Home Fires Burning (Walking in the Rain Book 2) (11 page)

Scott accepted my praise easily enough and spent some time talking about the basics of being a sneak in the woods.  The other men paid attention as Scott talked.  I could tell he wasn’t normally much for public speaking, but getting him on this topic allowed him to share some useful information.  We listened while tearing down the raider camp.  Afterwards, the group focused on stowing everything salvageable in the other two trucks or on their attached trailers.

The raiders also turned out to have more weapons stored up than they had shooters to use them.  Nick had already suggested this gang had knocked over a gun store at some point early on, and what we found just emphasized that likelihood.

I found a whole crate of surplus SKS rifles, looking like they just came out of a Soviet armory somewhere, and another packed with miscellaneous revolvers and small pistols still in their cases.  This must have been leftovers from their heist.  The raiders preferred the AR-15s and in addition to having enough of those to arm all the women back at the farm and then some, we now had more than enough pistols as well.

Personally, I scored a nifty little pocket pistol, a KelTec PF-9, and showed it to Mark, who tried to look impressed.

“Look, this pistol is a great backup,” I tried to explain.

“I thought your Ruger was your backup pistol,” he replied as we worked together, heaving a massive wall tent up on to one of the trailers.

“Yes, and this is a backup for my backup.”         

  That earned me another laugh.  I gave up and just pocketed the palm-sized pistol along with the two spare magazines.  Maybe I could find an ankle holster somewhere.

Suddenly, motion caught my eye as Nick started waving his arms and calling out for us to assemble on him.  Jumping down from the trailer, I joined Mark racing over to where Nick stood.  We were at the edge of the camp and I counted seven, including Nick. 

That meant Stan was still maintaining overwatch about a quarter mile down the dirt road.  Fortunately, this trail only connected up to a public road to the east, with the northwestern leg petering out in a dead end about a thousand yards past our position.

“Where’s Hopalong?” Mark asked, referring to Stan.

“He reports hearing engines approaching.  More than one, and he said sound like they are either big rigs or some kind of cargo trucks.”

Nick spoke quickly as he checked each of us over.  Everyone had their rifle in hand and ammo rigs or spare magazine holders.  We couldn’t do the work wearing our gear, but I was proud to see each man had the presence of mind to arm up when suddenly called.

“Can we get to Stan’s position before the trucks do?” Bruce asked.

“No, but he can close the door if any try to escape that way.  We need to set up here and be ready to ambush whoever shows up.  Stan will give me updates as they pass his position.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said, “now where do you want us?”

Like he was drawing up plays for a backyard football game, Nick used a stick to sketch out a hurried map of the road and where he wanted each shooter.  He would take the closest position and initiate the ambush.  He took Bruce, Scott and Mike Neal, one of the farm hands.  They would spread out on the south side of the road while Mark and I would cover the north side with Sid Stevenson.

All of the other men carried some variation of a main battle rifle in 308 Win or 7.62x51, while I was stuck with the M4 Amy had been carrying.  When we finished our inventory last night, Amy quizzed Mark and decided I needed some kind of rifle if I was going back out.  Not a bad choice, and the recoil was much more manageable than the big PTR-91 Nick and his family carried.

Rather than lining up parallel to the road and risking what Nick called “blue on blue”, we would be staggered at an angle perpendicular to the road and use the trees for cover.  Nick would make the call when to fire and we were to focus our aim on what was right in front of us.  Again, the idea was to avoid shooting our own people.  I listened carefully, as the idea of being part of a team was still new to me. 

“What if it’s not raiders?” Mike Neal asked as we were already hustling into position.

“Who else could it be?  We’re on a dead end timber company road in the middle of nowhere,” Bruce replied, shaking his head a little at the younger man’s question.

“Look at the trucks.  If they have luggage strapped to the roof and it’s moving, kill every damned one of them,” I barked.  “Don’t shoot the prisoners.”

Mike looked white-faced but I saw Nick nod.  “Just wait for my signal.  I’ll shoot the lead driver.  Mark, you get tail end.  Now everybody get down and shut it.  Stan should be on the horn with more intel.”

My spot was behind a pine that was extra wide for this forest, and I was sandwiched between Mark and Sid.  About seventy yards from the road to my right and relatively clear sight lines.  The north side of the road where I waited also had a little elevation to it, not enough to need to compensate but still qualified as high ground.  This reminded me of the ambush outside Harrison, but this time I had more backup.

“You good, son?” Sid whispered.  He knelt at a fallen tree about ten yards away, holding down the right flank.  He held the PTR-91 like he’d spent some time at the range, but I could tell he was a little nervous.  Sid was a computer repair man, after all.  I figured this was a little outside his comfort zone.

“Yes, sir.  Just waiting for Stan.  And for Nick to get the ball rolling.” I replied.  I began unsnapping the flaps for the magazine pouches on my borrowed chest rig, and when I looked over, Sid was still watching me.

“Luke, ain’t you scared just a little?”

“Well sure.  But that’s okay.  I’m scared pretty much all the time anyway.  You get used to it.”

At that point, Stan called over the radio and I listened to his report.  The news was expected, but still pissed me off.  We had three trucks coming up the road, ETA about three minutes.  Stan counted ten bad guys scattered between the trucks but thought there were more.  He was pretty sure these were more of the same group of raiders since all three trucks had what looked to be prisoners.  Prisoners strapped on boards to the roof of each truck.

I felt the anger rise again and this time I tried to harness the force instead of riding the crest.  I needed to make my shots count, quick and precise.  Like a competition, I thought, and I need a big score to win.  And the pressure was on me to do it right, or people who counted might die. 

As I stood there, arm braced against the tree as I waited to take my shot, I realized I had Amy to blame for all this.  If I hadn’t stopped those three scumbags back in that no-name subdivision, I wouldn’t be here.  No, blame wasn’t the right word.  Amy had reawakened my humanity that night, made me see people being mistreated and abused as more than obstacles to be avoided.  My shame at hesitating to act made my eyes burn for a second, but that was it.

I cared again.  And that made me a much more dangerous predator than ever before.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

As soon as the first shot sounded, I stroked the trigger and a man died.  At this range, even without using the Aimpoint mounted on the carbine, I could make that shot all day long.  I fired two shots for insurance anyway.  A splash of red on the passenger side window and I was already moving to my next target.

As planned, Nick took the driver of the lead vehicle.  A chip shot since the driver was on Nick’s side of the road and only thirty five yards away.  Then he fired on the man in the passenger seat even as Mark took out the tail end driver and the rest of us opened up.

I’d thought earlier that trying to figure out who was shooting at who in the middle of a gunfight was just about impossible.  At that time, I knew my three teammates were shooting the raiders gathered in the camp, but who killed who was a mystery unless later I wanted to go check the trajectories.  I passed; CSI was not my favorite TV show, after all.

Now, I felt it was safe to say the four of us from the earlier action ended up killing the lion’s share of the men in these trucks.  I was aiming low just to avoid hitting the prisoners but still, I figured I must have killed three, maybe four of the raiders.  I think Mark and I both shot the same guy at least once.  Mark was steady with his fire, picking targets and firing smoothly.

Return fire cracked danger close, but none found my flesh as I coolly did my job.  The rifle became an extension of my body as I decided Amy might have to settle for another rifle.  For short range and close quarters work, I would hold on to the M4.  I used up less than a magazine but every shot seemed to go right where I wanted it.

In contrast, I never heard Sid fire.  When I glanced over, after the initial barrage, I expected to see him down with a bullet in his head.  Instead, I just saw a man watching the carnage instead of acting.  He had the rifle shouldered, but that was it.

“Well fuck,” I said conversationally and changed my magazine.  Best to do that when the time presented itself. 

A moment later, the survivors of the ambush tried to stage a breakout from the trucks.  I thought about one of my conversations with Nick as I shot the two men who ran at the edge of the road, firing indiscriminately into the woods.  I fired two rounds center mass for each man, pop pop, pop pop, and they dropped just short of the grassy edge of the road.  A third runner tried the same thing and Mark brought him down with a pair of shots as well. 

According to Nick, usually the best response to an ambush is either get the heck out of the killbox or counterattack instantly and with overwhelming firepower.  These guys did neither and paid the price.

After a few minutes, I heard Nick on the radio.  We all checked in except Sid.  He was still standing there, frozen like a statue.  I could see him moving, breathing anyway, but otherwise, nothing.

“Luke, is Uncle Sid okay?”

“Uhh, I think he’s fine.  Maybe his radio is out.  Hey, Sid, you okay there buddy?”

I didn’t want to say anything.  Sid seemed to be having some problems at the moment but I didn’t think they involved a bullet with his name on it. 

“Yeah, Luke, I’m okay,” he finally managed to say.  “I think my batteries are dead.”

“Cool, Sid.  You just hold position.  I think we are going to go clear the trucks, so be ready to watch our backs.”

Sid wasn’t up for doing much of anything, but I wasn’t going to bust him on it out here.  Let us get home and I planned to have a talk with Nick, though.  I didn’t know if Mark realized what had happened since he couldn’t see the older man from his position.  If Sid couldn’t function he was a danger not just himself but all of us.  

“Team Two, Mark, be ready to move up in a sweep,” Nick’s voice called from the radio.

“Roger” came Mark’s replied and he looked back at me for confirmation.  I gave him a thumbs up.  I would keep watch on this side while he moved in to check for possums and tigers.  My dad warned me about these two: a possum might just lay there until your back was turned, then slip away, but a tiger would wait for an opportunity to spring on your back and kill you. 

Those weren’t terms any instructor taught in the Marine Corps.  This was just something my dad said when we were playing paintball.  He was always trying to teach me things.  I didn’t even make the connection to real combat until after the lights went out and I learned the truth.  Those two animals did stick in my memory, though, and saved me a time or two already.

Five minutes later, Mark waved us in and I stalked out of the trees with Sid at my side.  I could see Mark was looking us both over for injuries, nodding to himself when he finished.

“What we got?” I asked.

“You were right about the hostages.  There was one attached to each truck.  All young girls.  Scott’s taken charge of them for the moment.  I counted eleven dead amongst the raiders and two wounded.  One’s not going to make it; he’s already just about bled out.  The other one though, took rounds through both legs.  Nick thinks maybe he can tell us more about our mystery man.”

That was good news.  Murray turned out to be a bust, at least in the time Nick and Scott had to press him.  He grudgingly admitted there was somebody big “in town” that Randal was dealing with, but he never saw the man or heard his name mentioned.  He had confirmed Randal swapping drugs, booze and little girls in exchange for location and details about farms around the area.

“Well, heck, let’s get him loaded up.  You think we can find that blowtorch his buddies used on Mr. Trimble?  I figure we need to cauterize his wounds.”

“That’s just sick,” Sid Stevenson said, and I could see the shock already settling into his eyes.

“Mr. Stevenson, I wasn’t joking.  And it’s not a threat.  If the guy has taken multiple gunshot wounds to his legs…”

“Luke’s right, Uncle Sid, and it is sick.  Also something to consider if we can’t get the bleeding stopped otherwise.  ”

After an hour, we determined the middle truck of the small convoy was deadlined.  A 308 round had managed to take out the engine, so we loaded up the crates from the back without checking contents and crossloaded to the other two trucks.

While Stan and Sid were looking over the engine of the crapped out truck, Nick asked me to go with him on a quick reconnaissance of the area.  I grabbed up my rifle and headed out on his heels.  I didn’t think anything about it until we were past the other side of the raider camp and into a stand of slash pines.