Slaughter in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  When the room had cleared of all but a few of Ray’s most trusted people, one asked, “You really think we can make it out of here, Ray?”

  “Some of us. If we don’t panic. That’s the trick. We’ve got to keep our wits about us. Once in the timber, we move very cautiously—alert all the time. Raines won’t be expecting us to be ready for him. So we’ve got to be ready.”

  When Ray was finally alone, he sat very still for a time. Everybody else could run, but not him. He’d pretend like he was running toward the timber, then double back. This time, he silently swore, he’d kill Ben Raines. If he could think of some sort of edge, that is. If not, he’d run like a rabbit and forget all about the rest of these damn losers.

  Ben got the artillery in place, but it was only with a supreme effort on the part of his people, for the terrain was rugged and the county roads in very bad shape.

  Ben, however, had no intention of using artillery to finish off the last of the punks. He just couldn’t be sure they’d gotten all of Simon Border’s infiltrators and he couldn’t take a chance on divulging his real plans until the very last minute.

  The country was totally unsuitable for tanks, and they would be confined to the four main roads, when Ben decided to call them up.

  He had briefed his batt coms on his plans, and what Ben had in mind came as no surprise to any of them. They knew how much Ben hated Ray Brown.

  Ben pulled in another battalion and added them to those ringing the town and patrolling the mountains and forests. Ben was determined to put an end to the punks, once and for all.

  Mike Richards showed up with his band of guerrillas and they looked much better than the last time Ben had seen his intelligence chief.

  “You eating regular now, Mike?” Ben asked with a smile.

  “You bet. Ben, I wanted to come back to see you close the book on the punks.”

  “Oh, they’ll always be punks, Mike. But probably never in as large a concentration as those we’ve been hammering for the past months. Now tell me the real reason you returned so quickly.”

  Mike chuckled. He rose and refilled his coffee mug, then turned and faced Ben, a serious expression on his face. “Simon is preaching a holy war, Ben. He’s telling his faithful that this war will be the war to bring God back to the nation. I remind you again, the man has millions of followers, and not just confined to his territory.”

  Ben spread his hands. “I know, Mike. I know only too well. I’ve told the man repeatedly that once we deal with the punks, we’re out of his territory. But if he wants a war, there is not a damn thing I can do to prevent that from happening. I spoke with the fool not an hour ago. Told him that I’d forget all about his Guards of God attacking us back up the road. Told him again that once Ray Brown is dealt with, if he’ll let us, we’re out of his territory. He said he would bury us all here and then broke the transmission. I’ve back-pedaled all I’m going to. I just can’t do anymore.”

  “What’s happening back home to meet this challenge, Ben?”

  “Factories working around the clock. All planes and helicopters and tanks ready to roll. All battalions on the move toward the eastern edge of Simon’s territory.”

  “Nineteen battalions against twenty million of the faithful, all of them religious fanatics, ready to die for God and Simon Border?”

  “I don’t see that I have any choice, Mike.”

  “Oh, I understand that, Ben. I wasn’t criticizing you. Just, well, appalled at the odds, that’s all.”

  “Join the club.”

  “Well, when you decide to move, I’ve got teams of people scattered all over Border’s little kingdom, sitting on ready to launch a guerrilla action. We’ll be able to help some.”

  “We?”

  “Oh, I’m going back into Border’s territory. I, ah, well, I feel I can be more use in there, that’s all.”

  “Found you a woman, huh, Mike?”

  The chief of intelligence at first looked disgusted, then the man actually blushed. “Damn, Ben. How do you do that? I’m going to have to put some credence in the longstanding rumor that you possess a third eye.”

  Ben laughed at the man. “I’m just a good guesser, Mike. That’s all.”

  “Well, yeah, I did sort of take up with a lady. And she is a real lady, Ben. She got taken in by Simon’s line years ago and moved west with a group of people. Didn’t take her long to see through the bastard, though. She’s been part of a guerrilla unit for several years.”

  “You want to pull her out and move her to Base Camp One?”

  Mike shook his head. “I’ve already suggested that. She won’t hear of it.”

  “Then I’ll tell you what to do, Mike—you head on back and stay with her. Give us a good fix on your location, and I’ll arrange to have to you resupplied by airdrop. Hell, there is nothing for you to do here. Go on back up north and get set up for the push.”

  “That’s firm then, Ben? We’re really looking at a religious war?”

  “I don’t see any way out of it.” Ben didn’t say anything about the request that when the Rebels finished in North America, they make plans to head for Africa. Ben knew how opposed Mike was to that.

  Mike was of the opinion that if the Rebels went to Africa, they could be bogged down there forever.

  And Ben wasn’t too sure the man was that far off base in his thinking.

  After Mike had left, Ben sat for a time alone in his motor home. His people were almost ready to strike at, as Mike put it, “the last bastion of punks.”

  And then . . . the fight that Ben knew would possibly, no, probably tear the country apart. But he didn’t see any way out of a fight with Simon Border. Border was the type of so-called Christian that drove Ben away from organized religion when he was just out of his teens, and Ben had never gone back.

  Ben had been baptized as a youth, had read the Bible all his life for inspiration and comfort, and still did, often, believing strongly in God and in some type of life after death. But he worshipped God in his own way and was a strong Old Testament man. Ben was a strong law and order man, but one’s personal life was their own business. Ben believed in maximum freedom with a minimum of laws, and no interference in one’s personal life as long as that person obeyed the laws of the SUSA. Ben didn’t give a damn if a person sat nude in their bathtub worshipping a bucket filled with kumquats . . . just as long as that person did not try to convince a person under the age of consent that their way was the best way and the only way.

  That’s where Ben drew the line.

  Ben walked outside to stand for a moment, breathing deeply of the cold late fall air. He looked around him. Beautiful country. He cut his eyes as Corrie walked up to stand beside him.

  “Those goofy reporters are in the rear with Emil,” she said.

  “Good. Everything set?”

  “Sitting on ready.”

  “No unusual activity in the town?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Ray’s got something up his sleeve, because he sure knows we’re here.”

  “No way he could have found out what we have planned.”

  Ben nodded his agreement with that. “Well, we’ll see in the morning. We hit him at first light.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Rebels, Ben and his team with them, had moved into position during the early morning hours. This was their type of assault and to a person they excelled at it. The first assault team had moved to within a few yards of the old town limits and waited for Ben’s signal. Not one of the first to go in had made a sound during their advance. They waited like silent death for the first gray shards of lights to lighten the eastern skies.

  “Now!” Ben whispered to Corrie; she radioed the command, and the Rebels surged forward.

  All around the town’s outer limits, the Rebels started chucking grenades into buildings, giving those inside a very rude, if brief, awakening.

  Ray Brown had been awake for several hours, tension making him unable to sleep. When the first muffled explosi
on reached him, the gang leader knew Ben Raines had outfoxed him—again. He grabbed his rucksack and rifle and headed for the back door.

  “That miserable bastard!” Ray muttered, running for the timber. There were screams of fright and shock and pain ripping the cold air, drifting to him.

  Suddenly, all the air whooshed out of him and he went to the ground hard, losing his rifle as he hit the earth. He looked up and cussed as he fought for breath.

  Ben was standing over him, smiling.

  “You asshole!” Ray gasped, holding his stomach where Ben had popped him with the butt of his CAR.

  “My scouts pinpointed your location days ago, punk,” Ben said. “I’ve been waiting for you to make a run for it.”

  “Then go ahead and shoot me, you bastard!”

  Ben shook his head. “Oh, no, punk. That would be too easy. Get up.”

  Ray had caught his breath, now breathing easier. He laughed at Ben. “Are you nuts, old man? You really want to tangle with me, one-on-one?”

  “That’s right, Brown. Mano-a-mano. Are you intelligent enough to know what that means?”

  Ray crawled to his knees. “I know what it means, Raines.”

  “Unbuckle that pistol belt,” Ben ordered. “And do it very carefully.”

  “With pleasure, Raines.” Ray tossed the belt, with its holstered pistol and knife, to one side. “Do I get up now?”

  “By all means, punk.” Ben had laid his CAR aside and removed his battle harness, tossing it on the ground.

  Ray looked around as he rose to his feet. Ben’s team was standing off to one side. A dozen other Rebels were standing silently, watching. “What happens when I win, Raines?”

  “No chance of that happening, punk.”

  “This is no-holds-barred, Raines? Anything goes?”

  “Just the way I like it, shithead.”

  Ray cursed and charged Ben. Ben sidestepped and tripped the gang leader, sending him sprawling on the ground. Nothing hurt except his pride.

  “Get up, hot-shot,” Ben taunted the gang leader. “Damn, there isn’t much to you.”

  Ray jumped to his boots, cussing Ben. He swung at Ben, missed, then connected with a glancing left to the face.

  Ben stepped back, shook his head, and popped Ray twice, a left and right combination, belly and jaw.

  The twin blows drove the younger man back. Raines might be middle-aged, the thought jumped into Ray’s brain, but the bastard could still punch. Ray stepped back and spat out blood, then stepped in close and both men stood toe-to-toe for half a minute, exchanging blows, most of the blows falling on arms and shoulders, doing little damage to either combatant.

  Ray was 20 years younger, but he was badly out of shape. Ben, on the other hand, had been living in the field for years, and maintained a daily schedule of calisthenics, which he followed religiously.

  Both men stepped back to catch their breath.

  Ray noticed then that the gunfire had all but stopped. Raines’s sneak dawn attack had destroyed what was left of the gangs. The son-of-a-bitch had sworn he would do it, and he did it.

  Rage filled Ray and he stepped in close and took a swing. Ben ducked the punch and hit him hard on the mouth, pulping his lips. Ray just then noticed Raines had slipped on a pair of thin leather gloves seconds before the fight. Ray knew that the gloves would not only help protect the hands, but enable the man to hit harder.

  Just to prove the point, Ben popped him again, this time on the nose, and the blood flew. Ben followed that punch with a right cross. Ray backed up, involuntary tears flooding his eyes.

  Ben took that time to bore in and really hammer at Ray with hard hitting and hurting lefts and rights, forcing the younger man back.

  Ray lucked out with a wild swing that connected against Ben’s jaw and forced Ben to stop his advance and clear his head. Ray wiped the blood away and stepped in close. Bad mistake on his part. Ben lashed out with a boot that caught the gang leader on the knee and brought a howl of pain. Ray dropped his guard and Ben hit him four times in the face, swelling one eye and further pulping Ray’s lips.

  Both men stood facing each other, and as if on cue, dropped their hands to their sides to rest for a moment.

  “Pretty good for an old man, Raines,” Ray gasped.

  “Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet, punk,” Ben panted.

  Ray got it then. Raines was going to beat him to death. “You’re crazy, man!”

  “Just a man who likes dogs, you piece of shit!”

  “Dogs,” Ray whispered. “You’re doing this because of dogs?”

  “Among other reasons.”

  “I hate dogs. I got bitten by a dog when I was a boy.”

  “That’s wonderful, Ray. Makes a lot of sense. I’ve been shot several times, but I don’t hate guns. I’ve been divorced a couple of times, but I don’t hate women. Assholes like you who lack character can always find some excuse for your cruelty.” Ben lifted his hands and balled them into big fists. “Come on, Ray. Have you turned chickenshit on me?”

  Ray stepped forward and ran right into a left and right to the face that staggered him and further bloodied his face. Ben smiled at him.

  Ray got scared. For the first time in a very long time, the gang leader realized he was going to lose a fight—to a man 20 years his senior. Ray turned and tried to break through the circle of Rebels. He was very rudely shoved back.

  “Fight, you punk bastard!” a burly Rebel taunted him.

  “I’ve had it, Raines!” Ray yelled. “I surrender! I give up!”

  “When you’re dead I’ll consider your request,” Ben told him, then knocked Ray down.

  Through a blur of pain, the gang leader scrambled to his feet. His nose was leaking blood, his lips were bloody, there were several cuts on his face, one eye was rapidly swelling shut. He turned in all directions, seeking a way out of the circle of uniformed men and women. He was trapped. Screaming his fear and rage, Ray charged Ben. Ben buried one big fist in Ray’s stomach, the blow doubling him over and putting him to his knees, coughing and puking and gasping for air. Ray held up a hand. “Enough,” he gasped.

  “How many of your victims said the same thing, you punk bastard?” Ben snarled at him.

  “My God!” Ben heard Ms. Braithewaithe-Honniker cry. “Give the man a chance. He wants to be rehabilitated.”

  “Oh, he’s going to be completely rehabilitated,” Ben told the reporter, not taking his eyes from Ray Brown. “You can believe that.”

  Ray scurried toward Ben, on his hands and knees, looking like a very large and very ugly bug. Ben kicked him in the face, the boot knocking Ray back and landing him on his back. Ben stepped back, his hands at his side.

  “Get up, punk. You either get up and fight me, or by God, I swear I’ll kick you to death.”

  “You brute!” Ms. Honeyducker yelled. “You savage monster!”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Ben muttered.

  Ray slowly got to his feet. A Rebel wetted a towel from his canteen and tossed it to Ray. Ray caught it with his face.

  “Don’t say we’re not fair, punk,” the Rebel called, then laughed.

  Ray wiped his face with the wet towel and hurled it back toward the Rebels. Then he stepped forward, raising his fists. “All right, Raines,” he panted. “I got my second wind now. Now I’m gonna stomp you.”

  “Very doubtful,” Ben said, then leaped at Ray, both boots slamming into the gang leader. One boot striking the man in the chest, the other boot catching him full in the face, Ray hit the ground.

  “Oh, good move, boss!” Beth called.

  Ray slowly rose to his hands and knees, blood pouring from his smashed face. He painfully turned his head at the sounds of gunfire. “What’s that?” he managed to mumble the question.

  “Firing squads,” Ben told him.

  Ray suddenly lunged at Ben, trying to grab him by the knees. Ben stepped out of the way and all Ray managed to grab was air. He landed on his belly, stretched out on the ground.

 
“That’s kind of pitiful, Ray,” Ben’s words reached him through a mist of pain. “I thought you were a big tough boy. You sure had a lot of people fooled.”

  “Finish it, you son-of-a-bitch!” Ray gasped.

  “All right,” Ben told him. “If you insist.” He stepped forward and grabbed Ray’s head with his big hands. One sudden twist and all present heard Ray’s neck break. Ben stepped back and looked at the knot of utterly horrified reporters. “Now he’s rehabilitated,” Ben said.

  Ms. Honeymucker fainted.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The backbone of the gangs had been broken, the head cut off the snake. Ben knew that several hundred gang members had escaped the assaults that had stretched from very nearly coast to coast, but those few hundred were disorganized, demoralized, and leaderless. Ben had no intention of pursuing them.

  Now Ben knew he had to deal, in some manner, with Simon Border. He would make one final attempt at talking some sense into the man. If that failed, then there would be war.

  Ben now had eight battalions with him, the remainder of his battalions set to roll, being held at the ready on the edge of Border’s territory.

  Ben moved his people out of the mountains south to a larger town that had an airport once there, he ordered the reporters to board planes and get the hell out of his sight and keep it that way.

  “You are a very rude person, General Raines,” Ms. Braithewaithe-Honniker told him.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Ben muttered. Once the planes were airborne, Ben turned his attentions toward Emil Hite.