the Texan landed on his back, his enemy’s weight pinning him to the flooded blacktop. They exchanged blows, Bishop managing to land a left with enough force to knock the aggressor off balance for a split second. It was an opening, allowing a fleeting opportunity for leverage.
Planting a foot and engaging every muscle in his legs and back, Bishop rolled the man off. They both rose up at the same instant, both pivoting to get their weapons up and into play. The Texan was slower, out of position, and watched in horror as frame-by-frame, his opponent’s muzzle moved to a deadly line pointing directly at Bishop’s head.
Bishop’s mind was now firing at near-death, adrenaline-powered speed.
He registered the man’s finger tightening on the trigger, red, glowing eyes pulsing with hatred and the lust of battle. An image of Terri flashed, followed by the sound of Hunter’s cackling giggle. The Texan knew he wasn’t going to make it this time. His rifle was still too far away to join the fray and was climbing so very sluggishly. He was beaten. He was going to die.
The nose between the inflamed eyes vanished, a black hole ringed with white grizzle appearing in its place. In slow motion, Bishop glimpsed a crimson cloud of mist explode from the back of his adversary’s head just as muzzle pointing at his face flashed white hot.
The searing blast from the near miss singed his brows and scorched his face, his vision blurring into white snow. Bishop dropped to his knees, waiting for the agony that never came. Shaking his head to dispel the fog, blinking and rubbing his eyes, his eyesight slowly began to return.
