by Vince Milam
Garza stared into the big lost and weighed implications. Then he glanced at Catch.
“That would explain El Conquistador’s naked presence along the road with the well-equipped rifle.”
“You are engaging in the nude now?” Bo asked Catch. “I like it. A primal element, fitting.”
“It’s a thing of beauty and a joy to behold,” Catch said, patting Bo’s shoulder.
Garza viewed Bo and Catch, muttered, “Sweet Jesus,” and settled on me and Marcus.
“I’ll deal with the Russians. This is my county. If they come after me, I will meet them with hot fire,” he said. “Guaranteed.”
“It won’t happen like that.” Garza stared my way and waited. “At least two operators are expert marksmen. They could take you out at five hundred yards along an empty stretch of highway. And from what I can tell, there’s no shortage of empty highway in your county.”
He eyeballed us and settled on Sam.
“Have they threatened you, Mr. Everson?”
“No. At least, not yet.”
Garza took another swig and perched at the bar. He stared toward the floor for several seconds. Martha lit another smoke.
“Alright,” he said. “This is my mess to deal with. You four are leaving, right?”
“That was the plan,” Marcus said. “Current events have altered things.”
“They’re waiting outside for us,” I said. “They’ll follow us and finish this.”
“It’s a possibility,” Marcus said. “It hasn’t played out yet.”
“My gut says they will.”
“Let me get this straight,” Garza said. “You, Mr. Lee, figure they will follow you and your friends out of town. Then what?”
“We clean house.”
A long, silent pause filled our space. Facts on the table, outcomes assured.
“We have a broad ops plan,” Marcus added. “It’s better if we don’t elaborate.”
Garza remained silent, clearly weighing a lawman’s loathing of a gun battle against removing an intractable, and lethal, issue. Marcus attempted to ease his mind.
“If it happens, Sheriff—a major TBD at this point—it would be the best thing for you. You won’t have to watch your back.”
“I disagree with the TBD. You hear any tires rolling out there?” I asked.
Martha clomped from behind the bar and headed for the door. She exited and returned less than ten seconds later.
“They are standing around playing with their guns,” she said and returned to her observation station.
“Rifles?” I asked.
“Yeah. Rifles.” She poured herself more black coffee, lit another smoke, and said, “I wish you people would shit or get off the pot. I’ve got a business to run here.”
Garza removed his Resistol, ran a hand through his hair, and returned the hat.
“I could call the state highway patrol. They would have a dozen men here within the hour.”
“It wouldn’t remove the target on your back,” I said. “Or the one on mine. There’s only one way to make that happen.”
Garza struggled with crossing his personal Rubicon. Mired in an imported situation, dealing with thugs who believed themselves immune from the law, actions driven through a billionaire renowned for such tactics. With killing thick in the air. A heavy sigh, another headshake, and he pulled the trigger.
“Listen up. Here’s my official line. There will be no fighting, no killing. I’m a peace officer.”
We nodded in return. Garza turned and addressed Martha.
“Go out back and have another smoke. Now.”
She grabbed her smokes, muttered a complaint under her breath, and worked her way through the kitchen. Garza waited until we heard the back door slam shut.
“If this plays out like you expect, I’ve got two important points. First, not in Elko County. Second, they number a dozen. Thirteen counting Antonov. Against you four.”
“We’ve got the poor bastards right where we want them,” Catch said.
We nodded concurrence, including Marcus. He’d grunted at Martha’s playing-with-rifles-outside comment, and acceptance had sunk in. Garza surveyed us a last time.
“Make me feel a little better with a promise. Promise me I’ll never see any of you ever again.”
“Guaranteed,” I said.
“Bo, go trailer your donkey. It will show our intent toward departure,” Marcus said.
“Jezebel does love a road trip.”
He stood and slipped out the front door. We heard him speak toward the assembled Spetsnaz operators as he padded across the bar’s front porch.
“Howdy, boys. Let’s insert the voodoo in the hoodoo!”
“There’s something wrong with that man,” Garza said.
“You aren’t the first person to declare that,” Marcus added. “Let’s plan next steps.”
“Fine. Here’s how I want this happening,” Garza said. “Mr. Everson, you will follow me out of town. You will spend the night in an Elko hotel.”
“Why?”
“Plenty of reasons. Trust me.”
Sam Everson, wide-eyed, had an inkling of what was transpiring. But it was so alien for his world, so bizarre, that he’d failed to internalize the immediate reality. This was a good thing. He wasn’t on the need-to-know list. Garza wasn’t either, but our intent and future actions were crystal clear for the lawman.
“And if a few start off and follow you?” I asked.
“Mr. Everson, if that happens, I want you to speed around me and haul it toward Elko. Things will get violent, damn fast.”
Garza addressed us four. His eyes flashed as he pounded a self-respect stake into his desert turf.
“As for me, don’t you men worry. I can handle a carload of those sons of bitches.”
Nods all around, chairs scraped against plank flooring, several twenty-dollar bills tossed on the table, compensating Martha. Garza delivered a final comment.
“White Pine County is a hundred miles south. The Utah border is twenty miles east. Sabe?”
“Got it, Sheriff. Good luck,” I said.
No handshakes but sincere nods all around. Outside, we gathered around Garza and Sam, walking with them toward their vehicles. The Russians stood around the open doors of their SUVs, rifles slung, and remained deadpan, observant, silent. Antonov had donned a holstered pistol.
Garza and Sam fired their engines, backed out, and rolled south on the highway. The Russians didn’t budge and watched their departure. Three hundred yards down the road they stopped, Garza in the lead. He stepped from his vehicle and stared toward Marcus, Catch, and me. A light breeze blew, and a dog barked somewhere among the Montello trailers. The highway remained empty and silent. Sheriff Manuel Garza removed his Resistol and ran a hand through his dark hair. Then, with the cowboy hat planted back in place, he shot a grim nod our way. He entered his sheriff’s vehicle and took off. Sam followed.
We crunched along the bar’s gravel parking area past the assembled KDB contingent, exchanging stony stares. They watched, waited, and assumed a highway hit brewed in the immediate somewhere outside Montello.
“Let’s get on a gravel road ASAP,” Marcus said. “It will force a single file and prevent any high-speed action.”
Marcus had let this play out, and once conflict became inevitable, he exhibited full commitment. These cats remained to eliminate problems. Us. Impediments for removal. We’d take all our vehicles, and it was a challenge driving and aiming at the same time. With several Spetsnaz operators within their vehicles, they weren’t handicapped with our issue. A single-track Bureau of Land Management road leveled the moving playing field.
“Roger that. We’ll lead them by the nose.”
Catch opened his SUV’s rear door and began sliding the sniper rifle from its soft sheath.
“Let’s don’t show any cards, Catch,” I said. “They don’t know what our arsenal is. Let’s keep it that way.”
He paused, nodded, and slid the weapon back
into its protective cover. Marcus asked him if he’d checked out the enemy’s armament.
“AK-74 assault rifles. Select fire, and I imagine full auto is their preference. If we’re headed into the boonies, that won’t do them much good. Their scopes are likely 1X to 4X. I don’t know what Russkie peashooter they have holstered, and it doesn’t matter. How long is this drive?”
“An hour,” I said. “It gets gnarly thirty minutes in when we head uphill.”
“Good. Take the high ground, force them to spread out, pick the bastards off.”
Marcus conversed with Bo. I wandered over, keeping an eye on the Russians. They remained silent observers. Marcus handed Bo a small radio and mic earpiece. His other hand held three more.
“I have an extra Colt. Take it,” Marcus said.
Marcus, like me, preferred the Colt 901 in .308 caliber. And, as usual, he’d brought an extra. Marcus Johnson wasn’t a man prone to lacking firepower when it became fight time.
“No thanks, bwana. I’m good,” Bo said.
He slid the pickup seat forward, and the storage area behind it displayed an MK18 assault rifle with a thirty-shot magazine. Small and light with a ten-inch barrel, it defined a CQB weapon. Close-quarters battle. A tight-situation rifle, best suited for jungles and close-in encounters.
“The tactics call for a longer-range weapon,” Marcus said.
Bo lifted and placed his weapon onto the passenger seat.
“It’s a fine day for a skirmish. I hope Jezebel doesn’t mind the noise.”
“Bo, you aren’t listening, as usual. Take the Colt.”
“It’s a modus operandi matter, amigo.”
“We’re not attacking. We will take defensive positions and pick them off. No crazy shit with this ops.”
“A solid scheme. For you three.” He straightened up and patted Marcus’s side. “As for me, have you forgotten my personal forte?”
Marcus sighed, returned a side pat, and said, “I haven’t forgotten. You excel at crazy shit. But there’s thirteen of them. Consider that.”
“Do consider it, Bo,” I said.
“Oh, I have.” Bo lifted his untucked peasant shirt’s hem and displayed his sheathed Bundeswehr combat knife. “I would ask that you save a few for me.”
Bo turned, edged close, and placed a hand over my heart. The finest warrior we had encountered, our team spearhead, fearless beyond measure. The last person on earth you’d want coming after you. He whispered, eyes wild and bright.
“Cry havoc, my Georgia peach. And let slip the dogs of war.”
Chapter 34
I led, followed by Marcus, Catch, and Bo. Bo insisted he pull drag.
“The trailer will kick up extra dust. And provide them a view of Jezebel’s posterior the entire way. It’s the little things in life, my brothers.”
We pulled out slow, headed north on the highway, and watched the enemy fill their vehicles, calm and collected. Several exchanged fist bumps, excited for the impending action. Marcus asked for a radio check. We’d inserted his mic earpieces and activated the radios. Each responded in the affirmative. A short mile later, a left turn onto a Bureau of Land Management single-track gravel road set us smack-dab into the surreal.
The weird factor cranked up. A nine-vehicle train. The four of us in four vehicles. Thirteen Russians contained in five. One large dust cloud hanging in the late afternoon as we wound our way north. This wasn’t the Chaco or another isolated foreign landscape. But it might as well have been. You’d be hard pressed to find a more remote chunk of US turf.
Terrain aside, it was the whole battery of actions and decisions and directives leading to this point that made it so surreal. After the Chaco action, Simko wanted me dead. His unbridled hubris demanded it happen regardless of place or time. Aberrant behavior, no doubt. Behavior magnified through his minions. These cats would attempt stone-cold murder even after the local lawman had issued an explicit warning. A directive slapped on the table under the law’s full weight. They didn’t give a damn. And cared less who we were, although they would soon find out.
After forty minutes we approached China Jim Mountain. The terrain rose, and we wove through large boulder fields. The Spetsnaz operators would have pulled their GPS devices, tracked our route, and figured where the killing field lay. I had a rough idea but waited until we’d eyeballed the area and picked a spot best suited for our defense. Where they’d come after us and pay a heavy price. Marcus spoke through our earpieces.
“How much longer?”
“Another twenty minutes or so. Let’s look for our Alamo.”
“Roger that.”
“Our tailing compadres have dropped back,” Bo said. “Perhaps it was the view.”
Another half-dozen sharp turns later, weaving up a switchback, I paused and checked their position. They now trailed us a quarter-mile back.
“They have left our dust, selecting appropriate attack points,” Marcus said. “Smart.”
“Marcus, the fact they want to tangle with us plops them in the dumbass column,” Catch said. “There’s nothing smart about these SOBs.”
The landscape changed. Ravines held trees and green growth. The air cooled as we progressed, stunted bunchgrasses appeared alongside us as tires crunched gravel and shadows lengthened. Large boulders lay sprinkled below massive leaning rock slabs, the geology marked by brown, gray, and red layers. Rugged, rugged terrain. My fear was the change in geology would help obscure their approach, their attack.
China Jim was seven thousand feet high. In every direction, miles away, were more mountains. Besides our and our enemy’s dust trails, there was no other human activity as far as the eye could see. Around a gradual turn an elk herd grazed, watched us, and wandered off into a copse of trees, waiting out our passing. Music came over our earpieces. My rough guess was Andean flute music.
“Bo, turn off the music,” Marcus said.
“Can that crap, hippie-boy.”
The music stopped. The terrain became more vertical, and steep ravines knifed up the slopes.
“Alright,” I said. “Let’s pick a spot.”
“Roger that,” Marcus said. “Our issue is flank protection. Look for a place that mitigates the issue.”
I tapped the earpiece/mic twice as affirmation. The switchbacks became tighter, the enemy’s caravan visible below, still a quarter-mile behind. Three more turns, and we came onto a plateau area. Ahead, the road continued and lost elevation before it disappeared over the plateau’s edge. We’d arrived at the track’s highest point. To the right, the enemy wove their way uphill. On our left, a half-mile away, was a cirque. An amphitheater-like valley below the mountain’s peak. Rock walls contained the three-sided area, some steep, hundreds of yards high. Sections of the walls held small flat spots where a few trees struggled against the environment. Trees and desert shrubs within the small steep ravines fared better. Between us and the cirque’s farthest wall, a boulder-strewn section.
“This will do,” Marcus said.
“I like it,” Catch added.
“There’s evidence of a track,” Bo said. “The three who lack musical appreciation, pull over. Jezebel and I shall lead.”
We did. For tracking, following trails, we paled compared to Bo. As he edged past me on the narrow road, he flashed a broad smile and winked. An elk hunter or rock climber may have used the track he spotted sometime in the past. As Bo wove among the vehicle-sized boulders, I’d peek past him, seeking the trail’s evidence. I couldn’t find it.
The enemy would soon enough arrive at the spot where we’d left the road. Not an issue as the large boulders hid our progress. High odds they’d park where the trail started and pursue us on foot. Fifteen minutes later we came to the cirque’s farthest reaches, against the interior wall. Steeped in shadow, the entire area measured five hundred yards across, wall-to-wall. The rock faces weren’t smooth—far from it. Besides the ravines and flat spots, there were other fissures and overhangs and stone spires. Desert browns and grays bathed
the entire area, interrupted by green splotches where vegetation had taken hold. Our battlefield.
We parked at the wall’s base, bailed out, and retrieved rifles and extra ammo magazines.
“We move quick. They’re coming,” Marcus said. “I’ll take point, Catch to my right, Case on my left.”
“I’m point,” I said. “My fight, and no argument and no discussion on the matter.”
One would ascend in front of where we stood. Two others on the point man’s left and right, farther up, forming a three-person wedge shape. The two on the outside would cover our flanks. The point man would take the brunt of the attack. That would be me, and I would not expose Marcus or any other brother to such danger.
Marcus and I locked eyes until he nodded acceptance. We gathered tight before our individual climbs.
“Intent and focus, my brothers,” Bo said. “Aim true, be stalwart of heart.”
“If we pop enough of them, they may withdraw,” Marcus said. “Sunset isn’t far away. That road disappears over the plateau and, according to my GPS, crosses into Utah a mile later. We’ll take that route.”
“To hell with that,” Catch said. “They want a fight. Fine. Kill them all.”
“We’ll see how it plays out,” Marcus said, adjusting his webbed belt that held extra ammo mags. “Catch, you’re on Case’s right. I’ll take the left flank. Let’s scoot. Climbing presents our maximum exposure. Bo, give us an idea where you’ll be.”
He’d disappeared. Performed his spooky invisible act. Within thirty feet, behind head-high boulders, he moved, hunted. That he would attack the enemy from within their positions handed us a tremendous advantage. We didn’t comment on his disappearance, having experienced it many times. We exchanged grim expressions and fist bumps and headed out with a been-there done-this lived-through-it attitude.
The rapid climb focused on speed. My rifle was slung over a shoulder, and progress was swift with hand- and footholds abundant. I checked Marcus and Catch. They too had no scaling issues.
Things had escalated with such rapidity it was like riding a whirlwind. There was no unwritten rule expressing I couldn’t have swallowed my pride and headed for the Ace of Spades, but an internal firewall refused to allow it. The KDB and Exponent conflict had become a sideshow. This was personal.