Copperheads - 12 (33 page)

Butter had heard the distant battle as well, rising from his bunk as the muffled sounds of gunfire and explosions had drifted through his cell wall. “Is Mr. Bishop really coming for me? Is he going to give me a second chance?”

The thought gave the big kid a renewed optimism, the need to survive now rushing through his core. “Everyone makes mistakes,” he announced to the empty room. “Miss Terri knows I’m a good person.”

The hope of rescue fueled Butter’s mind with positivity. He wanted to set things right and enjoy his life again. He wanted to live.

The rattle of the keys outside his cell sent him back to his bunk. He would play possum, draw the guards in, disable them, and make his escape.

Instead of the beefy security types barging in, Butter noticed a smaller, frail shape outlined by the lantern light in the hall. A timid, female voice whispered, “Hello? Are you in here?”

What kind of trick or torture is this?
Butter thought, lying absolutely still as if he was asleep. Through slotted eyes, he observed April peek inside, holding a lantern in one hand, something dark in the other.

“Are you okay?” she asked, once the light had found his face. “Can you walk? I have your gun.”

Butter looked to see his carbine in her hand and immediately rolled off his mattress. It took him less than a minute to check the weapon, his mind still screaming at the impossibility of it all and wondering if his captors were playing some sort of cruel joke.

His weapon was perfect, as were the full magazines April carried in a bag. Never before had he held anything that felt as wonderful as that rifle. “Where are the guards?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I heard the gunfire from the hills and came here to make sure May was okay. There isn’t anyone around,” she stammered.    

“Where is May?”

April pointed at the cell across the hall and held up the ring of keys. “I knew where Castro kept these and your gun. Can you get us out of here?”

“I don’t know, but I can try,” Butter responded. “Let’s get your sister out of here.”

It took May twice as long to believe her eyes and her sister’s words. The fact that Butter was hovering in the doorway holding his carbine finally persuaded the weakened girl.

“There’s another gun,” April thought to say as the trio entered the front office. Butter hastily rummaged through Castro’s stash, looking for anything of value. Luck was with him, and he recovered an old .38 police special and his .45 automatic. He handed the revolver to May while he stored his blaster into his waistband.

A few moments later, they were out the door and rushing for the shadows.

Butter had never breathed sweeter air.

Never one to fully trust subordinates, Castro had never fostered a strong middle management team. Those few individuals who did have some level of competence had been assigned to guard the convoy. Once the Alliance mounted its attack, the plantation’s security forces accelerated from mere alarm to pure hysteria. Castro’s men had been scrambling to find their leader among the sounds of the firefight, the few static-filled radio transmissions that had been broadcast from the militia, and the pulsing glow of flames on the horizon.

The headman himself wasn’t in a much better frame of mind.

Castro had been on edge when the ruckus of the battle first reached the sitting room. Bishop had watched his captive’s eyes as they nervously darted back and forth, the Texan ready for any attempt at escape.

The enforcer’s situation had grown even more desperate when the firefight had suddenly stalled. Bishop spotted his captive’s hands shaking, a thick layer of perspiration now forming on Castro’s skin. “The cavalry is coming,” Bishop whispered to torture the man. “The Alliance isn’t very happy with you and the lady of the house. You should have taken the deal.”

“Fuck you,” snarled the prisoner. “We are ready. I will enjoy pissing on your graves.”

Before Bishop could respond, one of the room’s hidden doors squeaked open, the face of a timid guard poking through the opening as if he was hesitant to interrupt.

The man’s eyes opened wide when he realized Terri and Bishop were holding the guns. Before he could withdraw, Bishop’s pistol roared, the sentry dead before he hit the floor.

“Our little secret is out,” the Texan remarked to his wife. “If Grim doesn’t arrive shortly, things are going to get a little dicey.”

Terri shrugged, never taking her eyes off Bella Dona. “Grim will be here. But if not, then
she
gets the first bullet.”

The fact that there was only one route in and out of the plantation was a two-edged sword. While Grim didn’t need to worry about anyone outmaneuvering him using a side road, the facility’s security forces knew exactly where he was going.

Bishop had reported a series of irrigation canals crisscrossing the fields. “There are pedestrian crossings all over the place, but only one series of bridges that will support trucks. That’s where they’re going to try and stop you. That’s where the choke point is. Be careful,” he advised.

Now, rolling toward the plantation with his column of shot-up trucks, Grim was growing more concerned with each passing minute. It was taking them too long, their progress slowed by the uneven surface, narrow passes, and washed out pavement.

Riding in the lead pickup, the convoy commander finally reached for the microphone and keyed the talk button. “Prepare to stop ahead. We’re approaching a flat area. I want to unload the bikes.”

“We’re going too slowly … giving the other side time to set up an ambush or barricade the bridges. We need to send out scouts,” Grim whispered.

It was a difficult call.

On one hand, the grizzled old veteran wanted to hit hard and fast. Every minute he delayed reaching the objective gave the defenders more time to prepare. Bishop, Terri, and Butter were there, most likely under siege and waiting desperately to be rescued.

Yet, rushing head first into a kill zone would be the end of them all.

Even worse than being ambushed was the possibility of being sandwiched between two enemy forces. Grim had no doubt the militia they had just left behind was trying desperately to regroup. How long would it take before they and their armored vehicle were giving chase?

If he had to, Grim would turn and fight. Their chances were better facing one foe, either ahead or behind, than trying to fight in two directions at once.

Ultimately, Grim’s decision was based on the experience of his men. These were truck drivers and officers of the law, not infantry or assault troops. While he didn’t question their bravery or grit, there was only so much they could do.

Three minutes later, the long stripe of trucks was idling as the two motorcycles were rolled off one of the empty trailers. Turning to Sheriff Watts’ most trusted officer he instructed, “Scout the bridge ahead first. If it is defended, then come back to report to me while your buddy finds us some way to flank the bridge. Is that clear, Cord?”

The two riders, both deputies, nodded their understanding and then roared off.

“We’re going to stay right here for a few minutes,” Grim informed the rest of the convoy over the radio. “I’m not going to roll into another ambush or get pinned down while those guys we left back there hit us from the rear.”

Butter and his two female cohorts were huddled in the corner of an unused barn. May was weak, from both physical abuse and her self-imposed hunger strike. Finally, after managing to put some distance between themselves and the detention center, Butter had called for a 10-minute rest.

While the girls regrouped, Butter kept a watchful eye on their surroundings. They were far from being out of trouble, the area still thick with numerous large structures and dozens of security men.

As he rose to get the girls moving again, the sound of cloth scraping against the barn’s wall made the big man freeze. Someone was out there. Someone was moving.

Butter’s training took over, the big man moving his carbine to his back as he lifted a nearby length of pipe. Dropping into a combat stance, he prepared to dispatch whoever was approaching. It would have to be done silently. A gunshot would bring every guard within a kilometer running.

The moonlight glowed in the space between the old barn’s wall-planks, Butter’s aroused senses detecting the night shadow of someone gradually making their way toward the opening.

Without a sound, the big man raised the pipe like a baseball slugger readying to swing for the fences.

A shape appeared in the entrance, and Butter sprang. As the pipe started to descend, something in Butter’s brain stopped the assault at the last possible moment. The person standing in the doorway wasn’t a man or a woman. It was a child.

The two of them stood staring at each other in the moonlight for several seconds, the child absolutely terrified by the image of a giant holding a club over his head.

Butter, realizing he had almost killed a small boy, was trying desperately to gather his wits.

“You … you … are you the gringo from Tejas?” the kid finally managed to stutter in Spanish.

Not understanding the language, Butter didn’t know exactly how to respond. As he slowly lowered the pipe, April appeared at his side. Staring at the child, she said, “Julio? Julio, what are you doing here?”

A flicker of recognition brightened the boy’s face as he rushed toward April’s waist. After a reassuring hug from his teacher, the lad peered up at her and said, “Everyone in our barracks has heard the fighting and shouting. My father and the other men are arguing over what to do. My mom is so scared, I decided to sneak out and see for myself. I come out at night all the time. It’s the only chance I ever have to be alone and think about writing.”

With a reassuring pat on the head, April explained, “I think the Texans are coming to rescue their friend. If everyone stays in the barracks, they should be safe.”

Julio glanced between April and Butter, a question forming behind the young boy’s eyes. “Will you take me with you, sir? Will you take my family back to Tejas?”

Butter was checking the direction of his moral compass … trying to decide the best way to respond when the sound of a diesel motor reached the barn. Pushing everyone back into the shadows, Butter raised his weapon and again was preparing to fight.

A few moments later, it became clear to the big man that his carbine wasn’t going to be much good. The path was filled when first one, then several more armored vehicles roared by. All in all, Butter counted a dozen of the war machines.