by Chris Pike
“Cassie, your father is extremely proud of you. Don’t ever forget that. I assure you once the baby is born, Dillon will be a doting grandfather.”
Sarah went over to the window and pushed aside the curtains. Several other couples from nearby ranches had arrived and were milling around the makeshift cocktail tables. Dillon handed out beer, while Ryan made small talk with one of the recently arrived guests.
“How many people are you expecting,” Sarah asked.
“Not many,” Cassie said. “About fifteen to twenty people. There aren’t that many left around here. When Ryan and I made the rounds to the ranches we discovered several had been abandoned.”
Sarah peered out the window at a bright red Chevy rolling into the yard. “There comes the couple you were telling me about.’
Cassie went to the window. “That’s Chandler and Amanda. They are the ones who brought Cowboy back. I’m so glad they made it. Can you go down and tell Amanda to come on upstairs?”
“Sure.” Sarah excused herself and walked down the staircase.
“Well, Cassie,” Holly said. “If all the guests are here then you should probably get dressed.”
Cassie was gazing wistfully at the pair of boots she had on, and hadn’t even heard Holly ask her a question.
Holly put a hand on Cassie’s shoulder. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling okay?”
“What? Oh, I’m okay. I was just thinking I wished we had a camera.”
“I know. Don’t be sad, because your memories will always remain here,” Holly said, tapping her heart. “Those will never fade.”
“Cassie!” Amanda rushed into the room. She went to her friend and hugged her. “I can’t believe you’re getting married. You didn’t even tell me. Chandler found the invitation tucked into the front door.”
“You weren’t home when we delivered it,” Cassie explained. “We couldn’t wait. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. This is your happy day. I’m so excited for you.” Amanda’s eyes swept over the room. “Is that your dress?”
Cassie nodded.
“It’s gorgeous. Aren’t you going to get dressed? I’ll help you get—”
“Shhh. Do you hear that?” Cassie asked.
A faint pulsing vibration of choppy thrumming became louder until the windows in the bedroom shook, keeping rhythm to the thunder of spinning blades.
The women stood awestruck, each peering out the window, searching for the helicopter making the unmistakable sound.
“A helicopter?” Sarah commented in surprised confusion. She lowered her head to get a better look at the massive aircraft. “That’s like something out of the movie Black Hawk Down. Perplexed, she asked, “Who was invited that has a military heli—”
Gunfire shattered the peaceful scene of the bride and her attendants. Shards of glass and splintered wood peppered the room and the women. Surprised at the unfettered hostility and unsure what to do, Sarah stood frozen. Without hesitation Holly, Amanda, and Cassie dropped to the floor and covered their heads with their arms. Dorothy jerked her daughter down and stayed next to her. Keeping low, they crawled away from the window to the inner hallway where they huddled together. Holly put a protective arm over Cassie.
“Sarah,” Holly whispered, “get down. You need to get down. Come over here.”
Another volley of high-powered gunfire erupted, and the dinging of bullets thumped the walls.
Holly ducked and covered her head.
A visceral scream came from outside.
“Sarah!” Holly called more urgently. “Get down.”
When there was no response, Holly peeked around the doorframe. Sarah was face down on the floor, her arms splayed outwards, her hair covering her face. A puddle of blood had formed around her head, while a viscous crimson river trailed along one of the grooves in the old wood floor, snaking closer to where the three were huddled.
Holly’s eyes flicked to Cassie’s wedding dress hanging on the door. Her lacy white dress had been splattered with Sarah’s blood. She recoiled away from the sight and leaned her back against the wall, steepling her fingers together in supplication, and clasped her hands to her mouth. Her heart beat rapidly, and she flinched at the sound of sporadic gunfire.
A yell from outside was cut off by a round. There was an eerie silence until she recognized Dillon’s voice, yet his words were unclear. She strained her ears, listening to an English response with an odd accent, and her mind searched for the country of origin.
Finally it came to her.
It was Russian.
“Cassie, Amanda, we have to get out of here,” she said.
“What about Sarah?” Cassie asked.
Holly shook her head. “There’s nothing we can do for her. It’s only us now, and we need to leave. Now.”
Chapter 7
Dillon, Chandler, Ryan, Larry, and several other guests had listened with growing curiosity to the distant methodical whumping of the helicopter blades. Unable to discern which direction it was coming from and thinking it would probably make a wide swing to skirt the ranch, the men hadn’t acted adversely to it.
Recent chatter of military helicopters flying around the county without incident had made the rounds of the rural neighbors. When the chopper made an appearance over the tree line, circling to the back of the ranch, then to the front, there had been no need for concern.
Dillon observed Larry take the back of his hand and brush away sweat beading his forehead. Larry nervously scratched the side of his head and mumbled, “I gotta take a leak.” The last Dillon saw of Larry, he had ducked behind a pine tree several yards away.
“Not so close!” Dillon yelled.
Larry poked his head around the tree, zipped up his pants, then found a more suitable tree to hide behind while he relieved himself.
Dillon shook his head. “He’s a strange duck.”
“Yeah,” Chandler muttered. “He’s as nervous as a buck during hunting season.”
Although Dillon agreed, he said, “Forget about it. No telling what’s going on with him.”
Dillon and Chandler were deep in conversation near the tables, ribbing each other about wearing their best Western wear of blue jeans, a long sleeved shirt, bolo necktie with braided leather cords tipped in silver dangling down the front, and boots, per requests of the ladies. Earlier, Dillon had snuck some of the best whiskey out of the house and hid it behind a tree. When Chandler arrived, Dillon had poured him a drink.
“I haven’t tasted anything this good since I met up with some SASS members on the 360 Bridge in Austin,” Chandler said.
“So where’d you get those boots?” Dillon asked. Taking a closer look at Chandler’s boots, he asked, “Is that snakeskin?”
Chandler nodded. “Yup. It’s from a python that attacked me. I barely escaped with my life. Amanda ended up shooting it in the head. Good thinking on her part.”
“Whatd’ya mean? For saving you?”
“That too,” Chandler said, chuckling. “I mean, she didn’t damage the snakeskin with the shot.” He tossed back a swallow of the smooth whiskey.
“Who made them for you?” Dillon asked.
“A boot maker in Austin. Since I didn’t have any money, and credit cards aren’t worth the plastic they’re made from, I paid the boot maker with an old Colt .45 single action. My Uncle Billy told me if I cleaned the gun for him, I could have it. I traded it for the boots.”
“Excellent.” Dillon polished off the last of his drink. “Can I get you another one?”
“I don’t want to drink all your good stuff. Let’s save it for the toast for Ryan and Cassie after they say ‘I do.’ Ryan is holding up the best he can, but I can tell he’s nervous. Have you seen how much he’s sweating?”
“I noticed, but didn’t want to say anything.”
“It’s not that hot and he can’t stop sweating. Not exactly like there’s any AC for him to cool down in. Speaking of electricity, have you heard anything?”
Dillon shook his head. “No
. Not a thing. We still have the light switches turned on in case the electricity magically boots back up, so we’ll know. I’ve turned off the breakers for the AC unit and other electricity hogging appliances. What about you? Have you heard anything?”
“Not really,” Chandler admitted. “The only thing Amanda and I have been doing is securing the gates to her ranch and fortifying the house. Her Grandpa Hardy did a good job inside, but outside he definitely let some things slide once he got sick. We haven’t taken time to talk to any of the neighbors. They probably don’t even know she’s back. There’s no mail, no phones, or any type of communication. We don’t go out after dark either. Besides, there might be another mountain lion around here, and after the tangle I had with the python, I certainly don’t want to meet up with a mountain lion like you did.”
“Don’t blame you. It does make for a good story and the hide makes a nice rug. The cat won’t go near it,” Dillon said laughing. “Look who’s coming.”
“Who is it?”
“The pastor. I guess it’s time to get things rolling. Let’s round up the guests and get them seated. Where’s Larry? Did he go inside?”
“Last I saw, he had ducked behind the tree over there.” Chandler nodded to where he had seen Larry disappear to. “Let’s not worry about it.” Raising his voice, he said, “I’ll help you—”
The loud whirling of a military chopper flying low and fast drowned out Chandler’s voice, and he and Dillon studied the chopper with growing curiosity. Treetops whipped violently in the backwash, tablecloths billowing in the rush of air.
“What in the hell is going on?” Chandler yelled over the sound of the helicopter. “Is that a Russi—”
Gunfire peppered the house, shattering windows and sending splintered wood flying. The men ducked and covered their heads, scrambling for cover. Chandler’s high-powered LaRue was at his house, and the Glock he had with him was no match for the firepower pinning them down.
Rounds blasted the stately pine trees, sending bark and hot, sticky sap in all directions.
Someone screamed.
Dillon watched helplessly as the chopper’s firepower continued its assault on the house and the wedding guests. He steeled himself for the inevitable searing burn of a round blasting through his body, and said a silent prayer to keep Holly and Cassie safe. He bargained with God to take his life to spare Holly and Cassie.
The gunfire abruptly stopped.
Chandler slid his hand under his belly and reached for his Glock. His heart was beating at breakneck speed, his senses on full alert.
“Don’t,” Dillon whispered. “If they wanted us dead, we’d be dead.”
Several soldiers in full military gear exited the hovering helicopter by rappelling down ropes. They shot a volley across the tables and chairs then secured the area by forming a circle.
The helicopter maneuvered to an open area near the house, where the pilot expertly set the chopper on the hard ground, and powered it down.
The door slid open, and Colonel Mikhail Burkov, Commander of Operation Spindletop, exited the helicopter. He stood with his back straight, shoulders squared, and carried the unmistakable air of military authority.
He took in the surroundings and casually strolled closer to the house. The country home was similar to the pictures in textbooks when he had studied at Suvorov Military School, the Russian equivalent of West Point.
A wide porch wrapped around the front and sides of the house. There were long windows suitable for taking advantage of cross breezes, and a crawlspace under the first floor was camouflaged with white lattice work. A gorgeous country house by any standards. Not all that good from a tactical standpoint with all the windows and doors, but the second story provided an advantage of a 360 degree view over the land.
Burkov had excelled in military tactics, athletics, and had mastered English. A graduate program studying English in the United States had increased his knowledge of America, its language, and people.
The quaint house with a nearby barn and meager garden would be suitable for the lower working class, and not particularly for Burkov as he considered himself to be a connoisseur of the finer things in life. He preferred the ballet to movies, enjoyed eating in the finest white-tabled restaurants which attracted a certain breed of woman. He detested these backwoods Americans and the crude lifestyle they lived. Uneducated beer-drinking heathens. What was the American word these types of people were called? His mind searched for it.
Rednecks. That was it. Rednecks.
Two soldiers in Russian urban camouflage uniforms and body armor flanked the colonel. Their eyes were fixed straight ahead and each carried an AK 74 rifle.
A man dressed in civilian clothes followed several steps behind the Colonel. His most distinguishing feature was a scar running down the side of his face. The soldiers asked no questions why the man had come along, and they knew to keep their distance from Petya Ruslan. There had been rumors of what he was capable of doing, especially of making people disappear without a trace. He was loathed…and feared.
Colonel Burkov snapped his fingers and motioned for Ruslan to follow him while the two soldiers stayed behind. They walked into the house and Burkov took note of the hide inside the front door. It had been made in a hurry and showed no refinements of a talented furrier, providing more cause for him detesting the Americans and their crude ways. The magnificent animal that produced the hide should have commanded top dollar and been treated with respect. A pair of gloves made from the hide would have been appropriate for the cold Russian winters, not the ungodly heat and humidity assaulting Burkov. Sweat stained his shirt and he cursed his assignment.
His thoughts took him to his motherland, and the cool arctic air brushing the mountains and the mighty Ural River. Oh, how he wished he was in Russia walking among his people who had endured war and famine, and who had become stronger in spite of hardship.
Regardless of the dismal land and murky rivers, or any type of discomfort he would endure, Burkov stood straighter because his loyalty to the motherland was unfettered. He was proud of his Mother Russia, and despised the Americans who were soft and had shown no resistance. Let them try to live through the unimaginable horror of starvation during the siege of Leningrad in WWII.
“Ruslan, I’ve seen enough. Come.”
The big man opened the door for Burkov. Before he exited, Burkov wiped his boots on the mountain lion hide, leaving it askew. As Ruslan was closing the door, he hesitated. He scoffed at the quaint country home and of the people who lived there who had been easily conquered. Fools. In a show of contempt, he kicked the hide across the room.
Chapter 8
“Well, what do we have here?” Burkov asked as he inspected the men and women lying on the ground. He cast a smug glower at each one.
While the Russian troops had their AK 74s trained on the captured Americans, a timid voice called out, “Don’t hurt me. I’m unarmed.” Larry Monroe peeked around the pine tree where he had been hiding. He held open his jacket to show he had no hidden weapons. “Don’t shoot.” He emerged with his hands in the air.
Burkov locked eyes with Monroe then ordered, “Get down.”
Larry scrambled to where Dillon was, kneeled, then lowered himself flat on the ground. Dillon glowered at him with a look that sent shivers through the man who had excused himself moments before the military helicopter made an appearance.
“Who is the owner of this property?” Burkov asked. Long shadows danced across the land, and somewhere a bird sang a lonely melody.
After an intense few seconds of silence, Burkov studied the captives. There were several able-bodied men of varying ages scattered about. Two elderly men were side by side, flanked by a frail, white-haired woman. Burkov strolled over to the woman. He grabbed her arm and yanked her up. She cried out in protest.
“Who is the owner of this property?”
Still no answer.
Burkov unholstered his pistol and shoved it to the woman’s temple, making her head
tilt to the side. “If I ask again, I will put a bullet through her head.”
“I am the owner,” Dillon announced. He was on the ground, his face mashed into the prickly grass.
The woman stood shaking, her eyes darting around.
Burkov whipped his head in the direction of the voice. “Stand up and make yourself known.”
Dillon pushed himself up from the ground, and brushed the dirt and leaves off his Sunday best clothes. He defiantly faced Burkov. “I am Dillon Stockdale. I am the owner of this property. It is private property. You are trespassing, and I am advising you to leave.”
Colonel Burkov provided an equally defiant glare, then broke out in laughter. “You? Advising me and telling us to leave? That’s the funniest statement I’ve heard.” Burkov addressed his soldiers. “Do you agree?”
Muddled laugher followed.
“I do not think you are qualified to advise me. Were you in the military?”
“I am a citizen of the United States of America. This is private property and I am the rightful owner.”
“Not anymore.” Burkov strolled over to Dillon and stood facing him, eye to eye. Dillon didn’t budge. “Let’s get something straight. Russia is now in control of this area. We make the rules and we decide who owns the land. This,” Burkov made a sweeping hand gesture to the house and land, “is mine. I shall do with it what I want to.”
“What do you want with us?” Dillon asked.
“I need all able-bodied men,” Burkov said without hesitation.
“Why?”
“Do you see my men questioning me? If they did, they’d get this.” Burkov grabbed an AK 74 from one of the soldiers and came so close to Dillon he saw the evil in Burkov’s eyes. Burkov aimed the AK at Dillon’s chest.
Though Dillon’s heart was beating at breakneck speed, he decided if he was going to die, he would face it head on and not back down to these Russian thugs. He stood his ground.
In a lightning fast motion, Burkov pivoted the high-powered rifle so the deadly end was facing away from Dillon then forcefully jabbed the butt into Dillon’s stomach. Dillon doubled over and clutched his mid-section, grunted, and fell backward.
