Copperheads - 12 (35 page)

The 25mm guns atop the militia’s armored units were wreaking havoc. Firing shells that were over an inch in diameter, the plantation’s security forces had somehow acquired exploding ordnance for their mini-cannons. Large holes began exploding through the fortress of trailers that now surrounded Grim’s constituency. Deadly shrapnel whizzed and screamed through the night air, creating bedlam amongst the defenders.

Were it not for Kevin and Cord’s sniper rifles, the affair would have been wholly one-sided. Within minutes of engagement, the plantation’s crews were learning a hard lesson about exposure.

The surplus French war machines weren’t designed to fight at night, their optical aiming systems several generations old. That mean that the gun commanders had to control the weapons from the turret to guarantee any level of accuracy. This provided the Alliance marksmen with plenty of prime targets.

Despite the deadly accurate fire from the convoy’s long-range shooters, Grim knew they couldn’t hold out for long. His 30 rifle barrels were no match for the hundreds on the other side of the canal. He didn’t have any way to knock out the tracked cannons. His team was basically fucked.

Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, another wave of gunfire rose from the convoy’s rear. “Shit!” Grim spat, knowing that the militia chasing them had finally caught up. Now they were completely surrounded, being squeezed from two sides. There was no place to go, no possible egress, no place to hide.

“Alright, Bishop. I did my best. Now it’s up to you and God,” Grim said, looking toward the plantation.

As the sounds of the second battle rumbled into the Castle’s sitting room, Castro tilted his head heeding the random shouts of his unit.

Picking up bits and pieces of conversation as the fighting raged, the plantation strong man grinned at Bishop. “My men have the truck drivers surrounded. Your friends have no escape and are dying by the scores.”

“Let us go,” Bella Dona offered with venom. “End this now, and I will spare their lives.”

Terri glanced at her husband and then shook her head. “I have a better idea,” she announced, motioning with her pistol barrel for Bella Dona to stand. “We’re going to sashay out there and tell them to drop their weapons, or I’ll blow your head off. How’s that for a fair trade?”

Shrugging, Bishop added, “Doesn’t sound like we have much of an option. We might as well sweeten the deal with Castro.”

Using the two hostages as shields, the couple moved toward the sitting room’s main threshold. Bishop pushed open the door and quickly retreated behind Castro’s shoulder.

Outside in the hall, a half-dozen security men stared up in surprise. “Back off or they both die,” Terri warned.

The royal guard did as instructed, slowly retreating toward the front door. Bishop spied a man who appeared to be in charge of the small team. “Go find whoever is in command of the fight,” he ordered. “We want to make a deal.”

“What is it you propose?” the brawny man retorted, pausing at the door.

“An immediate cease-fire. We all walk out of here … or the lady and Castro receive a lead injection,” Bishop threatened.

“Now stop wasting time and find whoever is in charge,” Terri hissed. “I’m nervous, and that makes my finger twitchy,” she added, pressing her pistol’s barrel hard against Bella Dona’s temple.

Nodding, the beefy bodyguard rushed off, soon disappearing into the night.

The couple and their hostages remained in the foyer, Bishop taking comfort in being able to peer out through the large glass windows that lined the exterior. Beyond the wide front porch, he could watch a ring of grey-shirted men at the edge of the grounds. Someone had issued them weapons.

The Texan could also see the strobe of battle flashing in the night sky. From the sound of things, Grim was taking an ass whooping. Bishop briefly wondered if his friend was still alive and how many of the truckers would make it home.

It seemed like an eternity before the low throb of a diesel motor reached the Castle’s foyer, followed a few moments later by the appearance of another French APC rolling through the courtyard, eventually rolling to a stop in front of the verandah.

As a single man hopped down from the huge machine, two squads of armed infantry followed, spreading out on either side of the tracked APC. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Bishop stated from inside. “Let’s hope this guy is reasonable.”

“Inside!” shouted a voice in accented English. “My name is Tito. I command the militia. Show yourselves, and we will talk.”

Bella Dona and Castro were shoved out first, Bishop and Terri following behind with weapons pressed into the captives’ backs.

Again, Bishop repeated his demands. “Call an immediate ceasefire, Commander, and let all of us go. In exchange, we won’t harm Bella Dona or Castro.”

Bishop knew immediately that something was wrong. With an evil sneer, Tito tilted his head and then turned to his troops. “Kill them all,” he ordered. “The plantation is now mine.”

The militia shooters were confused, acting as if they didn’t understand the order. The hesitation was just long enough for Bishop to move.

Grabbing Terri and shoving her hard toward the entrance, the Texan then managed to pull Castro down as bullets began tearing into the porch and door.

Realizing that a coup was in progress, the grey-shirts tasked with guarding Bella Dona started firing at the militiamen. In seconds, absolute mayhem filled the courtyard.

Bishop and Terri no longer had to worry about Castro and Bella Dona, both of their hostages diving for cover as bullets ripped through the Castle’s walls.

Glass, paint, wood splinters, and lead filled the foyer as the foursome crawled, scampered, and scooted deeper into the house, desperately trying to escape the maelstrom of deadly lead.

The group found a reprise, ducking behind the broad staircase and its shielding structure. “Those traitorous bastards!” Castro hissed, “I can’t believe they would turn on us!”

“Evidently, your benefits package leaves much to be desired,” Bishop quipped, trying to catch his breath. “The shareholders are unhappy.”

Outside, Bishop could discern an intense firefight between Bella Dona’s royal guard and the militia troops. He didn’t want to hang around to see who was going to come out on top.

Terri was thinking the same thing. “We have to move,” she announced calmly.

“Okay,” Bishop replied. “Let’s shoot both of them and then get out of here.”

“I like that idea, but unfortunately, we have to take them with us. They are our ticket out of here.”

Bishop’s eyes bored into Castro, spewing visual hatred and disdain, “How about we shoot him and use her as a hostage? I think she’s the lesser of two evils.”

The lady of the house offered a better idea. “I know a way out. A secret passage.”

The two Texans exchanged a glance, both of their eyebrows shooting skyward. “Is that so?” Terri asked Bella Dona. “And just why should we believe a word you say?”

“She’s telling the truth,” Castro chimed in. “There is an escape tunnel, created long ago when banditos roamed these hills. Only my sister and I know of it.”

Bishop shook his head as if trying to understand. “Your sister?”

“Yes,” Bella Dona admitted. “My father had an affair with Castro’s mother. She was a servant here. He confessed this sin on his deathbed many, many years ago.”

The Texan wasn’t interested in anyone’s family history at the moment. “Where is this tunnel?”

“In the kitchen,” Bella Dona pointed. “I will show you.”

Waiting for a lull in the skirmish outside, Bishop nodded and waved Bella Dona and her brother out. The foursome made a mad dash for the back of the Castle, eventually arriving at the kitchen. After opening a small cabinet, the plantation’s master reached for a small lever and yanked hard on the device.

A panel in the wall popped, revealing a narrow, low opening. Mounted on the wall were a torch and matches. Stone stairs led down into the darkness.

“I need one of these,” Bishop told his wife. “This is like super-villain stuff. Very cool.”

It was the strangest army Butter could have ever imagined.

The armory had been stuffed with a variety of different weapons, ranging from cases of brand new AK47 battle rifles to box after box of U.S. M16s. Intermingled with the military grade weapons were just about every brand, caliber, and style of hunting rifle, shotgun, and pistol.

For nearly 15 minutes, the first men into the facility had handed out the weapons and ammunition to a wall of eager, reaching hands. It seemed like every laborer on the plantation now wanted a gun.

They kept coming even after the supply of firearms had been exhausted, the late arrivals relegated to pitchforks, axes, and shovels.

Large baskets, originally used to haul the harvest from the fields were converted into supply packs, scores of women carrying heavy loads of ammunition on their heads and shoulders.

Butter secretly prayed someone had thought to bring along the first aid kits. They were going to need them.

It was April who pointed the young Texan in the right direction. “The battle is being waged over the main bridge,” she informed the new army’s de facto general. “That crossing has to be the key to the entire valley.”

“I guess we take the fight to the bridge then. Let’s get moving.”

Butter recognized the men who had helped him storm the armory, nominating Julio’s father as his second in command. It took less than a minute to explain where they were going, and why.

Soon orders were being shouted to the masses, the verbal instructions repeated until they reached the edge of the ever-expanding mob.

“We are ready,” replied Julio, Sr.

“Let’s move,” Butter decided, waving his hand toward the sound of the battle.

It took them nearly 10 minutes at a fast jog before they could see the match raging at the bridge. In the brilliant flashes of gunfire, Butter recognized the semis just across the water. “What the hell are they doing here?”

It was clear that they had been heading toward the plantation, which confused Butter even more. What he did know was that somebody had ordered them into defensive positions. That meant Grim or Bishop was still in command.

It was also pretty obvious that the convoy from Texas was getting its ass kicked. Butter spotted the tracked armor arrayed against the trucks, along with hundreds of plantation militia.

Waving over his insurgency counterpart, Butter took a knee and drew a quick diagram in the dirt. “Take as many men as you can and sneak along the water’s edge. Hit them from the side. I will take the rest as they arrive and hit them from the rear.”

A moment later, the Mexican was up and shouting orders to dozens of eager faces. While Butter could see fear in their eyes, there was something else as well. These were men overflowing with years of repressed anger and hatred, and it was all about to boil over.

More and more of the endless line of armed men arrived after Julio had left, Butter waving them to assemble between two rows of shabby barracks. When at least 200 were gathered, he shouted, “Let’s do it. Follow me!”

It was the first time the kid from Texas had ever led men into battle, but his SAINT training and months of working with Bishop and Grim were now paying dividends.

“My gosh, we’ve got a serious vacuum on the leadership side,” Butter whispered to no one as they hustled to engage. “These men deserve someone who won’t falter. They need someone to rally around. It has to be me.”

Only once did he turn to glance over his shoulder, emboldened by the sea of brave faces that were still there, following him into the breach of hell.

Over a slight embankment rolled the wave of slave soldiers, following the tall gringo. Butter spotted one of the French machines ahead, the vehicle surrounded by dozens of infantry, all of them firing at the trucks across the water.

Snapping up his carbine, Butter sprayed eight shots into a cluster of militiamen and then immediately emptied his magazine into the man operating the APC’s cannon. Before he could switch magazines, his troops opened fire with devastating effect.

Hundreds of former slaves hit the militia’s rear, screaming ferocious battle cries and shooting at anything that moved. The militia forces were stunned, many of them unsure who was behind them. They fell by the dozens, victims of confusion and poor training.

In a matter of seconds, the slaves were among them, small clusters of close quarters battle breaking out all along the water’s edge.

Just then, Julio’s forces struck like a sledgehammer against the militia’s right flank, propelling a wall of deadly lead into an already beleaguered foe. Butter could feel the battle’s momentum swinging their way. If they could knock out the armor, it would be over quickly.

He was also well aware that taking out those APCs was the key to keeping their casualties low. Spying the nearest tracked cannon, the big man charged like a rampaging bull.

Two militiamen appeared through the grey smoke that now drifted across the field in choking clouds, both of them moving to intercept Butter’s bold advance. The Alliance man dropped his first adversary only a few steps away, his momentum carrying him into the second before he could adjust his aim.

Butter’s shoulder slammed into the remaining man, knocking the Texan off balance and sending both of the combatants rolling over the ground.

Regaining his feet first, Butter tried to bring his rifle into play but was too slow. The steel of an arching machete blade flashed in the light, the big kid barely managing to block the vicious stroke with his barrel.

As the local fighter coiled for a second swing, Butter’s massive fist sailed through the air, landing square on his foe’s jaw with bone crushing force.

Staggering, the Mexican backed away, trying to regroup.

Butter moved like a big cat, closing the gap between them in less than a heartbeat. Again, the native raised his blade to slash at the behemoth towering over him.

Butter caught the man’s wrist on the down stroke, stopping the machete cold in midair.

Twisting hard on his foe’s limb, Butter stepped into the man while pulling hard. When he felt the opponent’s weight shift, the Texan rammed his shoulder into the man’s solar plexus and lifted with both arms.

It was a scene no witness would ever forget, a giant holding the kicking, squirming militiaman high above his head, roaring with the intensity of combat, charging at the APC.

Straining with every ounce of his mass, Butter launched his human cargo at the armored war machine. The machete wielder slammed into the side of the steel plating with a sickening thud, instantly going limp as he slid to the ground.

Butter scrambled to the top of the machine, bringing his carbine around and into the fight. Another grey-shirt appeared at the front of the APC, managing a single shot before the Texan snap fired two rounds into the enemy’s chest.

Bending to the armored deck, Butter pulled open the main hatch and loosed a deadly spray of high-velocity death at the interior. The cannon went silent.

Two more militia charged the Texan, his form clearly visible given his perch on top of the APC. Butter killed both of them, countless hours of range time paying dividends of instinctive accuracy and lightning-fast target acquisition.

As the firefight raged all along the irrigation ditch, Butter’s presence atop the APC became a beacon to his men. Like the flags that had been used on the battlefield since prehistoric times, his easily visible presence became a waypoint for the slave army. He was the rally point, the unit’s colors, and a reassuring sign that his side was still in the fight.

So intense was the fighting, magazines were soon emptied, bolts and slides locking into battery with empty breeches. Like so many battles, the fight degraded into a primitive, whirling fur ball of violence complete with blades, rifle butts, and fists. The enemy was too close to reload. There wasn’t the time or the space to chamber a round. The two sides were so intermingled, it was impossible to use gunpowder and high-velocity lead without the risk of friendly fire killing one of their own.

Again and again, the militia tried to remove Butter from the APC, many of the plantation’s officers understanding the meaning of his presence and how it served to embolden the rebellious slaves.

Like a child playing king of the mountain, Butter was a whirling storm of punches and kicks, slicing with his blade or grappling bones until they snapped. He was insane with bloodlust, impervious to pain and determined to maintain his position atop the war machine. Countless times machete steel whizzed past his body, a few of the lucky attacks managing a shallow cut or glancing blow. None of it seemed to have any effect.

More than once the big kid had two or three men hanging off his limbs in a desperate attempt to dislodge him. Butter used every trick, hold, and ounce of his strength to dispatch his adversaries. 

Two militiamen managed to get behind the frenzied gringo, both readying their deadly blades as their target was busy snapping the neck of another man.

Butter noticed the movement over his shoulder and pivoted as the duo sprang for the kill. For a brief moment, the Texan thought he would finally fall. Blocking one of the militiamen’s stroke left the big man’s right side was exposed, an opening the other combatant pressed.

Just as Butter winced in anticipation of his foe’s knife slicing through his rib cage, the machete wielder’s chest exploded, showering the Texan with a spray of gristle and hot blood.

Following the life-saving shot’s trajectory with his eyes, Butter wanted to thank the shooter with a nod. He found nothing but water and open fields in the direction the bullet had traveled. Finally letting his eyes travel further, the Texan could detect the outline of semi-trailers illuminated by the trucks that were burning. “Kevin?” he wondered for a moment. “Thanks, buddy, if that was you.”

“Grim, you better get up here. Something’s happening to our front.”

What now?
Grim winced at hearing the transmission. “I’m kind of busy down here, kid.”

“You’ll want to see this, sir.”

“Hell fire and damnation,” Grim cursed, as he scampered for Kevin’s sniper perch. “This can’t be good.”

A minute later, he was climbing up to the top of Kevin’s trailer, belly crawling along the top to avoid the heavy fire rounds zipping and buzzing overhead.

Finally reaching the kid’s sandbagged “hole,” Grim flung himself over the edge and demanded, “Okay, what’s so all-mighty important.”

“Look,” Kevin said pointing toward the distant irrigation ditch. “Butter and a bunch of ragtag looking guys are taking out the APCs and militia.”

“What?” Grim snapped, raising a pair of binoculars to verify Kevin’s unbelievable report.

Sure enough, the old warrior spotted several skirmishes in progress.

“Check out the APC closest to the bridge. That’s Butter. I just knocked a guy off his back.”

“Holy mother of God,” Grim whispered, “If that big, dumb kid isn’t a sight for sore eyes.”

Without wasting another second, Grim turned to his sharpshooter and said, “I want all but a few men to turn and face those shitbirds riding our ass. That includes you and that long-distance dialer you’re holding. Go back to Cord’s truck. I want both of you reaching out and touching someone. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Kevin grinned.

A moment later, Grim was transmitting orders that had all but a handful of his men moving to the convoy’s rear. If Butter could keep those assholes on the other side of the irrigation ditch busy, his shooters could hold their own against the smaller force behind them. “We actually might survive this clusterfuck,” he grumbled.