Copperheads - 12 (8 page)

“Why did you attack the convoy of trucks?” Terri pressed.

For the first time, the fellow on the ground seemed to be taking her seriously, his eyes boring into Terri with an intense focus. “We did not shoot up the trucks! They were our customers. We sold them the food.”

Terri kept her expression neutral, reacting with no more than a tilt of her head. “So did the villagers ambush the trucks?” she asked, nodding in the direction of the distant gunfire.

Again, his movement caused the stranger a gasp of pain. “No,” he finally managed as Butter’s hands moved quickly trying to stem the flow of blood pouring from the wound. “They are not capable of such a thing,” he continued with a dismissive tone.

Terri wasn’t sure why, but she believed him. “Then who murdered those men on the dam?”

Before he could answer, Kevin’s voice sounded with urgency, “Sir! I’ve got movement … a third party … at least 20 men. It looks like the village is sending reinforcements.”

Bishop’s head snapped around, his gaze moving in the direction where Kevin’s sniper rifle pointed. Again, the Texan took control of the big optic, scanning a larger group of very old and very young men, all carrying an assortment of ragtag weapons. It reminded him of pictures of the German Army toward the end of WWII when all of that nation’s prime manpower had been consumed – the village was scraping the bottom of the barrel. It didn’t matter, however. A rusty shotgun was as deadly as a well-oiled blaster. “Shit, we’re going to get caught in the middle.”

The team’s leader then turned to watch Butter work. “Can he be moved?”

The big man didn’t speak, instead flashing a look that said, “No. He’s not going to make it much longer anyway.”

Terri caught it as well, moving closer to the dying man’s face and demanding his attention. “So who attacked the truckers?”

“Qu … Quay,” sounded a weak gasp.

“Who?” Terri asked.

There wasn’t any answer. The light had left the man’s eyes.

“He’s gone,” Butter announced, shaking his head and then moving to repack his medical gear.

“Damn it,” Terri hissed. “Who are the Quays?”

“Vigilantes,” Bishop responded, his eyes scanning the perimeter. “That’s what one of the guys on the boat said.”

“I know that,” Terri replied. “But
who
are they? Where are they?”

Her husband didn’t answer, his head pivoting between the gunfight at the boat and the approaching men from the village. “We have to move.”

“No shit,” Grim snapped. “This place is getting crowded. Which way, boss?”

Bishop was about to announce his decision when the distant gunfire abruptly stopped. Every Alliance ear focused toward the shore, waiting and hoping for another round to ignite the next phase of the battle. Nothing but the light morning breeze reached their ears.

Grim and Bishop exchanged knowing looks. “This ain’t good,” the ex-contractor warned.

“No kidding,” the Texan concurred.

“What?” Terri asked, not understanding.

“One side or the other has won,” her husband explained. “If it was our dead friend’s compadres, they’re going to come looking for him. If his enemies claimed victory, they’re going to come looking for him. Either way, we’re in the wrong place at a very bad time.”

“East,” Bishop then announced. “Grim, take point. Same formation we used on the way in. We’ll go east for a mile or two and then cut north for Texas.”

“Roger that,” Grim said, hefting his pack and weapon. “Give me five minutes’ head start. I assume you want to cover some ground until we’re clear of the local festivities.”

Bishop nodded, “Yup. Get us out of here. Speed is life right now.”

Without another word, Grim moved off.

Only a few minutes had passed before the veteran’s voice sounded on the radio. “Too late, Bishop. They’ve already cut us off. We can’t go east unless you want to fight your way through.”

“Damn it! I was afraid of that,” the Texan hissed into his mic. “Get back here.”

“What’s going on?” Terri questioned, her husband’s expression causing even more concern.

“We can’t go west because of the reservoir,” Bishop pointed. “We can’t go north because of the fisherman’s uncle and his friends. It’s a bad idea to head south and deeper into Mexico. Now the new group of villagers has us cut off. We’re surrounded … in a way.”

Grim reappeared, running at a slow jog. “There are at least 20 of them, spread out in a picket line and heading our direction. We’ve got three, maybe four minutes before they spot us.”

Nodding his understanding, Bishop turned back toward the north and then slowly scanned the lake area. “Hope somebody brought sunscreen, ‘cause we are heading out for a boat ride.”

“Huh?” Grim questioned.

“Let’s take Hannah back her boat … or at least what’s left of it. The engines should be okay – right?”

Grim had to think about that one for a bit, finally nodding his head. “I suppose. But what about the villagers? I don’t think they’re just going to let us sail away into the sunset.”

“Maybe, maybe not. If anybody has a better idea, I’m all ears,” Bishop countered.

“What are you doing, Bishop? We’re not going to kill those people, are we?” Terri asked.

“No. We’ll see if we can sneak past them, and if not, Kevin will slow them down long enough so we can get by,” Bishop said, then added, “at least that’s the plan.”

Just then, an excited voice sounded behind the SAINT team, a quick burst of Spanish announcing the arrival of the larger group.

“Time to move!” Bishop barked, waving everyone toward the lake.

Hustling ahead, Grim took his standard position at point. He was soon followed by the short column of Alliance personnel.

They passed through a series of drainage gullies, large ditches cut by runoff pulled toward the reservoir. “Let’s hope we can stay out of their sights until we reach the boat.…”

His words were cut off by the whiz and crack of two bullets snapping overhead, immediately followed by a series of excited, shouting men.

Diving for cover, the team from Texas crawled and scurried to the nearest cover, weapons coming into play as everyone searched for a target.

Bishop almost shot Grim as he came flying over a low crest, a string of bullets chasing the ex-contractor as he hit the ground sliding like a baseball player trying to steal a base.

“Fuck!” Grim snarled, rolling back to face the enemy and wiping a thick coating of Mexican soil from his face. “We ran right into them.”

“So I see,” Bishop responded, ducking as someone up the draw managed a close shot. “Nice job picking the route, old buddy.”

After spitting a mouthful of grit, Grim threw a scowl at his friend, “What? What the hell do you mean, ‘nice job?’ It sure as shit wasn’t my idea to try and hijack the boat.”

Before Bishop could return the banter, the incoming fire increased in tempo, pushing the Alliance members lower into the sandy earth. Butter, watching their rear, made things worse.

“They’re coming up behind us, sir. The gunshots are guiding them in.”

Bishop locked eyes with his wife, sending an unspoken message – we’re in trouble here. Serious trouble. Instead of vocalizing the obvious, he said, “I didn’t want this. You know I tried to avoid it – right?”

She nodded.

The pain was obvious in Bishop’s eyes. Regret. The look of a man who was about to do something evil and was already asking for forgiveness.

Terri understood immediately. The nightmares. The memories that haunted her husband every night. Yet, like so many times before, he had no choice.

Bishop got down to business. “Kevin, push them back and keep them down. Try to scare them for the first few shots … chase them away. Terri, you and Butter hold off the guys on our ass. Keep them back. Grim and I are going to flank the gentlemen to our front. Remember, people, we only want to break through, not be the cause of the second massacre this week. Questions?”

There were none.

Terri was rolling to join the big kid while Kevin found good support for his rifle. Grim looked at Bishop and said, “Right or left?”

“Left … south … they’ll be expecting us to try and go north.”

With the exchange of a simple nod, the two SAINT men pushed off just as Kevin’s rifle roared its first shot.

Bishop and Grim moved quickly, both men instinctively using their ears to track the escalating firefight behind while using their eyes to scan for trouble ahead.

Crawling up rises and sliding down into trenches, the duo worked in perfect unison, one always covering the other’s movements and ready to engage. Never were both exposed, seldom were both moving at the same moment.

Behind them, Bishop tracked Terri and Butter’s rate of fire. He knew if either side of the pincher were going to overrun his team, it would be the larger group.

For a split second, the Texan was again filled with pride. He knew that even the best-trained soldiers would find it difficult to control their rate of fire when finding themselves in such a tight spot. His wife and the kid were in the fight, but their shots were regulated, disciplined, and hopefully selected with care. There was no rhythm of panic, no hailstorm of wasted ammunition.

Poking his head above the next rise, Bishop spotted the first villager. Actually, it was the dust cloud kicked up by the man shooting at his team that gave away the Mexican’s position.

Waving Grim back to the lower ground, the Texan studied the terrain ahead, looking to ensure that they had indeed managed to find the end of their foe’s line.

There are about 10 of them
, he thought.
They’re not disciplined soldiers. They’ll bunch up. Safety in numbers. Trouble likes company.
 

The calculation of how much territory the approaching force would cover took Bishop only a second. There was a reasonably good chance he and Grim had managed to flank their opponents.

After flashing the older man a quick series of hand signals, the duo backed slowly away and then rushed off at an angle that would bring them into the group of attackers at a right angle.

Both of the Alliance men knew that in combat, it is difficult enough to maintain an alert, concentrated diligence to one’s front. When the lead is flying, all of a fighter’s senses are primed and focused in the known direction of the enemy. Are they counterattacking? Are they retreating? Where is my next target? Am I already in somebody’s sights?

This was the reason why flanking maneuvers were one of the most devastating of all military tactics.

When faced with an enemy on two fronts, the human tendency for flight gains momentum over any desire to fight. Now death is coming from two directions. There are twice as many variables to process.

For the vast majority, having a foe at your front while being attacked from the side was overwhelming. Generals and great leaders called the results “being rolled,” or “rolling up the enemy’s line.”

Less than two minutes had passed before Bishop and Grim were sure they’d found the right spot to hit the villagers from the side.

“Freak their shit,” Bishop whispered. “We want them to run, not die.”

It was clear that Grim didn’t like firing warning shots, but nodded his understanding.

In unison, the two Alliance shooters rose from their trench, Bishop’s carbine sending a stream of blistering fire into the dirt around the local.

The man reacted a little faster than either man from Texas anticipated, pausing only a second before rolling to his side and snap-firing a couple of return shots. Then, much to Bishop’s relief, he scrambled upright and ran.

Bishop and Grim slammed into the villagers’ line, pushing back one, then two, and finally three of the men who were firing at their friends.

Kevin’s big rifle had already baffled and confused the locals, one of his heavy bullets seeming to impact every time they had tried to advance. Now, with intense fire coming from the south, absolute bedlam swept through their ranks.

Bishop and Grim’s fire was coordinated, accurate, and intentionally non-lethal. Yet, from the villagers’ perspective, it seemed as though an entire infantry platoon was hitting them from the south. 

As the fourth escaping local reached a full run, Bishop keyed his microphone. “Make for the boat! Now! We’ve opened the route, but they may regroup quickly. Go! Go! Go!”

The two Alliance men found good positions and set up to provide a blocking force until the team passed them by on the way to Hannah’s boat.

It was only seconds before Bishop could hear a decline in Butter and Terri’s rate of fire. Less than a minute passed before the Texan saw his wife’s hair flying in the wind, and she scurried down the gully. There was no time for words.

Looking at Grim, Bishop ordered, “Go with them. Get that damn boat running and let Butter and Kevin keep them at bay. I’ll hang back and be the rear guard just in case our friends get frisky.”

Grim didn’t like it and started to protest. Bishop’s expression, however, made it clear any debate was a fruitless waste of precious time.

Watching Grim rise and rush off to join the rest of the team, Bishop returned to the business of scanning for any locals whose bravery managed to override their common sense.