Holding Their Own: The Toymaker

by Joe Nobody

  Bishop let Terri pretend to steam, knowing full well that she was aware of how critical appearances were going to be if they had any hope of pulling off the deception.

  The Texan-turned-warrior pulled a map from the saddle bag, already having a good idea of their route. Nick and he had studied the area thoroughly before leaving Fort Bliss, including the exact location of the mountain cabin that the big man said was most certainly the locals HQ.

  “That’s where the white-haired dude lives,” Nick had briefed. “That’s their primary command and control.”

  Bishop was also well aware of the ring of booby-traps. Like always, the smallest piece of information was proving critical. He recalled Nick’s warning, the former Special Forces operative’s voice still fresh in his mind. “The trees are notched about head high with a sideways cross. Stay between the notches, and you’ll be fine.”

  They followed the meandering trail, Bishop’s confidence in their route bolstered by a set of fresh hoof prints when the path crossed the stream.

  They came to a fork, one branch leading off into the forest. “Go left,” Bishop said.

  As soon as they entered into the cover of the thick woods, Bishop stopped the caravan. “Okay, we’re out of the open. Come on back.”

  After setting Hunter down, he lifted Terri onto the horse and then handed her the child. A moment later he was behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and spurring the animal to continue. “Your ass looked so hot, baby, I just had to have you in my arms,” he breathed in her ear.

  “You smell so bad, I’m thinking it might be better to walk,” she teased, knowing Bishop’s snarky remarks helped him release stress in situations like this.

  They continued, the trail gradually climbing into the mountains, passing through forests that in any other circumstances would have inspired awe with their natural beauty.

  And then it began to rain.

  It was just a spit of moisture at first, Bishop cocking his ear as the drops struck the canopy of green above them. What little light was penetrating to the forest floor dimmed, and then the clouds opened up.

  “Shit, my makeup… err… war paint is going to run,” Bishop complained, looking around for any type of shelter.

  “To hell with your costume, Bishop. This rain is icy. Hunter and I will catch our death of cold in this crap.”

  Dismounting, Bishop rushed back to his pack, digging out two of the ever-handy leaf bags. With a flash of his knife and a section of paracord, he fashioned a quick poncho for his wife and child. A few moments later, he was covered in black plastic as well. The horses and the dead were on their own.

  “I don’t know if this hurts or helps,” he said to Terri, climbing back up to sit behind her. “Do the Natives use trash bags for shelter?”

  “Hell if I know,” she said, obviously disgusted with the rain and cold. “You’re the one who watched all those Old Western horse operas. How did the Indians keep dry in the movies?”

  “I don’t know. It never rained.”

  “Well, at least these hoods cover our faces. That should help... a little.” she added, checking to make sure Hunter could breathe and was staying dry.

  Onward they plodded, the horses splashing through the puddles while Terri continued to fuss with her raincoat, unable to keep all parts of her body dry at the same time.

  Bishop was about to increase her misery. “You’re going to have to walk again here in a minute. Sorry.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re getting close to the location where Nick said their security perimeter begins. If I was really a warrior with a captive, you’d be walking. You know that, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry. You can keep the poncho though.”

  “Thanks.”

  The thunder and wind began to intensify as she dismounted, the blowing rain seeming to find every nook and cranny of her makeshift cover. “This sucks,” she announced with little fanfare. “You’re going to pay later when you have to massage my poor, little toes and wait on me hand and foot for a week.”

  “Keep your pistol handy,” Bishop warned. “I’m not sure how thoroughly they will check us out.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “And try to look like a miserable wretch who just lost her husband and is sure she’s about to be raped and plundered.”

  “That’s not going to be difficult,” Terri replied. “At least the miserable part.”

  “Which part?” Bishop shouted over the raging storm, unable to hear his wife’s words. “The rape and plunder, or the losing your husband?”

  Terri half turned and announced, “Undecided at this point.”

  On they plodded, fighting the elements, the uphill trail making it all the worse on Terri. Bishop’s heart went out to her, the Texan occupying his mind with how he would make it up to his bride when all this was over. If they survived.

  And then, in the middle of a pine thicket, there was a man standing in the trail, a battle rifle across his chest.

  Bishop heard the others coming in from each side, four men surrounding them in less than a second.

  The man in charge of the guard post walked up and looked at Terri, but only for a second. Without a word, he continued past her, making to inspect the bodies hanging over the pack animals.

  “What happened,” he said, looking up at Bishop’s hooded face.

  “The man put up a fight,” came the Texan’s reply.

  The guard’s attention went back to the dead, his hand grabbing a handful of hair to lift the head of the body adorned with Bishop’s clothes.

  Right as the hollowed, grotesque, half-face came into view, a bolt of lightning flashed, the effect causing the guard to jump back in horror.

  Shaking his head in disgust and a little embarrassed at his reaction, the man then turned back to Bishop and questioned, “Are you hurt, brother?”

  “Not too bad,” Bishop replied. “I was lucky.”

  “Take them on up,” came the reply. “Grandfather will want to interview the woman and see their possessions. There’s hot tea at the camp.”

  And then they were past, relief flooding through Bishop’s bones.

  After they were well past the sentries, Terri chanced a quick glance back at her husband, a sly twinkle in her eye. “Love you,” she mouthed, and they turned back to continue up the trail.

  They came to a compound, three outbuildings appearing through the mist and rain. Just like Nick had described, Bishop made out the main cabin, garage, and what the big man assumed was a workshop or barn. The Texan’s eye went immediately to the garage, looking for any sign of Kevin or the other prisoner.

  “You there,” he barked at Terri over the wind. “Go to the main house. Grandfather will speak to you there.”

  As they approached the home, another Native American appeared on the porch, his eye skeptical of the newly arriving rider and captive.

  Rather than challenge Bishop, he asked, “How many did we lose?”

  “Two,” the Texan replied, keeping his head low so the rain would run off of his hood. “But her man is dead, and their goods are on my horse.”

  “And her?”

  “She and the child didn’t resist.”

  “Bring her and their possessions inside; leave his body out here on the horse. Grandfather will want to know what you learned from the stranger before he died.”

  Then he walked to the end of the porch, shouting orders to another group of men huddled under the workshop’s awning where they were trying to stay dry.

  Bishop tensed as three of the onlookers ducked into the rain and then scurried toward him. But they were only after the horses… and their dead comrades.

  One of them handed Bishop his own pack, for Grandfather to inspect, and then they were off, leading the animals and their ghoulish cargo away.

  The porch-guard turned, meaning to walk inside. Bishop stepped up behind Terri and gave her a shove with his rifle barrel. “Go!” he commanded, hoping she wouldn’t turn around
and smack him.

  They entered the log home, the room warm and inviting, a wood burning stove roaring away in the corner. Bishop reached up and roughly tore away Terri’s poncho, and shoved her again, indicating she should stand by the stove.

  He had to admit, she looked the part. With purple lips quivering from the cold, her hair was in complete disarray, a mess of wet, matted strands. Covering the captive with his rifle, Bishop set his pack down in the middle of the floor and stepped back to a carefully chosen position in the darkest corner.

  The guard appeared again, this time followed by the now-infamous white wizard.

  Hack ignored what he thought was one of the Apache warriors, moving instead to get a better look at Terri. The protective, shivering mother flinched when he reached for the blanket covering Hunter’s face. “What is his name?” Hack inquired in a mellow tone.

  “Hun… Hunter,” Terri managed, her voice croaking in apparent fear.

  “And how old is Mr. Hunter?” came the next question.

  Before Terri could respond, Bishop moved, the flash suppressor on his carbine pressing against the guard’s right ear. “That’s enough,” the Texan growled. “Now it’s my turn to start asking questions.”

  Bishop took the stunned guard’s weapon, and then pulled back his hood. “Allow me to make the introductions. My name is Bishop, and this is my wife Terri,” he said. “We want to talk.”

  Hack was initially confused, his eyes darting back and forth between Bishop and the guard. Terri’s voice came from the stove, “Actually,” she said, pulling her pistol from under Hunter’s blanket, “I’m going to do the talking, and you’re going to listen.”

  “What is it you want?” came the old man’s shaky voice, finally realizing what was going down.

  “First things first,” Bishop replied. “Where are the two men you are holding captive?”

  Hack started to answer, but the bodyguard cut him off. “You’ll never get out of here. Drop your weapons, and I’ll give you my word you won’t be harmed.”

  Pressing the sharp metal of the flash suppressor further into the guard’s ear, Bishop said, “That’s not what’s going to happen, Chief. We are going to retrieve my colleagues, and then we can all sit around and have a nice, friendly, little chat. After walking through the rain and cold, I think my wife deserves to be heard. If you, or the men outside, decide to get clever, Grandfather gets it first. Understood?”

  The Apache nodded, the motion causing Bishop’s steel to dig deeper into his ear.

  Bishop then turned to Hack and declared, “My friend and I are going to go retrieve the captives. If he tries any shit, my wife will kill you. She is a crack shot, and completely without inhibition. She’s already sent two men to the happy hunting grounds this morning, and the day is still young. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. But you people don’t have to do.…”

  Terri moved forward, her pistol pointblank on the bridge of Hack’s nose. “My husband, as usual, is being so politically correct. I actually enjoy shooting assholes.”

  With Apache Jack to his front, Bishop pulled up his hood and said, “Let’s go. Get clever, and I’ll give you a haircut with 5.56mm lead. And just so you know, I’m a horrible barber.”

  While Terri covered Hack in the main house, the duo went out the front door, Bishop’s carbine ready to cut down the guard. They splashed through the rain, walking quickly to a side door of the garage where the Indian produced a key.

  The on-duty sentry seemed surprised to see his boss entering at such an hour, his confusion increasing as Bishop followed Jack through the door. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Bishop’s rifle butt was his answer, the stroke knocking the sentry halfway across the tiny room.

  In the corner, the Texan saw a man rise off a folding cot and knew instantly it was the Colonel’s son.

  “Unlock his chains,” Bishop ordered, shoving the Apache toward the prisoner.

  The PJ didn’t make a sound as his shackles were removed, standing quickly and making eye contact with Bishop. The Texan said, “I’m an old friend of your father’s from HBR. You okay?”

  Sergeant Grissom nodded, “I can walk… and fight a little if need be.”

  “Good,” the Texan noted before redirecting his gaze to Apache Jack. “Where’s the boy?”

  “In there,” came the response as the Native nodded toward another door.

  “Well, let him out,” Bishop ordered, growing impatient with the fellow’s negative attitude.

  Again, the local produced a key ring and opened the door. “He can’t walk,” he explained, stepping aside so Bishop could see Kevin lying inside.

  The lad looked up, unsure of who Bishop was given his disguise. “Kevin, it’s me, Bishop.”

  “Mr. Bishop?” the kid replied, obviously puzzled.

  “Yup. Terri’s with me at the house. We’ve come to get you out.”

  “How’s my dad?” was the first question. “I saw him go down.”

  “He’s fine. Grim got him back to the hospital at Bliss just in time. He’ll be okay.”

  Kevin swung his leg off the cot, a heavy white cast covering the limb from mid-thigh to mid-calf. “I can hop, sir,” the brave young man bragged.

  Grissom stepped up, “I can carry him on my good shoulder… if we’re aren’t going too far.”

  A few minutes later, the foursome was again out in the storm, the Apache followed by Bishop and the former prisoners.

  The gaggle of guards had returned to the dryness of the awning, obviously curious about all of the strange activity. One of the more observant sentries chanced the rain, wading through the muck to intercept his boss. “What’s going on?” he challenged, staring hard at the previously confined captives.

  Apache Jack, despite having Bishop’s weapon at his back, shouted a string of words the Texan couldn’t understand, and then took off running.

  Absolute bedlam erupted.

  “Go! Go for the house,” Bishop shouted over his shoulder, bringing his carbine into play.

  The group of loitering security men finally got it, two of them trying to bring their weapons around. But they were slow.

  With a steady arch of brass ejecting from his weapon, Bishop poured lead into their ranks, splinters and chunks of the workshop flying in all directions. One of the sentries dropped instantly, the others scrambling, crawling, and running for cover. The Texan silently cursed his lack of practice with the iron sights.

  The PJ did his best, groaning and sliding with the weight of Kevin’s body and the rain-slick forest floor, but he was sluggish and clumsy.

  To cover their escape, Bishop stayed at the PJ’s back, throwing three rounds left, five right, and then spraying the center with an extended stream of suppressive pills.

  The security men reacted quickly, an ever increasing amount of incoming fire chasing Bishop and his friends back toward the house.

  Lead whizzed past the Texan’s head, some of the rounds throwing up mud and grit, others zipping through the heavy air like angry insects hell-bent on revenge. Bishop felt naked without his armor. When his foot finally reached the porch’s bottom step, the blizzard of bullets suddenly stopped.

  They don’t want to hit the Great White Wizard, Bishop thought. That’s handy to know.

  The Texan backed into the cabin, finding the PJ already struggling to load one of the weapons Bishop had captured at the campground. Kevin, having been dumped on the couch, was trying to reach his sniper rifle lying nearby on the floor. His wife had her pistol up against Grandfather’s temple, Hunter still cradled in the nook of her free arm.

  “I take it that didn’t go as planned,” she panted, charged-up from the eruption of gunfire and sudden rush of wet, hard-breathing men bursting into the room.

  “You might say that,” he responded, watching from the corner of the window to make sure the guards outside kept their distance.

  With Grissom now covering Hack, Terri went to check on Kevin. “Miss Terri, you don’t
know how glad I am to see you guys,” the kid greeted. “Can you hand me that rifle, please?”

  “Get him some ammo, too,” Bishop directed from his perch at the window. “We may need his help.”

  Once Kevin was again armed and dangerous, Bishop helped the kid hobble to the window, using the logs from the stove’s wood basket to build the sharpshooter a nice little fighting nest. “Yell if they look like they’re organizing for a rush,” Bishop ordered.

  “Yes, sir… and thank you, sir. I feel a lot better with my rifle back in my hands.”

  Bishop then recommended Grissom take the rear of the house, handing the PJ three spare magazines he’d taken off of the dead at the campground. “You got it,” the sergeant replied. “How long do we have to hold out?”

  “Well… I’m not sure,” the Texan replied. “That kind of depends.”

  Grissom started to ask for clarification, but then just shrugged. “I’ve got the back side of this hacienda. You take care of business out here,” and then made for the rear of the cabin.

  “What is it you people want?” Hack asked, genuine fear finally sinking in. “Take what you want and leave me alone.”

  Terri exchanged looks with her husband, and then smiled at the toymaker.

  “Let’s go have a seat and talk like regular people,” she said.

  Bishop, now soaked and cold, decided he’d make coffee while his wife delivered her spiel. Digging through his pack for the makings, he gauged the amount of surplus water in his wife’s clothes and asked, “Want a cup of joe while you’re talking?”

  “Coffee?” Hack perked at the word. “You have coffee?”

  “Yes, we do,” Terri responded. “Would you like a cup?”

  Chapter 14

  With his hands surrounding the cup of steaming brew, Hack sat at the kitchen table, studying the young lady and sleeping child across from him. “However this all turns out, I want to thank you for this,” he said, nodding towards the coffee. “I thought I’d never enjoy the pleasure again.”