Holding Their Own: The Salt War (12 page)

“No, I don’t think so. I know these men, have lived around them all my life. You showed honor and mercy. They’ll respect that.”

Bishop wasn’t so sure but accepted Rocco’s words with a nod. “Now, about my truck….”

There were at least 20 of them, spread across a skirmish line and making more noise than a herd of elephants on crutches. Nick was perched on a limb about five feet from the ground, using the elevation to scout the area ahead, making sure no one was catching up from behind.

Using his optic, he studied their spacing, speed, and alertness. A grunt escaped his throat, “Training, gentlemen,” he whispered, “it’s all about the training.” Exhaling in a deep sigh, he continued to observe what the ex-military operative considered a “Three Stooges” level of execution. “The semester is about to start – class will soon be in session. I’m your professor today, and our subject is how
not
to conduct a manhunt. There will be a quiz.”

The men hunting Nick were spread too far apart, 25-30 paces separating each member of the group. That formation left wide gaps – an abundance of opportunities to bypass their prey. Nick resolved to make them pay for the poor tactics.

For the last 24 hours, they’d been trying to close the umbrella, gradually tightening their patterns, slowly closing in from all points of the compass. The retired Special Forces Sergeant had played along, intentionally exposing himself now and then, teasing his pursuers.

He estimated there were at least 300 men tromping and stomping through this section of northeast Texas, all of them seeking to kill or capture his carcass. Now it was time to go on the offensive and really piss them off.

It didn’t take long to identify the perfect spot. Nick had watched the pursuers long enough to know they were neither professional, nor motivated. Just a few minutes of observation convinced him that they were definitely leaving stones unturned. There wasn’t any need to expend a lot of energy creating an expert hide.

Ten years ago, the Rocky Mountain juniper would have made an excellent Christmas tree. Thick, full branches of bushy, dark green needles indicated a healthy specimen, the evergreen foliage draping gracefully to the forest floor. Its abundant height now far exceeded the clearances of most household ceilings, the crown nearly 20 feet high, and excusing the specimen from holiday duties.

Nick found the tree’s younger sibling a short distance away. Being careful to twist and not snap, he removed three thin branches from the smaller example, each about as long as his arm.

Carrying his small bundle of kindling, the big man returned to the mature juniper and went prone. Lifting the ring of foliage, he backed in feet first, careful not to disturb the layer of old needles and leaves littering the ground.

Twice he had to risk making a noise, his way hindered by an offshoot bough or twig that required a hardy kick. As he backed in closer to the trunk, he pulled the kindling and his rifle along. He had to maintain a low profile to the ground, the tree’s lower branches scraping across his back and legs as he wiggled, pushed, and wedged his way underneath the canopy of green.

After a few minutes, it was clear he couldn’t move any further. Still, the big man was pleased with his hide. He was on the pine’s far side, away from the approaching hunters. This positioning was intentional, as he knew most searchers spent far more time looking ahead than behind. They would pass by him, probably without glancing over their shoulders.

And even if they did, he was nearly invisible. While it was impossible to be sure without a comrade verifying his cover, Nick believed a man could stand less than a foot away from the juniper and not be able to see him. It would take the most bizarre, unlikely set of circumstances for anyone to discover his position. The carbine would sing its song if things played badly.

Voices were the first indication that the pursuers were close. Nick grimaced, almost insulted at the lack of discipline his hunters were maintaining. As he lay listening intently, the big man heard everything from a prediction of cold temperatures that night, to a detailed observation of how short Dottie Mae’s skirt was yesterday. If he’d been leading these men through the pine forests of Fort Bragg, they would all have been doing pushups in the mud until their arms fell off.

Footfalls began to intermix with the weather and fashion reports, the occasional scrape of a boot or the snapping of a twig announcing their proximity. A few moments later, Nick spied a pair of blue jeans standing not more than four feet from his juniper fortress.

“Psst… hey dickweed… Steve… did you hear that?” whispered the blue jeans.

“What?” came a hushed, anxious voice from nearby.

“Did you hear that? I know I heard something…. Listen!” hissed the reply.

Nick’s heart rate jumped, his mind certain he hadn’t made a peep. What the hell could the man beside him have heard? His grip tightened on the M4, thumb poised on the safety.

“I don’t hear a damn thing,” came the eventual reply. “What is it?”

A loud, rumbling fart split the morning air, the flatulence immediately followed by belly-deep snickering.

“Asshole! What a fucking clown. C’mon, dude… this is some serious shit.”

“Oh, fuck off, shithead,” Mr. Blue Jeans replied. “That dude ain’t within five miles of here. He’s hightailed it back to West Texas or wherever the hell he’s from. Chill out.”

Nick’s underbrush grin had nothing to do with the amateur status of his opponents, nor their schoolboy hijinks. He was smiling because of the intelligence he’d just gathered.
Priceless
, he thought.

It was 30 minutes before the operator chanced exiting his hide. While the skirmish line of armed men had long faded into the deep woods, he had to be certain there weren’t any follow-on forces behind the initial formation. Again, his adversaries displayed their lack of experience.

He headed out in the direction opposite of his pursuers’ route, but his logic had nothing to do with putting distance between himself and a sizeable, armed foe. Nick understood that his enemy was losing interest in catching him, some of them even doubting he was still in the area. He had to correct their perspective.

It was two miles before he came upon their transports, three ATVs and four pickup trucks parked along what had been a muddy logging road. Shaking his head, Nick questioned his antagonist’s seriousness – not a single sentry had been posted. “Damn! Not even a welcoming party. A guy could take this personally.”

Pulling his fighting knife, he ducked underneath the first truck and rammed the thick steel blade into the gas tank. Within two minutes, the three remaining vehicles were all leaking petrol. He pushed the ATVs close to the pickups, allowing plenty of time for the flammable vapors to inundate the area. Satisfied with his handiwork, Nick then surveyed the terrain for a suitable path of escape.

Next, he retrieved a small limb lying on the ground, offering just enough dry foliage to feed the flame for a few moments. He held it under the still-flowing stream of fuel for a quick douse, and then stepped back to a safe distance.

His kit contained a book of waterproof matches for just such occasions. A second later, he lit the torch and tossed it under the nearest truck. There was a significant whoosh, and then a ball of fire that would have impressed even the most persnickety pyromaniac. Nick watched as the blaze leapt to the surrounding pools of gas, the inferno growing as it spread. Then he wistfully sighed and remarked, “Dang it! Left the marshmallows at home.”

Nick trotted away, heading off to find a hiding spot for the night.

When the remaining fumes inside one of the punctured tanks reached a critical temperature, the container exploded with noteworthy force. A huge, black cloud of ominous smoke and flame soared skyward as the detonation’s thunder rolled through the forest. Three more nearly-identical blasts soon followed.

The ex-Green Beret paused his stride, turning to watch the columns of fire and ash rising above the forest canopy. “That’s really going to piss someone off,” he smiled.

The massive bonfire was raging in full glory by the time the owners came rushing back. A long string of breathless men and boys appeared, hustling through the trees to see what was burning. The once-formed skirmish line was now a ragtag, undisciplined parade of markedly angry, cursing individuals.

Many of the former hunters began swearing about their bad luck, extended streams of foul language competing with the roar of the inferno. Others only shrugged their shoulders and started walking home.

Mr. Gospel wasn’t happy with being called out so late at night. He had just settled in, removing his boots for a quiet evening at home.

When the chief banged loudly at the front door, Standowski had answered with a shotgun. Despite the law and order his men maintained in Cartersville, in this day and age, prudent fellows said, “Hello,” while chambering a round.

“Stan, put that damn thing away,” the ex-city cop and longtime friend chided. “One of these days, you’re going to shoot me or one of my men.”

“With that stranger on the loose, I’m keeping it close at hand,” the town’s leader replied. “That son of a bitch is dangerous as hell.”

The silver-haired cop chuckled. “If I had been that drifter and wanted to murder your sorry ass, do you think I would’ve knocked?”

Standowski ignored the rebuttal, motioning his old friend inside. “What’s up?”

The head of Cartersville’s security forces delivered the bad news, informing the de-facto mayor of the destroyed vehicles and failure to capture the fugitive. Stan took it all in, only occasionally grunting or shaking his head.

“We have to catch that bastard, and we need to do it quick. I don’t care how many men we need to send out into those woods; I want that asshole standing trial, and then I want his head on a pike, garnishing the courthouse lawn.”

“Why, Stan? He’s gone now… and probably will never show his face around here again. I’ve already been reassigning men who were guarding the gates and the trailers, pulling manpower from every one of our outposts. We have people murmuring about the three boys he shot, rumors circulating all over town. Let it fade, my old friend. Let it drift away, and a week from now, no one will even remember it happened.”

But Mr. Gospel wouldn’t hear of it. “That’s how it starts! It’s the little things that snowball out of control, and pretty soon we’ve got political unrest. From there, it’s only a short distance to outright anarchy.”

The old cop shook his head. “So you want to make an example out of this guy, regardless of the cost?”

“You’re damned right I do. Look, my guys already hear gossip and whispered bullshit. People are talking about this Alliance and wondering if any of it’s true. Word is all over the Exchange and spreading out to the farms. You need to catch this asshole, and then we’ll have a little private persuasion session with him. Within a day, my boys will have him admitting he was lying about the whole ordeal.”

The former chief was pensive. “You really think letting Nick go is going to cause us that much trouble? I don’t know about that… I think you’re overreacting. My advice is to let him wander off, and the whole affair will die down into nothing.”

“But he’s
not
wandering off, Chief. He has not gone back to wherever he came from. You said yourself just yesterday that he could have slipped away a dozen times. Yet, he hasn’t chosen to do so. That man is up to something, stalking around out there in the woods and making us all look like fools. I don’t know what he’s got planned, but I’m sure we’re not going to like it.”