Holding Their Own XI: Hearts and Minds (16 page)

“Whatever. I’m going to go wash up and try to catch some shuteye. I may even talk the kid into taking the second watch.”

Bishop watched Grim stroll toward the house and began making one last check of his own kit. Finally satisfied, he pulled on his pack and then followed his man inside.

On the off chance that anyone was watching them and had night vision, the Texan entered the front door as would be expected. A moment later, he was out the back, darting quickly to the protection of a strand of small oaks and scrub.

Careful not to set off his own trip wire, the Texan moved, listened, and then moved again. He didn’t expect any of the local ranchers to be about, instead trying to gain a feel for the night, wildlife, and natural sounds of the area.

Finally reaching the hide they’d scouted just after nightfall, Bishop settled into a small gap between an ordinary mound and a tree that had fallen not long ago. The position gave him an excellent view of the entire homestead.

To his back were the beginnings of the black rock formation that defined the region. In high school geography, they’d taught him the name of the specific stone, including a detailed tutorial on how it had reached its current shape and state. Right now, his mental energies were otherwise engaged, and he couldn’t recall a single fact.

His night vision was on a lanyard, dangling from his neck where it wouldn’t be misplaced in the darkness. The pump shotgun he was holding didn’t have a mount for such devices, and there hadn’t been time to have Alpha’s armorer work one up.

They had almost made a critical error in the selection of non-lethal weaponry. Bishop preferred an automatic scattergun over the tried and true pump variety. Stored in the bat cave were two such blasters, combat weapons designed for military use and sporting the proper rails to mount just about any furniture the shooter desired.

By chance, Bishop loaded a few of Sheriff Watt’s seldom-used sandbag rounds into his favorite 12-gauge. The weapon had immediately jammed.

A second, and then a third attempt had produced the same stovepipe failures.

“Those beanbag shells don’t have enough powder to work that fancy shooting iron of yours,” Watts had explained. “We always used them with our pump shotguns.”

“Train like you’ll fight, fight like you train,” Bishop whispered, recalling the old infantry wisdom. It had never let him down.

The Texan pulled the small radio off his belt and clicked the talk button once. A moment later, Butter responded from inside the home, two crisp breaks in the static announcing they have clear radio communications. Bishop hadn’t expected any issue. The two devices were less than 100 meters apart.

Pulling the NVD up to his eye, the Texan began his first sweep of the surroundings. While he had little fear of the Baxter's hands being world-class stalkers, he also respected the fact that they weren’t stupid and might know the lay of the land. They wouldn’t come riding up in a cavalry charge, nor would they rumble up to the house like a gang of robbers preparing to storm the local bank.

Like always, he tried to put himself into his opponent’s mind. How would he come in? How many men would he bring? What were the primary and secondary objectives? It didn’t always work, but the exercise often exposed weaknesses in his own preparations.

He expected a dismounted approach, probably from two or three directions. They knew the squatters were heavily armed, Butter and Bishop brandishing carbines, Grim with his fake hand grenade during the rancher’s initial visit. Had Bishop had more time, he would have displayed a few more of the toys he’d borrowed from the boys over at Hood. It would have been a nice touch.

So Kathy and her men would try to sneak close to the house, maybe throw a few torches onto the roof and walls, perhaps even a Molotov cocktail if they were creative. Standard irregular tactics. He’d seen it all before.

After two hours, Bishop was beginning to think he’d overestimated his foe.

Other than a swooping barn owl, there hadn’t been any movement whatsoever. Butter would be relieving him soon, and the Texan had been hoping to get the first encounter out of the way so he could get some sleep.

Movement caused a start, but it was only a small group of whitetail deer meandering into the home’s backyard. “How did you get in there,” he whispered to the non-responsive animals.
I’m going to bust Grim’s ass,
he thought.
There’s a gap in his wires. They should not be in the backyard.

It then occurred to Bishop that he’d get more mileage of harassing Grim if he knew where the hole in their defenses was located.
They will go out the way they came in
, he concluded. Still holding the NVD to his eye, Bishop found a small stone with his free hand and tossed it at the grazing herbivores.

All three deer perked instantly, scanning for a predator and then rushing directly at the cliff face behind the ranch house. Bishop watched in amazement as they disappeared into what he had thought was an impassable wall of rock, scrub, and cactus.

There is a second way out
, he reasoned, his opinion of the original builders now elevated.

Slightly disappointed in having lost his leverage over Grim, the Texan made a mental note to check out the hidden game trail in the morning. If the deer could pass that way, so could people.

He returned to scanning the valley and his watch, suppressing another yawn. He wasn’t sleepy for long.

The distant sound of a truck engine was the first indication of activity. “Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey,” he whispered into the radio. “I’ve got engine noises to the west.”

A single click acknowledged the boys were awake.

Bishop grunted, visualizing Grim cussing up a storm, complaining about people being so rude as to try and burn them out in the middle of the night.

Next came the distant whinny of a horse. Finally, the night vision detected movement along the valley floor, distant, ghost-like shapes dodging among the stony mounds in the small boulder field that resided there.

“That’s where I’d come in from, Kathy. Nice plan,” he said in a hushed voice.

Movement from the house drew Bishop’s attention. Butter and Grim were now outside, using the overgrown landscaping bushes as cover. The older contractor was heading toward a pile of concrete blocks someone had conveniently left behind. Butter was hustling for a flowerbed, its railroad-tie walls and dirt filling more than an adequate bullet stop.

“Movement,” came Grim’s voice. “Three, maybe four making for the barn. They should hit the first tripwire about… now.”

Bishop closed his eyes, wanting to preserve his natural night vision.

A moment later, the valley was ripped by a huge explosion, the percussion thumping against the Texan’s chest. Bishop could detect the flash despite his clenched eyelids.

A second passed before another of the flash bombs ignited, this one on a fence post less than 80 meters from the house. There had been no warning. This time Bishop was caught by the brilliant white flash that resembled a lightning strike close by. The thunder was louder than even the most intense storm could produce.

The flash bombs were filled with a special mixture of magnesium, aluminum, and ammonium that produced millions of candela and over 170 decibels of sound. Anyone nearby was temporarily blind, deaf, and probably had their ear fluid scrambled to the point where balance and movement were a challenge.

With his nocturnal eyesight now completely ruined, Bishop pulled the NVD back to his eye. The green and black world illuminated through the light amplification device showed several men stumbling and rolling around from the first detonation, a similar group lying on the ground from the second.

Headlights and the sound of a rushing truck engine came next. Up the driveway careened two pickup trucks, each carrying four or five riflemen in the bed. Peppering the house with round after round, Bishop had to wonder how accurate their fire could possibly be given how badly the trucks were bouncing along the bumpy, gravel lane.

The mobile assault units stopped directly in front of the residence, no doubt an effort by the drivers to give the shooters in the back a more stable aiming platform.

Bishop was up and moving before the dust had settled.

All eyes must have been on the old homestead because none of the invaders noticed Bishop approaching. When he was twenty feet away, he tugged a flashbang from his belt, flipped off the safety and tossed it into the bed. Before the stun grenade landed, the pump shotgun was against his shoulder.

The first sandbag round struck the driver directly in the head, the man screaming in pain as he fell onto the seat grasping his temple. Working the pump, Bishop started in on the exposed men in the bed. He’d loaded the weapon with alternating rounds of rock salt and sandbags, a method often referred to as “candy striping.” If one non-lethal load didn’t take his opponent down, hopefully, the other would give him something to think about.

The first shot knocked a man completely out of the bed, Bishop racking and firing as fast as his arm could work the pump. After three blasts had impacted their ranks, the rest of the shooters decided they didn’t want to ride anymore and began bailing out, scrambling for cover.

One man, working his bolt-action deer rifle, decided to charge Bishop, growling a respectable battle cry the entire way. He met the thick wooden stock of the Texan’s shotgun, and would require extensive dental care for his trouble.

Butter was working the other truck, and soon Grim was chasing after the retreating victims of the flash bomb. They had broken the attack.

Bishop was just bending over to retrieve a dropped rifle when the pickup beside him began rolling. For a second, he thought the driver was trying to get away.

Running up beside the cab, he saw the bleeding man still lying prone across the seat.

“His foot’s still on the gas!” Bishop yelled at Butter. “Get the hell out of the way!”

There wasn’t anything else to be done but watch the old Ford accelerate directly toward its cousin.

The two vehicles weren’t that far apart, Bishop estimating the impact at about 10 mph. But it was enough to puncture the gas tank of the jacked up 4x4 on the receiving end of the collision.

While Bishop rushed up to check on the unconscious driver, the smell of gasoline filled the air. The crash had jammed the door tight.

The Texan ran around the tailgate, hoping the passenger door was still operable. Three bullets ripped into the fender, chasing him back to cover. Butter clearly hadn’t finished mopping up.

The situation was soon remedied by the blinding flash of another grenade, or at least that’s what Bishop thought.

While Butter’s toss had landed square in the middle of the still-resisting Baxter guns, it also ignited the gasoline with a whoosh.

“Shit!” Bishop cursed, turning his head away from the wave of hot air.

It then occurred to him that the driver was about to be roasted alive. After verifying no active guns remained aimed in his direction, Bishop hustled to the Ford’s door and yanked hard on the handle. It opened.

The guy in the cab moaned when Bishop grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled hard. By the time the driver’s body bounced out the door and onto the ground, the Texan figured the fellow wouldn’t need a haircut for quite a while.

After the now-groaning driver had been dragged to a patch of non-burning grass, Bishop pulled a pair of nylon handcuffs from the back of his belt. In less than 10 seconds, he secured the still-drowsy man’s hands and feet.

Grim appeared around the corner, four men with their hands on their heads marching in single file ahead of the contractor’s barrel.

It took the three Alliance men over an hour to secure 11 prisoners, three of which were unconscious. Butter gathered weapons, assisted by the roaring fire of the two trucks while Grim searched the prisoners an applied nylon restraints.

Bishop checked each man for serious injuries but found nothing life threatening.

By the time they were done, the pre-dawn eastern sky was about to announce the sunrise. Bishop, thinking there may still be an observer up in the hills, rushed inside to retrieve a stack of old bedsheets.

One by one, he laid out the white cotton covers, each apparently covering a body lying near the house. Logs from the woodpile provided the lumps and bulges to imitate the dead beneath.

“You’re evil,” Grim teased, watching Bishop put the final touches on their pretend, improvised morgue. “I love it.”

Bishop watched Butter standing over the prisoners. “Fetch the Sat phone and call the sheriff. He’ll take these guys off our hands. Round one goes to the white hats.”

Chapter 6

Cameron watched the men loading supplies into the vans, impressed with their efficiency and discipline. He had to admit, they were a rough-looking bunch, obviously cocky, and wholly capable of violence.

The oldest noticed his employer’s presence and approached, “Good morning, Mr. Lewis. We’re about ready to shove off.”

“Do you have everything you need?”

“Yes, sir, and thank you, sir. The equipment and ammo you’ve been stockpiling is all first class. My team will put it to good use.”

Cam handed the former Marine Corps Captain a folder. “This is everything we know, including a topographical map, the directions you will need, names of the players, and the latest intelligence I’ve received from our sources within the Alliance.”

The sturdy veteran accepted the file and nodded but offered no additional comment.

“As I stated last night, the primary objective is to protect those ranchers down there. We will make an example out of their plight that will open the eyes of citizens all across the Alliance. Unfortunately, that will likely result in causalities, but the men pretending to be squatters already have blood on their hands. They are some of the malicious crooks who executed my people at Midland Station and seized my private property. They, like the rest of that gang of thieves running the show in Texas, have no respect for the Constitution or individual liberties.”