Bishop's Song (19 page)

Grim checked it out, nodding his agreement.

Deke finished with, “Well, I guess we should just use that as part of our cover story. Let’s just walk up, like two lost travelers, out for an evening stroll… stopping by to see what’s up.”

The two men made it to within
80 yards of the campers before a gentle tug pulled at Deke’s pants. Before the operator could react, a thin strand of fishing line pulled taunt, immediately followed by a can of rocks hitting the pavement on the far side. The man in the hammock bolted upright, reaching for his rifle. 

“Shit! A
tripwire,” Deke’s voice rang out, much louder than he intended.

It was only a few seconds later that a
voice called from the end of the span. “You on the bridge, halt! Stay right where you are.”

Looking at each other, the two contractors shrugged and stopped walking. Deke could barely make out
Grim’s utterance. “What amateur bullshit. Clearly these guys don’t have a clue.” The statement was followed by the audible clicking of the safety on Grim’s rifle.

“I fell for it. Don’t go getting cocky. I’ve now got three people over there. I
’ve kicked the ant mound. Make that four people,” the embarrassed operator responded.

Deke
moved the small radio to his palm, thumb resting on the press to talk button so Bishop could listen in on any conversation.

Two shadows approached, eventually
materializing as men carrying weapons. “You’re on private property,” began the first guy, his voice harsh and intimidating. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“We were up river
, hunting deer. We crossed in a boat, and it must have pulled loose in the current. This bridge was the closest way back across.”

A grunt sounded, quickly followed by, “Sounds like you’re up shit-creek without a paddle.” Both of the bridge tenders thought the remark was funny.

When neither Deke nor Grim offered any reply, one of the shadows continued. “This is now a toll road. You can’t pass without paying up.”

“What’s the toll?”

“That depends on what you’ve got. I see rifles, and if you were hunting, you’ve got ammo,” came the terse response.

“You’d take a man’s only source of meat? If we don’t hunt, we don’t eat,” replied Deke.

The question was met with chuckling, the two locals evidently finding Deke’s argument humorous. Grim didn’t appreciate the response. “I only see two of you. Maybe you’ve got a man behind you. No big deal. How about I just shoot both of your sorry asses and cross the bridge for free?”

The
y thought Grim’s proposal was funny as well, the laughter continuing for a bit. Then one of the highwaymen’s voice sounded, his tone low and mean. “Tough guy, huh? Well listen up, Mr. Bad Ass. You see that stick right beside you? That’s exactly 100 yards from my best shot, who happens to have your chest dead center in the crosshairs of his 30-06. Your partner over there, well, he’s only got a 7mm Mouser pointed at his head. My guys don’t miss. Every 25 yards is marked on this bridge. You’ll never make it back across, even if you do kill me. They’ll shoot you down, and then roll your bodies into the river.”

Before the contractors could respond, Bishop’s voice hissed in
Deke’s ear. “Stall them. Give me two minutes.”

Despite being puzzled at the request, Deke did as he was asked. “So how much ammo
do you want for passage?”

“
Half of what you’re carrying. That’s the toll.”

Before either of the operators could respond, the other bridge keeper added, “And 50% of anything else you might be carrying that we might want.”

Deke acted like he was thinking over the offer, wondering if it was a bluff. Probably not, he determined. “I’ll give you 10 rounds, and that’s that. If that’s not acceptable, then we can just reenact the OK Corral right here and now. I promise neither of
you
will make it home before your snipers kill us.”

The offer wasn’t rejected outright, whispers of a hushed conversation floating across to
Deke’s ears.

“No deal,” came the response. “This is our bridge. Now set
those guns down.”

“How about we just find another place to cross,” suggested Grim, having picked up on
Deke’s stall tactic. “Fuck this. I’ll walk until we can find another way across the river.”

Again, laughter sounded from the two locals. “You two aren’t the sharpest tools in the shed, are
ya? You’re going to pay up, come hell or high water. If you turn and walk away, we’ll drop your asses and then take
all
your shit. The crocodiles downstream appreciate the occasional meal we send their way.”

Deke was trying to think up something to say when Bishop’s voice again sounded in his ear. “I’ve got both of the snipers on the far bank in my sights. When you hear my first shot, drop those two fuckers where they stand.”

“Grim, do you remember that roadblock in Bosnia?”

A moment later, the operator acknowledged, “Yeah, sure do.”

“Same deal here, buddy.”

“Gotcha.”

For a moment, the four men stood staring at each other, the constant drone of the water below overriding any other sound, until Bishop’s shot.

As the report echoed across the open spaces, the contractor’s rifles snapped to their shoulders
. The distance to their targets was only 30 yards - the two locals didn’t have a chance.

In the bedlam that followed, Deke had no idea if Bishop had gotten off a second shot. He fired two rounds into the chest of the closest man and then rolled across the pavement, ending in a prone position with his weapon ready to address any remaining threat.

Bishop’s voice came across the radio again, “I dropped one; the other I think I only wounded. He ran off, and I can’t see him anymore.”

“Fuck!” Deke shouted, looking over at Grim. “One of the snipers is still moving over there. We
gotta go clear it out.”

“He missed?”

“Yeah, he missed one. Come on, let’s get this over with.”

Running the remaining
80 yards to the end of the bridge was risky. Silhouetted by the white background of the structure’s concrete, Deke and Grim tried to weave back and forth, a weak attempt to make any shooter’s aim more difficult.

They didn’t detect any incoming fire during the sprint, and both men finally exhaled as they found cover on the far bank. Deke keyed his radio. “Any idea where he went?”

“They were both behind that picnic table to your right. I couldn’t see his retreat.”

Deke braced his legs for the next rush, he and Grim moving together. They made the table in ten steps, both men going prone next to the heavy wooden piece. They could see the body of one sniper, his arms spread eagle on the ground.

Deke was just raising the thermal when a noise reached his ears. A low-pitched moan sounded from behind a pile of trash next to the camper. He couldn’t see any heat signature, but it was obvious someone was over there.

Nodding at Grim, both men sprang up and rushed the refuse heap, each approaching from a different vector. The
y found a man braced against a stack of old tires, both hands holding his stomach. Grim immediately kicked away the wounded fellow’s rifle and began scanning the area in case he was bait or some of his comrades were coming to help.

When Deke knelt next to him, the man moaned again, and then made eye contact. A growing pool of damp earth between the guy’s legs told Deke all he needed to know. Bishop hadn’t missed his second shot.

“It burns like fire,” the injured man managed with great effort. “It feels like I’m burning up inside.”

There wasn’t anything Deke could do. Bishop’s round had caught the victim two inches below the sternum, the
hollow point bullet expanding to create a quarter-sized tunnel of destruction through the man’s middle.

Before he could think of anything to say, the wounded man shuddered, coughed and then again made eye contact with Deke. “Live by the gun, die by the…” And then he was gone.

Grim’s warning interrupted the moment, “I’ve got movement at the camper.”

Deke spun and stood in the same movement, his weapon ready to engage. A figure was running toward them, its appearance ghost-like as willows of cloth floated in the dim light. He almost fired, but something told him to hold, and he was glad he did.

A woman, wearing a loose fitting nightgown ran toward them, bending immediately to check the dead man. “No! No, Jack! Oh, my gawd!”

Deke wanted out of there. He keyed his mic and broadcast, “All clear over here, Bishop. Get that damn truck across right now.”

“On my way,” came the immediate answer.

“You son
of a bitch!” The woman’s voice rang out. “You’ve killed them all.”

“Lady,” Grim answered, “It was us or them. What the hell did you expect us to do?”

Before the woman could respond, Deke grabbed Grim’s arm and pulled him away. “Come on, man. Let’s go meet Bishop and the truck.”

As the two contractors
trekked toward the road, two more women and a single child came rushing up to join the grieving widow. Everyone was crying, whiffs of angry words mixed with the remorse.

“Should we take the weapons?” Grim asked.

“No, I’m not going to leave a bunch of women and children out here without firearms. We probably just issued their death warrants anyway.”

It was a couple of minutes before the pickup’s motor sounded across the river, the event quickly followed by the appearance of a dark shape moving across the
gray concrete background.

“You guys okay?” Bishop
greeted as he pulled to a stop.

“Yeah, we’re all right,” Deke responded. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Bishop waited until the two passengers climbed into the bed. He was just reaching for the gearshift, when sparks flew from the hood. Three more shots sounded, one of the rounds cracking inches away from the open driver’s window. A glance showed one of the women holding a rifle, firing haphazardly at the truck. Grim’s voice shouted, “Go! Go! Go!”

Before he could react to the warning, the passenger side mirror exploded in a cloud of glass.

He floored the truck, barely keeping on the narrow road until he could raise the night vision to guide his steering.

“I thought we should’ve gather
ed up those rifles,” an angry Grim shouted. “Those poor, helpless widows you left back there just decided to shoot at us. We’d all be crispy critters if she’d hit one of these gas cans.”

Deke didn’
t respond.

The trouble with the truck started on a gradual uphill grade. Bishop noticed a hesitation, almost as if the transmission was having trouble shifting gears. Another two miles passed before the first jerky pause and then another. Five minutes later, the truck wouldn’t shift out of first gear.

The road they were traveling had once been a popular highway, the now
dark traffic signals, center turning lane and no stop entrance and exit ramps an indication of engineering designed to handle heavy traffic loads. They had been making every effort to stay on country lanes, but this section of northern Arkansas left them no choice but to use this route.

Of course, the truck had chosen
this leg of the journey to act up. The “check engine” light illuminated on the dash.

Bishop spotted a sign for a rest area up ahead and a few minutes later
, they limped off the main road.

“What’s going on?” questioned Grim from the bed.

“Truck’s broke. It won’t shift.”

“Fuck.”

Bishop exited the cab after popping open the hood. Deke and Grim jumped down, scanning their surroundings and then moving off to check the two cars parked in the lot. In moments, they returned, joining Bishop at the front of the truck.

The driver was shining a red flashlight around the engine compartment, the dark, greasy engine looking almost evil in the
crimson glow, like some demon machinery designed with ill intent.

“See anything?” Deke asked.