Carefully, Tyrone placed his huge hands on both sides of the basket and raised it to reveal what was inside. It was, indeed, a turkey—a large male from the size of it. But it lay there motionlessly on the ground… and there was a very good reason why.
“Its head is gone, Mama!” Jessie gasped, her eyes widening.
Enolia nodded grimly. “Someone cut it off.”
“But where is it?”
Tyrone stiffened and let the basket slip through his fingers. “I found it,” he said, nodding to the far side of the clearing. “On that tree.”
Enolia turned, her fingers tightening around the butt of the Taurus. The turkey’s head was nailed to the trunk of an oak tree, six feet from the ground. It was what pinned it there that sent a thrill of alarm through her. It was a combat knife with a serrated black blade and neoprene grip.
“Gobble,” came the voice of a man nearby.
They whirled, trying to locate its source. All they saw were bare trees and mounds of dead orange and gold leaves.
“Gobble, gobble,” came another. Then another came in the opposite direction. And another from an even different spot.
Suddenly, Enolia knew. Oh my God! They’re beneath the…!
Before she could react, a pair of arms burst from a deep drift of leaves behind her, grabbing her around the knees and bringing her down hard. She attempted to hold onto the 9mm, but her chin came down hard on one of the sycamore’s exposed roots, causing her to bite her tongue and stunning her nearly senseless. The gun spun from her hands and landing a couple of yards away, swallowed up by dead vegetation.
Enolia heard a scream and saw someone stand up directly behind her daughter. He grabbed the girl by the arms, causing her to thrash and lose her hold on the doll. The Cherokee struggled to stand, but her head spun dizzily from the blow she had received from the fall. The man who held Jesse was young; he couldn’t have been any older than Avery or Jem, maybe even younger. He didn’t look to have a gun on him, but he did have something sticking out of his jacket pocket that puzzled her. A can of Krylon spray paint with a cap that was candy-apple red.
She struggled to her knees and looked in the direction of Tyrone. She was just in time to see someone appear from the far side of the sycamore and strike him in the back of the head with the butt of an M416 assault rifle. The blow took the big man down. He spun with the impact, dropping the Tommy gun, and falling face down in the leaves. She hoped that he would get up, but he simply lay there, motionlessly, either unconscious or dead.
As Jesse continued to scream, Enolia managed to make it to her feet. Her jaw throbbed and her head continued to swim. She took a couple of faltering steps, before someone grabbed her from behind and shoved her back down to the ground again. She landed on her stomach forcefully and dread filled her as pain seized her from navel to backbone. The baby!
Stunned, she rolled over and gasped, attempting to regain her breath. The tall, broad silhouette of a man stood over her, blocking out the sun that shone through the naked branches of the surrounding trees.
It was a familiar silhouette with an equally familiar voice.
Oh God! she thought. Her heart hammered in her chest. No!
“No meddlesome shithead of a husband to interrupt us now,” said Frank Gentry. “Time to finish what we started, squaw.”
Chapter 29
“Hold still, Ty,” said Kate. Her face was intent and her eyes focused as she worked. “I’m almost done.”
“It hurts like hell!” grumbled the big man. He was stretched out in a leather armchair in the pool room of the main house, looking as though he didn’t have an ounce of strength left in his body.
“It usually does when someone is putting seventeen stitches in your head with no local anesthetic,” she told him. “There… the last one.”
Tyrone flinched as the woman applied antibiotic ointment to the long gash that ran from the crown of his head, all the way to just behind his left ear. The black man stared across the room at Billy, who stood leaning next to the big billiard table. His voice was as regretful as the expression in his eyes. “I’m sorry, man,” he said softly, as he had a dozen times before. “So sorry.”
“It was an ambush,” Billy told him, his voice flat. “It couldn’t be helped.”
“But if I’d been on my game, maybe…”
“They would have killed you,” stated the Cherokee. “Better that they jumped you from behind and left you for dead.”
“Come on and let’s get you to one of the ground-floor bedrooms,” Kate said, helping him up. “I’m sure not going to try to get you upstairs in your condition.”
Tyrone glared at her and pulled his arm away angrily. “I ain’t going nowhere with you!”
Kate could tell that he was tempted to add the word bitch to the protest, but given the variety of moods her father displayed lately, he was more than likely afraid to. “I don’t care what you think of me, Tyrone Jackson. You can hate my guts if you want. But, at this point in time, I’m your nurse and I’m putting your contrary ass in bed!”
Tyrone grew quiet and said nothing more as they left the room and headed across the entrance hall to the bedrooms that faced the rear veranda.
Everyone in room was silent for a while—Levi, Jem, Avery, and Michelle watching Billy, wondering what sort of turmoil raged behind those dark, expressionless eyes. His demeanor was as black as his outfit—long-sleeved turtleneck, trousers, and boots… all as ebony as a starless night.
Finally, Billy looked toward a corner of the room. The impassive expression wavered, but only for an instant. “Jessie… baby, come here.”
She stood next to Melissa, wrapped in a burgundy and emerald-green afghan. “No, Daddy,” she whispered. She backed up a step. “I don’t want you to… look at me.”
“Please, sweetheart. Come here.”
“Go on, dear,” Melissa urged.
The girl stood there a moment more and then walked across the floor to her father. As she approached, he crouched and looked at her, face to face. “Jessie… I’m going to remove the blanket.”
Tears bloomed in the child’s eyes. “Don’t… please. I don’t want…”
“You did nothing wrong,” he assured her calmly. “Now let’s take a look.”
Billy reached out took the folds of the afghan from around her narrow shoulders and pulled it away. Melissa was there to take it from him.
“Oh dear Lord,” Michelle said and looked away.
Jessie Tauchee had been stripped of her clothing and spray-painted candy-apple red from head to toe. Before the paint had dried, someone had taken their finger and written something across her shallow chest.
WINERY
BILLY COME ALONE
FRANK
Billy stared at the words, then lifted his eyes and looked at the thing that encircled his daughter’s head. It was a nylon pull tie with a single buzzard feather stuck in the back—someone’s sick idea of an Indian headband. He gently took the band from her head and flung it to the far side of the room.
“You’ve got to tell me what happened, Jessie.”
“No!” she sobbed. “I… I can’t!”
“Listen,” he said, tenderly cupping her face in his hands. “You need to tell me… so I can get your mother back. And the baby.”
Jessie nodded and took a deep breath. “Well… after they jumped up out of the leaves and grabbed me… they hit Mister Tyrone hard and knocked him out. Then the men… there were six of them, including that mean man named Frank… they threw Mama down in the leaves and they… they… oh, Daddy, they made me watch!”
Billy gave her a moment to compose herself before continuing. “Go on, baby.”
“They hurt Mama again and again, all of them except the boy… the teenager. He didn’t want to. They pushed him down on top of her, kicked him… said they were going to do the same to him when they got back to the camp if he didn’t have his turn. But he wouldn’t do it… he refused to.”
“These men who were with F
rank… what were they like?”
“Frank told me to tell you that they were… regular Army,” she said, as if reciting something that she had been forced to memorize. “And that one was Harley Jenkins of Fort Bragg… a Green Beret. He said to tell you that he had done three tours of duty in Iraq. He said the others had fought there, too. And other places… Afghanistan for one.”
“Okay,” he said. Billy took the afghan back from the teenage girl and wrapped it comfortingly around his daughter again. “Everything will fine, baby. Time for Daddy to get to work.”
Jessie nodded as if she understood. With a sob, she launched herself at her father. “Be careful, Daddy! Please come back. I don’t think I could lose you, too.”
He embraced her for a long moment. “We will all come back… me, your mother, and little agido.” When he pulled away from the child, Billy looked up at Melissa. “Please… take care of my little girl.”
“I will,” she promised. Then she ushered his daughter out of the room.
The five stood silently in the pool room, immersed in their own thoughts. Then Levi spoke. “We need to figure out what we’re going to do… how we’re going to deal with this.”
Billy walked to the pool table. Resting in the center was a black duffel bag, one he had brought down from his and Enolia’s bedroom. “There is no we to it,” he told them. “Gentry wants me alone and that is what he’ll get.”
“Are you crazy?” Avery said, laughing. “You’re going up against Gentry and those soldiers? By yourself?” He shook his head incredulously. “You got a freaking death wish or something?”
“Avery,” warned his father, “cut it out.”
“No!” declared the boy. “Here this little pussy sits out most every battle we’ve been in and now he wants to fight. If he’d been there when we went up against Nathan and his boys, Mrs. Agnes and her sister might still be alive right now!’
“Don’t, Avery,” Melissa said, grabbing at his arm.
Angrily, he pulled from her grasp. “No, I ain’t afraid of this little turd! I wanna know why he’s such a damn coward… why he didn’t show some balls and stand up like a man and join in when we needed him.”
Billy said nothing in defense. He unzipped the duffel and pulled a black stocking cap over his dark hair. Then he took a can from the bag and, opening it, began to apply black greasepaint to the bronze skin of his face and neck.
“You got an answer for me, dipshit?” the teenager taunted. He took a step forward. “Do you?”
“Son… he couldn’t,” Levi told him sternly. “He had his orders.”
“Orders?” The boy scowled, half out of confusion, half out of disgust. “What the hell do you mean…?”
“For God’s sake, Avery… he’s Black Arrow.”
Avery looked as though someone had clouted him between the eyes with a sledgehammer. His eyes widened and his face paled a couple of shades. “Holy shit! You mean to tell me… damn! Black Arrow? Bad-ass ninja injuns on the warpath?”
“Avery!” scolded Michelle.
The boy swallowed nervously. “Uh, sorry… no offense meant.”
Billy pulled on a pair of sheer leather gloves, black like the rest of his outfit. “None taken.” He looked around at the others. “What I do, I do with those of my own kind… or I do alone.” A thin smile crossed his face. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Levi told him. “But are you certain? Maybe we could be of some help to you…”
“If these men are who Gentry claims them to be, one or more of you would die at their hands,” he told them bluntly. “Alone, I can infiltrate their camp, do what needs to be done, and bring my woman home.”
“If that’s how you want it,” Levi told him, “we can respect that.”
Billy fastened a black nylon pack around his waist and placed a roll of black duct tape inside, along with other items. The last thing he took from the duffel was a sheathed knife with an eight-inch blade. It was as black as coal, the neoprene handle bearing the same arrowhead symbol that graced the folding knife he had carried since Cherokee. He clipped the sheath to his belt and tied it securely to his thigh.
“Not necessarily how I want it,” Billy said. “But how they chose it to be.”
Then, without warning, he stepped backward through the doorway, merged with the shadows beyond, and was gone.
Harley Jenkins took the last draw of his cigarette. Irritated, he tossed it to the floor of the winery lobby and ground it beneath the sole of his combat boot. His eyes were focused forward as they had been for two hours—on the dark parking lot that lay beyond the glass of the front doors. He had three men on sentry throughout the complex known as Antler Village. One was at the main road leading from the direction of the Biltmore House and one was at the entrance of the winery parking area. The third had taken a sniper position on the roof of the main winery building, ready to aim his M24 rifle and take out anything that moved.
The sound of crying echoed from a room near the facility’s main office. The noise grated on his nerves. It had always been that way with him and members of the opposite sex. Talking, giggling, complaining… he would rather haul off and bust them in the mouth and shut them up, than take five minutes of their bitching and moaning. In the soldier’s way of thinking, women and submissive silence should go hand in hand.
“Shut the hell up, you red whore!” he snapped, loud enough for her to hear. “You wake up the boss and you’ll be damned sorry. You know how ol’ Frank is. Grouchier than a grizzly and hornier than a jackrabbit on a first date. I would have thought you’d had enough for today. If not, I can oblige you after my shift.”
The woman’s crying stopped, but she could not suppress the moans of pain and discomfort that overcame her.
“That’s it!” he growled beneath his breath. “Maybe a couple of kicks in that knocked-up belly of yours will stop your whining.”
The Green Beret was about to turn, when he sensed someone behind him.
“Harley Jenkins,” a voice said quietly. The man’s lips couldn’t have been more than ten inches from his left ear.
The soldier stiffened. His hands tightened around the blued frame of the M416 assault rifle and he felt that familiar whiskey-shot of adrenalin that came before a firefight or a particularly brutal bout of hand-to-hand. Jenkins knew who it was at once. How the shit did he get in here? The thought caused his nutsack to draw up tightly into his abdomen.
“Billy Tauchee.” The name left a taste in his mouth like hot copper… or the letting of fresh blood. He thought about the three who stood sentry outside. “My men?”
“Dead.”
Jenkins’ heart began to pound in his chest. His initial alarm had changed to fear and, in turn, fear had changed to terror. He hated himself for his weakness. He had not felt that way since the first week of his first tour of duty, twenty-three years ago.
“My woman,” the man’s voice came again. “Did you disrespect her?”
The soldier shifted his weight, planting his feet, tensing his muscles for a swift turn. A cruel grin crossed his unshaven face; he just couldn’t help himself. “Yes, sir. In every hole she had.”
Jenkins could feel rage radiating off the man behind him like a palatable heat. “Face me.” The words sounded the way the low growl of a Pit Bull might sound in pitch-black darkness.
Oh, I will, you son of a bitch! The grunt knew what he had to do. Turn smoothly on his heels and bring the butt of the assault up into the man’s throat as forcefully as he could. Then, as Tauchee stumbled backwards, he would empty the M416’s clip into the Cherokee’s abdomen, cutting him nearly in half. No problem. He had used that particular maneuver before.
However, a man’s intentions, even those seasoned by experience and battle-hardened nerve, could sometimes fail to meet his expectations. As Jenkins prepared to turn, Billy slid the blade of his knife, the flat of it upward, beneath the man’s ribcage on the left side. The soldier whirled swiftly and unintentionally gutted himself with his own momen
tum. By the time he had reached his planned position, the flesh and muscle of his abdomen had parted and his insides spilled out. Jenkins doubled over in mounting agony and watched, amazed, as his small and large intestines unraveled, falling in a wet, sloppy heap on top of his boots.
As the man sagged, dropping to his knees, Billy withdrew and inverted the knife. The tender underside of Harley Jenkins’ jaw fell heavily onto the point. The blade tunneled upward through the man’s tongue, the palate of his mouth, and into the soft tissues of his nasal cavity. It stopped in the center of the soldier’s frontal lobe, just behind his dying eyes. Motionlessly, he continued to the floor. His fall was cushioned by a bed of warm entrails.
With some effort, Billy dislodged the blade from the man’s skull and cleaned it on the back of the dead man's shirt. He neglected to return it to its sheath, gripping it tightly as he followed the sound of his wife’s painful cries.
He found her in a room behind the winery’s reception desk. She was lying on the bare floor, naked and cold. Her face and body were covered with bruises, cuts, and cigarette burns. Her hands and feet had been bound tightly with the same sort of zip tie that had formed the band around Jessie’s head. Carefully, he slipped the edge of the blade beneath the nylon and released her. Almost immediately, she rolled onto her back and painfully opened her legs. The folds of her vagina were swollen and bloody, both from abuse and premature labor.
“My water broke,” she said. Her voice was hoarse and wracked with pain. “The baby is coming.”
Billy crouched beside her and laid a gentle hand upon her distended belly. “It’s almost here. I can see the crown of its head.”
Enolia reached out for him. He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. His wife sobbed violently. A mixture of tears and blood seeped from the slits of her blackened eyes. “They… they raped me, Billy. Over and over again. It hurt so bad… I felt like I was going to die. Like I wanted to die.”
The Cherokee closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He couldn’t believe that a man could experience such anger without being consumed alive, but he didn’t reveal that to his wife. His face remained impassive, unreadable. “Two more objectives and I’ll return. And we will deliver our child.”
The Buzzard Zone Page 23