by Bradley West
Burns was past rationalizing his decisions. As Muller constantly taunted him, his formerly matinee idol looks were contorted into a hideous mass of stitches and swollen flesh. He’d eat through a straw for the rest of his life. Someone had to pay, and that someone was the Maggios. “Last chance: march or die.”
“Do what you will.” Stephanie hugged her lethargic newborn with all the love in her being and shut her eyes, accepting the universe’s judgment.
Yonten charged at Burns, who swung his revolver and fired. The slender teen held his father’s A-Klub machete in his outstretched arm like a spear. The bullet clipped his left deltoid high on the inside of his shoulder. The pain wasn’t enough to deter his attack. Yonten lunged like fencer and drove the point straight into Burns’ midsection. Burns staggered backward and dropped his weapons. Yonten’s lunge had left him fully extended, and he let go of the knife as the fresh gunshot’s pain registered. The teen was on his knees staring at a disbelieving Burns as he contemplated a machete protruding from his guts.
Burns’ left hand went to the hilt, but he thought better than to pull out the blade as this would increase the bleeding. He gathered his wits and saw the .38 Special at his feet. Slowly, gently he kneeled. You’ve got this. Pick up the pistol and shoot the boy. Shoot them all. As his knees touched down, he heard a baby squall and felt two arms wrap around his neck and a body slam against his back. There was no strength in the grip on this throat and he raised his hand to tear those hands away. Stephanie used her legs and pushed back with all her might, pulling the wounded man on top of her as she fell onto her back.
Yonten saw his chance and scrambled like a crocodile after a wounded wildebeest. He cupped his right palm over the end of the hilt and put his full body weight over his hand to add force. Burns stopped trying to break Stephanie’s stranglehold and dropped his hands to the machete. He was too slow as Yonten drove the thick blade slowly and steadily into the Englishman’s vitals. He knew he had to be careful not to push so hard that he impaled Stephanie, but Burns struggled.
Stephanie screamed in shock and pain and Yonten took the cue to roll to the side to take Burns’ body off the trapped woman. Stephanie let go of Burns’ neck and clutched her hands to her stomach.
Yonten had pushed the knife all the way through and over an inch out Burns’ back. Through his ruined, blood-filled mouth, Burns uttered a dying animal howl that stopped mid-cry.
Yonten lay next to the dead man and caught his breath, his left side paralyzed from two gunshot wounds. He lifted his head to be certain he’d killed his foe and watched blood flow from frozen fish lips, soaking grimy facial bandages. Resting on his haunches, Yonten collected Burns’ pistol.
Stephanie examined her shallow puncture wound and discovered that it hadn’t penetrated past the fat layer. Her arms and legs trembled uncontrollably until she willed them to stop. Frantically, she looked around until she found Tyson on the ground where she’d left him just seconds ago. She scooped up and brushed off her dusty bundle of joy and saw a pair of wide eyes staring up incredulously. A lusty set of lungs kicked in as her precious bundle wriggled and cried mightily. She unbuckled her bra and offered a breast. To her surprise, Tyson latched with gusto. She was barely conscious of the tears on her cheeks as relief and happiness surged through her.
* * * * *
Norris had the binos out and watched the Fraser Burns soap opera. He heard a shout from down the mountain and saw that Muller had been busy. Three kids knelt next to the Ford, hands on their heads like POWs. Muller came into view around the pickup, dragging a limp Sal by the collar with two hands. Muller propped up Sal against the left rear tire and gave his face a hard slap to bring him round. A shot struck the dirt pile next to Norris’ head. WTF? A quick look with the binos confirmed the Voyager bunch was back out of sight with only Burns’ corpse visible on the side. On instinct, Norris ducked as Johnny’s second shot missed high. He shifted his position and swung his field glasses across a wider arc. Plain as a dog’s balls was a brown man in a prone position behind a stump aiming at him from over two hundred and fifty yards out. This seemed like a fine opportunity to hone his M320 technique. The launcher and the bag of ten mini grenades sat a few feet away.
Norris crouched down and moved over to pick up the M320 when a revivified Carla tackled him. He back-fisted her face, scrambled to his knees and snatched up the M-4.
Johnny couldn’t remember the last time he’d missed two shots in a row at any range under five hundred meters. Here he was only half that distance, and buck fever had his hands trembling. He could scarcely believe it when the bearded biker poked his head up near where he’d disappeared. Johnny adjusted his aim, timed his trigger press to fall between heartbeats and saw the man drop like a toddler’s Raggedy Ann doll thrown down the stairs.
Carla’s concussed vision was blurred to begin with, and Norris’ latest brutal blow to her face hadn’t helped her eyesight. She realized Norris was a second away from killing her when the man’s left eyeball disintegrated. In slow motion, the biker toppled onto his left side. She stared at the dead man, reassembling her cognitive functions. The distant sound of the shot reaffirmed reality.
Where were Muller and Katerina? Where were the children? Carla’s burns, aching ribs and throbbing head combined to nauseate her, but she didn’t have the luxury of time to vomit. She pulled the M-4 out of Norris’ dead hands and surveyed the command post. No one was within view . . . wait a second, a pair of small shoes stuck out the RV’s door. She closed her eyes hard and reopened them to see single-vision once again. At first she thought it might have been Schway, but the legs were white.
She didn’t know who was out there sniping from the 3Mers and didn’t want to become a friendly fire casualty. She stayed low as she worked back to the Horizon and called out for the children. “It’s Carla. Is anyone there?” No reply. Now at the RV’s open door, her wishes came true when she saw the bloody matted hair on Katerina’s head.
For some silly reason, The Wizard of Oz popped into her head and she sang in a low voice, “Ding-dong, the witch is dead. The wicked witch is dead!” Carla allowed herself a smile at the absurdity and the relief at the demise of the depraved scientist. She had to find the kids and figure out what had happened to Muller—so long as he lived, no one was safe. She turned around and took a step to retrieve the M-4.
Unknown to Carla, Yonten’s shot had only grazed Katerina’s skull, leaving her semi-conscious and making a bloody spectacle, but otherwise causing no serious harm. She’d taken a while to regain her faculties, but that bitch’s shaking her foot and singing had spurred her to act. As a collegiate gymnast, Katerina had muscles on top of muscles. She turned over, saw Carla crouching to pick up a rifle and leaped onto her back. Katerina wrapped her left forearm around Carla’s throat and locked her wrist with her right hand. For good reason, the rear naked chokehold was the ideal submission move in mixed martial arts—applied properly, the victim couldn’t break it.
Katerina’s sudden attack caught Carla unaware and in the moment it took her to realize what had happened, it was too late. Try as Carla might, she couldn’t pry the forearm away from her larynx. Carla writhed on her back with Katerina under her, choking her out and narrowing her peripheral vision. Her head throbbed, her burns ached and this hellion wouldn’t let go. The children will die if I die. Carla summoned her remaining strength and rolled onto her stomach with Katerina glued to her back. Her lungs cried out for air as she struggled to her hands and knees. The former travel team goalkeeper leveraged her height and strength advantages to pull them both upright using the handle next to the RV’s steps. Once Carla made it to her feet, Katerina’s toes dangled six inches off the ground. Carla’s world spun and faded as her remaining vision took on a red tint. She rotated, took two quick steps back and slammed her attacker against the RV.
The pop-out room’s sharp corner caught Katerina on the neck where Carla had jabbed her with the scalpel. Katerina loosened her grip as pain surged through her head
. Carla summoned her last strength for a second body slam and rammed Katerina even harder into the corner, this time hitting the base of her foe’s neck. Nerve pain radiated through Katerina’s limbs and numbness followed. She relaxed her grip on Carla’s throat and allowed her enemy a fresh breath before clamping down again, but this time at an imperfect angle. Carla was back in the fight and thrust her enemy into the RV again, then wrenched free of Katerina’s grip. The two women separated.
Katerina grasped the M-4 in her small hands and aimed it at a charging Carla. A panicky Katerina muffed the insertion of her index finger inside the trigger guard. The split-second delay allowed Carla to push the barrel to the side and land a right punch to Katerina’s face as the M-4 discharged. The one-hundred-pound pixie crumpled as Carla rained fists down on her until her unconscious face looked like an overripe raspberry.
Carla needed to find the children and Muller but didn’t want to leave this woman behind, perhaps to rise again. What I need is a sharpened wooden stake and a hammer. Carla picked up the M-4 and quashed her instinct to shoot the insensate Katerina.
CHAPTER thirty-seven
Death Valley
Tuesday, July 21, 2020: near Ruby Ridge, Idaho, late afternoon into twilight
“Pay attention!” Muller shouted. “I’ll execute all three monkeys if anyone shoots at me. Get on your radio and tell them to drop their weapons. I’m driving off in the RV. Got it?”
Sal’s heart had stopped the previous week when he suffered a massive coronary. Arkar’s chest massage and determination had brought him back from the brink. This time around, there was no miracle waiting in the wings. Muller’s gunshot had obliterated his gall bladder and with every heartbeat another pulse of blood dribbled out internally and externally. Sal was conscious but in shock, barely aware he was out of the cab and seated. Why were the little kids kneeling in front? Someone struck him and shouted. Muller. Muller saying something. “No radio,” Sal mumbled.
“No radio? That’s unfortunate because I’m taking the kids up the hill. If someone shoots at me, I’ll kill them. How do I make your people understand?”
“Surrender. White flag.”
“Surrender? Why would I do that? I’ve won. I have the Dark Cure, the best motorhome in Idaho and three perfect hostages.”
Johnny Gratton had another tough angle. He was only two hundred meters away, but at a lower elevation and the wrecked pickup partially sheltered Muller. A quick look at the command post revealed a person standing at the edge. Whoever was up there had a much closer and easier shot, but he didn’t know who it was. Ah, shit. The M-4 wasn’t an operator’s first choice sniper rifle. His aim was true, the angle was poor and the round struck Muller in his upper left shoulder—a through-and-through that expelled pink mist on exit.
Muller fell over with a yelp of pain and surprise. He pushed himself into a seated position where the pickup still shielded him and looked at Maggio. “Someone shot me, Sal. Where do you want me to start—with the youngest or the oldest? It’s a philosophical question as much as a practical one.” Muller’s mind contained the pain in his arm, packing it away and channeling it into the joy he would extract from the grief he’d cause from these children’s executions.
Sal was out of it and said nothing, eyes unfocused and half-open.
“For the record, I’m an admirer of youth and beauty. On that basis, the oldest gets the first bullet. If you have a radio, now would be a good time.” Muller drew his Walther, popped the mag and confirmed a ten-count. The children knelt facing the other way, Schway chanting softly in Naga and Juanito praying to the Virgin Mary. Lupita just looked at the older boys, frightened by the fear on their faces but not knowing what was happening.
Sal marshaled his strength and dragged himself the five feet separating Muller from himself. As Muller’s right arm came up to fire, Sal swung his right arm down and feebly chopped the crook of Muller’s right elbow. The shot buried into the dirt and Schway took off running. Muller half-turned and elbowed Sal’s face. Carla’s M-4 round fired from the hilltop and missed Muller’s torso by inches. Sal collapsed to the ground and lay still.
Juanito grabbed Lupita’s hand and desperately ran up the hill after Schway. Muller realized he was under fire from two positions and watched as his collateral fled. Self-preservation triumphed over vindictiveness and he sprinted for the woods a football field away. Carla kept firing, never as close as the first time, but near enough to keep Muller’s legs churning. The pickup truck screened the former CIA scorpion from Johnny only for twenty meters, and when his target popped into the open, Johnny snapped a quick shot. Muller disappeared from view, either knocked down or obscured by the lower elevation.
From the hilltop, Carla saw Muller drop a second time, though she didn’t think it was from one of her shots. At last. She turned her attention to the three children struggling over the uneven ground, dodging stumps, and rushed to join them. She embraced Schway briefly and said, “Let’s wait for Juanito and Lupita and go up the hill together.” As she helped the kids up the slope, she had to repress a living nightmare. I didn’t really shoot Uncle Sal, did I?
* * * * *
The Telluride made the return journey from camp at a record speed with Derek at the wheel and Jaime shouting directions. Once the Voyager came into sight, Derek slowed way down. Erinn hunched in the back with her medical supplies, expecting the worst. Matt stood guard in the 3M camp with the SAW on high ground while Pat, Barb and Zarni sanitized the green RV in anticipation of incoming casualties. Greg tried to raise Travis on the shortwave.
Behind the Voyager, the site was bloodier than the Reservoir Dogs finale. Yonten was conscious but possibly in shock. Arkar was out, and Mona periodically cleared blood from his breathing passages so he wouldn’t suffocate. The doctor fought off shock and tended to the wounded Burmese as best she could, changing dressings and adjusting the tourniquet on Yonten’s upper arm.
Steph kept Tyson calm on her breast and, in the other hand, held Arkar’s Glock as she stood watch. With a shaky right hand, she pointed the pistol down the road until the chorus of familiar voices convinced her that help had arrived.
The Telluride pulled in directly behind the red SUV and Erinn jumped out with IV lines and the only three plasma bags she could find in the green ’Bago. “We need the medical supplies from the hospital RV,” Erinn said. “Is it still up there?”
“Nothing’s come down the road,” Stephanie said. “There’s been scattered shots over the last ten minutes, but not aimed at us. They’re from the hilltop and then way out there somewhere.”
Jaime stared at Burns’ bloody corpse and grotesque features, and knew there was a tale to be heard once this firefight ended. “The top of the hill? That’s not good. We’ll spread out and work our way up. Carla, Sal and three kids could be hostages, so don’t fire unless you can see your target.”
“I shot one at the RV,” Yonten groaned. “Only two left.”
“Who did you shoot?”
“I don’t know, but he stayed down.”
From up in the distance came the sound of three M-4 shots in a row. “That’s Johnny, and he’s in trouble,” Jaime said. “Kyle, go down low, circle wide and move fast. Derek, split the difference between Kyle and the road. Use cover and put the Winchester to work when you get close enough. I’m driving straight up the hill. If I take accurate fire, I’ll roll out on the left side and work up behind cover.”
* * * * *
Greg raised Travis at 18:09, the day’s second call-in time. It was a brief conversation. The Hunters were barely twenty-five miles away, roaming State Route 20 north and south in anticipation of rejoining the 3M camp that night. They were an hour away on the backroads when Travis reconnected with the two outriders, Tien and Tom. They’d haul ass to the GPS coordinates Jaime had provided to Greg, and Greg had passed on to Travis.
* * * * *
Johnny caught his breath at the wrecked pickup as he realized that Sal was in critical condition with entry and e
xit wounds below his right ribcage and a grazed right shoulder. He looked up the hill, where Carla and the little people were almost at the crest. Another forty meters away was the place where he’d expected to see Muller’s body, but there wasn’t anything there except a dark patch on the dirt. With Muller still at large, he couldn’t afford to help Sal. A look behind turned up a welcome sight—the Telluride parked behind the red minivan. Three swift shots later, he’d alerted the troops and was off to find Muller, dead or alive.
Carla and the kids dropped flat when the three shots sounded. Carla poked her head up first and spotted extra people behind the Voyager and what might be a vehicle behind it. Then she looked down the hill, afraid of what she might see. Johnny stood over Sal, who was on his side and unmoving next to a rifle that must have been Muller’s. The former soldier waved her back and pointed toward the woods. Muller was on the loose. She waved her arm and felt foolish for drawing attention to herself. Ducking back down, she called the kids over and they crawled the last twenty feet to the summit of the hill. Everyone lay prone as they caught their breaths. Carla told Schway to lead the two Garcias to the foxhole and hide there until she gave the all-clear. With an aching head and burned face, Carla couldn’t think straight. She had to consider problems twice-over to make sure she wasn’t coming up with nonsense. She concluded that there was no way a bullet-riddled Muller could have started from one hundred meters farther away and beaten them to the command post.
She had to focus on the facts. First, confirm that Norris and Katerina were dead. Norris was an easy one since the top-left quarter of his head was missing and his body lay where it had fallen. Katerina . . . where was Katerina? Carla had left her unconscious at the foot of the RV’s steps, but now there was nothing, just a few bloodstains. Shit, shit, shit. A look in the RV came up empty, as did a run around the perimeter. Where could she be? The only ways off the hill were down the road or the clear-cut slopes in front of them, unless she’d taken the suicidal back way down that boulder jumble.
