Copperheads - 12 (7 page)

Bishop watched as his wife went prone behind the two rocks. With a practiced motion, she pulled the M4’s charging handle to chamber a round and then tilted the carbine to make sure the weapon had functioned properly. A flash of pride pulsed through the Texan’s core. She would fight like hell if necessary, and any man would be a fool not to respect her capabilities.

“Okay. Ready. Are we going to have to kill the boy’s uncle?” she asked, glancing up as a shadow of sadness passed behind her eyes.

Bishop frowned, “I sure as hell hope not.” Then with his eyes boring in the direction of the locals, the Texan keyed his mic, “Update, Kevin.”

“They appear to be heading toward the spot where Terri spoke to the boys. No change in posture.”

“Are we sure they’re alone?” Bishop asked.

Kevin’s voice almost sounded like the question was insulting, “I’ve performed two detailed sweeps, sir. No other contacts.”

Bishop took a knee beside his wife, his eyes still scanning in the direction of the threat. “So your two friends ran back to their little town and told everyone that a woman from Texas was down by the lake, asking questions about the ghost boat. Are the pitchforks and torches to shoo you away, protect you, or kill you?”

Before she could speculate, Kevin’s nervous voice sounded over the airwaves, “Movement! Pickup truck, two in the cab, two in the bed. Armed. Going slow. 120 degrees, 1,100 meters, my position. Looks like they’re heading for the first group.”

“Shit!” Bishop snapped, adding yet another moving piece to his mental chessboard. His first thought was that someone was trying to spring another ambush, this time with his team in the kill zone. Problem was no one on either side was in the right position to pull off such a maneuver.

“Reinforcements?” Terri asked, now frowning in concern.

“Unknown,” Bishop answered honestly. “One thing for certain is that this little piece of luxury real estate has suddenly gotten very popular. Me, I’m a country boy and like wide-open spaces. There are too many damn people around here. I think we should egress our asses right back across the river … maybe come back during the offseason.”

“Group one has seen group two’s dust cloud,” came Kevin’s voice. “Looks like group one is preparing an ambush.”

Bishop gave his wife a look that said, “What the hell?” and then pressed his radio’s button, “Grim, you and Butter well out of the way?”

“Yes, sir. We’re in a good spot.”

Kevin again, “Group two appears to be looking for something, sir. The two men in the bed have binoculars and keep scanning the desert. They also have AKs or SKS weapons.”

“The bad guys my little friends were talking about?” Terri offered.

“We need to see this for ourselves. Let’s move forward to Kevin’s perch,” Bishop decided.

The couple advanced with caution, Bishop telling his wife that even with Kevin’s super-sharp eye, it was possible that someone had entered the area without their knowledge. A few minutes later, they joined the team’s long-distance shooter.

Kevin knew what Bishop wanted without a word, handing over his sniper rifle with its massive scope. Not wasting a second, the Texan began scanning the terrain.

It was easy to find the small rooster tail of dust produced by the slow-moving pickup’s wheels. Just as Kevin had reported, there were two men in the bed with large optics, scanning the surrounding desert as if they were looking for game or trespassers or some other target. Whoever was driving clearly wasn’t in a hurry, the fairly new model Dodge rolling along as if it were passing through a school zone.

Finding the angler’s friends was far more difficult, but eventually, Bishop zeroed in on the larger party of locals. Again, just as Kevin had reported, they had gone to ground on both sides of what appeared to be a path or trail, their faces and weapons facing toward the approaching pickup.

“They were pretty freaked out when they saw the dust cloud,” Kevin said, trying to anticipate his boss’s questions. “There were a lot of waving arms, and everyone was rushing around for a minute.”

“So they’re scared of the men in the truck?” Terri asked.

“I don’t think the fisherman’s group can see the truck just yet,” Bishop answered. “I think they saw the dust trail and aren’t taking any chances. We would do the same thing.”

The SAINT team maintained their defensive position, watching from afar as the two local forces barely avoided a collision. It soon became obvious that the men in the truck were heading for the boat.

“They’ll strip everything of value off Hannah’s party barge in a matter of minutes,” Grim broadcast, watching as the men from the pickup climbed aboard the abandoned boat. “Are we going to stop them?”

Bishop peered at his wife and stated, “That’s not why we’re here. That’s not our job.”

“She is a citizen of the Alliance,” Terri countered. “The boat is her property.”

The Texan didn’t like it. “So? We’ll tell Sheriff Watts where it's located when we get back. Technically, we are an invading force, leaning way over the edge without a safety net. I don’t want to get my team shot up over some damn boat.”

“Didn’t you and Nick just
invade
Oklahoma not long ago?” she reasoned.

“That was different.”

“How so?”

“We were after known … we went to … aww … damn it!” Bishop looked at Kevin, the team leader’s face colored with his obvious frustration. “Let’s form up at Grim and Butter’s location. Let them know we’re all coming in.”

“Roger that, sir.”

A few minutes later, the SAINT team had gathered less than 50 yards from the pickup parked near the bow of Hannah’s houseboat.

Bishop detected one of the four locals had remained next to the truck while the other three scouted the beached vessel. “Butter, take out the sentry next to the truck. Don’t kill him, but don’t let him warn the others.”

“Can I give him a headache, sir?”

“If necessary. I’m sure your rifle barrel against his ear will do the job. It not, convince him with a bit more enthusiasm.”

The big man turned to move but then froze when a voice called from the boat back to the pickup. The words were in Spanish.

“What’s he saying?” Bishop asked his wife.

Terri started a running commentary, translating the words in a whisper. “This is how they did it!” shouted the man on the boat. “There are boot marks all over the deck. This is how those bastards hit the convoy and got around our people.”

The man beside the pickup rubbed his chin, obviously deep in thought. Finally, he shouted back, “Torch it,” and then calmly moved for the cab.

“Torch it? Are you sure?” Bishop asked his wife.

Terri nodded with enthusiasm. “Yes.”

“Butter, I’ve got the driver. You stay here with Terri.”

“Yes, sir,” the junior team member replied, but Bishop was already moving.

With the driver behind the wheel, Bishop’s job was more difficult. Despite every vehicle having a blind spot in its mirror system, it was nearly impossible to tell exactly where that opportune avenue of approach was located.

Fortunately for the SAINT team, the vehicle hadn’t been parked in a spot selected for its defensive attributes. There was a significant growth of mesquite and scrub elm less than 10 feet from the driver’s door. Bishop was soon behind that patch of shrubbery, keeping the head-high vegetation between him and the truck’s occupant during the approach.

The last bit of open space, he decided after a chest full of air, was best crossed with a full head of steam.

Pulling down his balaclava and snapping the carbine to his shoulder, Bishop unsafed the weapon and moved toward the pickup at an extremely brisk walk. The occupant never saw him coming, the driver’s attention focused on his comrades and the boat.

That quickly changed when Bishop’s rifle barrel pressed against the man’s temple. “Did I just hear you order those men to torch my boat?” the Texan growled.

The man jerked, but not too much, his hand automatically reaching for the pistol lying in the nearby seat. He stopped the movement just as Bishop’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Don’t do it, my friend. You’ll never make it.”

“No hablo English, Señor,” the driver mumbled.

Bishop didn’t believe him. “That’s too bad, because if I see smoke coming from my boat, I’m going to scatter your brains all over the inside of this nice Dodge truck.”

The man inhaled and then shouted a string of orders in Spanish. Grim’s voice sounded in Bishop’s ear, “Terri says he told his men to stop and come to the front of the boat.”

“I want you and Butter up here with me. Kevin and Terri are to stay back and cover us,” Bishop ordered in a whisper.

The Texan then pushed the barrel of his weapon tighter against his prisoner’s head, “Don’t be stupid and you’ll live another day. Test me and you will die. Clear?”

“Yes, Señor. Are you one of the vigilantes? Are your men the ones who killed the truckers?”

The question caused a deep frown to furrow Bishop’s face. Surely, the man pinned by his blaster was one of the culprits? The Texan decided the guy was already cooking up an alibi.

The three men on the boat appeared just then, moving toward the bow cautiously, their AK47 battle rifles up and ready. Bishop was about to give his hostage instructions concerning those weapons when first one and then an entire salvo of shots rang out.

Bishop knew in an instant that the angler’s friends had arrived.

One of the boatmen fell in withering agony as incoming rounds pinged and slapped the vessel’s fiberglass hull and steel railings.

More lead slammed into the pickup, the Texan diving for cover as the Dodge’s sheet metal and glass absorbed a wave of high-velocity punishment.

Bishop rolled hard, tiny eruptions of Mexican soil chasing him as he scrambled for the lowest spot he could see.

Now the AKs from the boat were singing their song, the return fire drawing the attention of new arrivals, prompting others to duck for cover. Sensing a lull, the Texan gathered himself for a mad dash back to the safety of his team. He had just reached a knee when his former hostage hit the ground beside the truck in a tangled heap. Blood poured from the man’s shoulder, his face cringing in pain.

For half a second, Bishop didn’t care. He was convinced the wounded man was a murdering son-of-a-bitch and wasn’t worth risking a hangnail, let alone getting shot.

Then a flash of memory rolled through the Texan’s mind. He remembered the exchange between the wounded man and his men on the boat. “This is how those bastards hit the convoy.…”

Frustrated, wanting badly to go home, and desperate to get Terri out of what now had become an active combat zone, Bishop made up his mind to get some answers and
then
get the hell out of Dodge.

With three quick steps, he grabbed the wounded guy’s good arm and pulled the bleeding fellow to his feet. “Come on,” Bishop barked. “This way.”

A blizzard of lead was flying between Hannah’s boat and the local villagers. While outnumbered three to one, the waterborne shooters were far better armed.

All of this passed through the background of Bishop’s consciousness as he pulled, pushed, and helped his wounded hostage back toward friendly lines. Halfway there, the man’s legs gave out, his complexion as gray as the local sands. “You’re going into shock from blood loss,” the Texan informed his prisoner.

Doing a quick check of the man’s soaked shirt and shattered shoulder, Bishop grumbled, “Fuck! Am I going to have to carry your big, smelly ass?”

There wasn’t any response. With a deep sigh, the Texan swung his carbine around to his back and hissed, “I sure hope you are worth the effort.”

Growing angrier by the second, Bishop took a deep breath, bending in preparation to heft the sizeable bandito onto his shoulder. The sound of a boot scraping across the soil caused the Texan to pause.

Butter was there, Grim right beside him. As the senior SAINT member covered their egress, Butter scooped up the prisoner like he was a small child and then glanced at his leader. “You okay, Boss?”

Before Bishop could answer, a bullet cracked by the team’s heads, their movements evidently drawing unwanted attention.

“Yeah. I’m good. Let’s go!” Bishop responded, hustling for cover.

Two minutes later, the panting trio, along with their prisoner, arrived to find a diligent, worried, Terri with Kevin. Her smile made it was clear the missus was happy to see her husband unscathed.

“Talk to him,” Bishop said to his wife. “Find out what in the hell is going on around here. Butter, see if you can slow down his bleeding long enough for us to get some Intel.”

Terri studied the stranger for a moment as Butter tore open the blood-soaked shirt.

“Why are the villagers shooting at you?” her first question fired.

“They do not like us, pretty lady. Are you an angel? Have I already passed to the other side?”

“And why don’t they like you?”

The wounded fellow actually tried a shrug but regretted it. Sucking a chest full of air, he winced from the pain. “Why? I’m not sure. I don’t think they like any strangers.”