Lee Harden Series | Book 5 | Unbowed

by Molles, D. J.

  Abe shook his head slowly as he looked out at the low huddle of buildings. “Not a fan, Menendez.”

  “Me neither.”

  “When’s the last contact you remember from this settlement?”

  Menendez considered it for a moment. “Hell, I don’t know. Last I know for sure was back before Tex even found you and Lee. So it’s been a bit.”

  “You think they would’ve left this place? Maybe decided to try their luck in Greeley?”

  Menendez shook his head. “I don’t think so. They fucking hated Greeley.” He nodded towards the crops on the east side of town. “And if they did go anywhere, it was recently. Those crops have been tended to.”

  “Alright,” Pervy sighed as he settled into position. “Let’s see what we got.”

  Menendez smirked and hiked a thumb up at Pervy, speaking loud enough for him to hear. “Ol’ Pervy’s just excited to peep through people’s windows.”

  Pervy snickered, but otherwise didn’t respond.

  Abe’s brain didn’t correctly process the next sound he heard. He thought someone had slammed another vehicle door somewhere down the convoy, but then realized it didn’t sound quite right.

  The zip-crack of a supersonic round hit his ears at the same moment that pink mist wafted over his face.

  Abe jerked, snapped his head up. He couldn’t see Pervy—only a snake of brain matter clinging to the top of the MATV.

  “Shit! Sniper!” Abe slammed his door shut, grabbing Menendez in the same movement, and hauling the two of them into cover behind the engine block and the front axle. The violence of his movement sent Menendez crashing into the dirt, scrambling up to his hands and knees, grappling for his slung rifle.

  Abe hit the squad comms: “Cover! Cover! We’re taking fire! Get on the right side of the vehicles!”

  Menendez’s eyes swam into reality as he righted himself and shouldered his rifle, scrunched in close to Abe by the front tire. “Pervy!” he yelled. “Pervy, you alright?”

  Glass spewed from the passenger side window where Abe had just been standing.

  Zip-CRACK

  Menendez saw it. Saw the blood painting the inside of the MATV’s window. “Willis!” he yelled at their driver. Started to rise, but Abe yanked him back down.

  “They’re fucking dead!” Abe snapped. “Don’t be stupid!”

  All along the convoy of a dozen vehicles, doors ripped open and nobody bothered to slam them shut. There was the scramble of feet across the dusty ground, a few shouts, but mostly silence. Everyone was saving their air for sprinting.

  Abe snatched his gaze down the column of vehicles, seeing his troops sliding into cover behind engine blocks and axles.

  Menendez hunkered down into a low squat, swearing up a storm. “Did you see where it came from?”

  “I didn’t see shit.”

  But that wasn’t entirely true. Abe might not have seen the shooter, but he’d perceived a few things that all rammed together in his head at the same instant. The nearest hill—the obvious choice for a sniper—was at least a half-mile distant, maybe more. The shots had struck true—he didn’t know where Willis had been hit, but he knew without having to look that Pervy had been pegged in the head.

  Long distance, precision rifle. And a good shooter.

  No boom of the rifle report, just the sound of the bullet splitting the air. Which meant it was suppressed. Which made it even harder to pinpoint where it was coming from.

  Somewhere to the west, based on the direction of the blood spatter.

  What now? Abe’s brain kicked into gear.

  “Casualty report,” he transmitted, forcing his voice down to a more normal volume.

  No one responded immediately. Then, Breckenridge, from a few vehicles back: “We’re all good here, major. Only casualties I can see were Pervy and Willis.”

  Two shots. Two dead bodies.

  Not for the first time, Abe wished he was back in a war zone overseas, where he would have a JTAC or at the very least some artillery support. How much easier life would be if he could just paint the surrounding hillsides with high-explosives munitions and be done with it.

  If wishes were fishes…

  “Alright,” Abe said over the radio. “Everyone take it down a few notches. Watch your tidbits. Greenman,” Abe called to their second sniper. “You with us?”

  “Two vehicles behind you,” Greenman came back, leaning out just a hair to give Abe a quick wave.

  Abe nodded. “Shot came from the west, almost directly broadside to us. See if you can’t deploy your rifle and get a bead on this fucker.”

  Hesitation. Then: “Roger that.”

  Three vehicles down, a soldier’s ankle exploded.

  A slurry of screams and curses.

  “Goddammit, I said watch your fucking tidbits!” Abe yelled, not bothering to transmit.

  The wounded soldier was grabbed by his comrades and hauled further into the cover behind the knobby back tire of a pickup truck. Abe stared down, a mix of anger, frustration, and concern flooding his chest.

  The soldiers around the wounded man worked their angles, but their cover was small. Five men squashed behind two tires. The wounded man let out a strangled yelp as they worked to isolate his leg and get a tourniquet on him, all in the narrow space of a less than three feet.

  Two vehicles back, Greenman squirmed onto his side, his squad mates trying to make room for him and not expose themselves at the same time. His big rifle—an M2010—snugged tight to his chest as he eased the bipod out.

  Abe had no illusions that Greenman was safe. His life was on the line the second he showed a sliver of himself. They had no idea where the gunman was positioned, but he wasn’t about to let their last sniper get pegged.

  “Greenman,” Abe transmitted. “Let me know when you’re ready to deploy. We’ll give you all the suppressive fire we got. All units, on my mark, I want you to hit those hills to the west.”

  Menendez fidgeted, tucking a wayward knee in tight to his body. “We need to get into Mosquero. We can’t stay out on this fucking road.”

  “You wanna hop in the driver’s seat?” Abe snapped. “I know we need to get off this fucking road. One thing at a time.”

  “Roger ‘at, just making observations.”

  Abe fixed his gaze back on Greenman. The sniper had his bipod extended. He flipped the scope covers up. Eyed the turrets on his optic. “Can I get a range estimation? Even a ballpark would help.”

  “Best guess is that hill directly west,” Abe answered. “Estimating about a thousand meters.”

  Greenman torqued the elevation turret on his optic. “Alright. On you, major.”

  Abe knew an ugly truth in that moment: They weren’t going to kill the sniper with suppressive fire. And one of them was about to die. Every single man in that column, huddling behind their cover, knew it. No one wished ill for their comrades, but everyone hoped it wouldn’t be them.

  “On me,” Abe reiterated. “Send everything you got.” He took a deep breath. “Mark!”

  Menendez went high, over the hood of the MATV. Abe rolled right, sighting beneath the engine. The entire column erupted in fire. Abe had no target—just a hillside. Dust began to pock and sprout across the hillside, the dry vegetation crumpling and wilting under the onslaught of projectiles. He tried to focus his fire on whatever spot on that hill didn’t seem to be getting enough attention.

  One by one, rifles began to die out, running out of ammunition. Calls of “Reloading!” and “Down!” began to sprout up along the line of soldiers, and then, all at once, it went silent.

  Abe rolled back into cover, dropping his mag and seating a fresh one in place. “Sitrep! Anyone hit?”

  “Negative!”

  “No!”

  “All good!”

  Abe looked incredulously down the line. He expected to see at least one body, splayed out of line with the others, bleeding and thrashing, or perhaps already dead with a hole in his brain. But all he saw was a bunch of worried s
oldiers hugging their rifles and looking back at him.

  Greenman was still in his scope. He looked stressed—well aware that he was the only one out of cover at the moment. Finally, he called out, “Shit! I got nothing!”

  “Did you take a shot?” Abe hollered.

  “No, I got nothing.”

  Abe mumbled a curse under his breath, then shouted, “Get back into cover before you lose your head.”

  Greenman gratefully rolled back into the cover of the tire, his back up against the shins of two of his comrades. He met Abe’s eyes. “What the fuck do we do now?”

  Abe didn’t immediately answer. He was still busy strangling his thoughts back into order, trying to figure out how to come at this problem from another angle.

  “You think he ran?” Menendez suggested.

  “Well, I don’t know,” Abe growled. “Maybe he’s just a cool customer.”

  Abe needed to do something more. Maybe their suppressive fire had been too aggressive, if there could be such a thing. Maybe the sniper wasn’t a cool customer and had taken cover while the hillside was blistered with fire.

  Maybe Abe needed to give him a better target.

  Abe shuffled, squirming up so that his back was against the tire hub. He wasn’t wearing his lid, and didn’t have it on him, but Menendez wore an old OCP floppy hat—a boonie hat, as it was sometimes called.

  “Menendez, let’s give him the old hat trick.”

  Menendez looked dubious, but pulled his sweat-soaked hat from his head. “Might as well.” He stuck the hat on the barrel of his rifle, fluffed it so it looked like it might contain a head, and slowly began to inch it upward.

  Abe stared at it, but called out: “Greenman, get ready to spot a shot.”

  Greenman swore, but got ready to roll out of cover again.

  Menendez pressed the hat a little higher. Inch by inch. It cleared the top of the MATV’s hood.

  Greenman eased out of cover, already sighting through his optic.

  They waited for the zip of an incoming round.

  Abe’s breath was locked in his chest.

  Was the sniper going to fall for it? Or had he already dismissed it as a trick and targeted the sliver of Greenman that was exposed?

  Nothing happened. The silence was vast and uncomfortable.

  Menendez glanced at Abe. “He’s not falling for it.”

  “I still got nothing,” Greenman seethed out, the angst in his voice obvious.

  Time stretched to its breaking point. Abe couldn’t wait any more—couldn’t leave Greenman exposed. “Alright, fuck it! Back into cover!” He reached up and grabbed Menendez’s arm, forcing the hat and rifle back down.

  “He’s gone,” Menendez asserted. “Hit and run, Abe.”

  “Maybe.” Abe squirmed to turn himself around and get his knees under him. He looked to his left, to the town of Mosquero. It’d looked suspicious at first. Now it looked inviting. Anything would be better than being stuck on this long, flat road. “We need to get into the town.”

  “What a genius idea,” Menendez retorted. “How you wanna do it?”

  “Only way we can.” Abe transmitted. “Alright, folks. We’re gonna make a break for Mosquero. Squad leaders, lay down covering fire and get someone behind the wheel of the vehicles. Then everyone pile in or grab a handhold and haul ass for the town. Everybody got that?”

  Acknowledgements were hollered down the line, rather than transmitted.

  Shuffling about occurred. Breck and the other squad leaders appointed their drivers, who Abe was sure were not thrilled with the assignement. But everyone knew they couldn’t just stay out here, and no one wanted to run a mile in open terrain. Driving was the only way.

  “Menendez, I’ll cover you.”

  Menendez sighed, but didn’t balk. “Fuck it. Alright.”

  “Squad leaders, on my mark,” Abe said, suddenly growing exhausted. “Mark!”

  He popped up again as a dozen rifles started spitting hate and discontent at the hillside. Menendez broke around the rear of the MATV and hauled for the driver’s seat along with the other appointed drivers.

  The fusillade was slower this time—not just an ammo dump.

  Between steadily spaced shots, Abe heard doors slamming and tires skidding. The others that had been in his MATV with him simply grabbed a hold of what they could and stood on the running boards on the passenger’s side of the vehicle. Abe heard the MATV’s transmission shift, and with it, he grabbed a hold of the sideview mirror and pulled himself onto the running board with the others.

  The MATV lurched forward, all the men clinging to their handholds desperately as it accelerated towards Mosquero, and the entire column of vehicles fell in behind it, all of them adorned with soldiers holding onto the passenger’s sides.

  Their covering fire ceased as the vehicles got up to speed.

  Whoever the sniper was, he didn’t fire another shot.

  ***

  Everything became clear to them as the convoy skidded to a halt in a wash of dust.

  It had taken a lot of energy to stabilize himself and keep from falling off the side of the MATV as it hurtled towards Mosquero at sixty miles an hour. So when Abe stepped down, his muscles shook and his knees trembled.

  Boots onto the ground. They were behind the cover of the massive hangar-like building that dominated the town of Mosquero. As the vehicles shifted into idle, and all the soldiers stepped down from their precarious perches, no one spoke.

  The evidence lay before them, stark and ugly.

  One by one, the vehicles’ engines died. The drivers stepped out, their movements unrushed. Doors slammed. And then nothing. Nothing but the wind in the plains.

  And the buzzing of flies.

  Abe stood there, staring at it, his eyes squinted against the bright sunshine, his lips tight. He let his rifle hang from its sling. Planted his shaking hands on his hips.

  In the center of Mosquero, perhaps twenty yards from their current position, lay bodies.

  No pit had been dug for them. No grave bothered with. Abe’s eyes coursed over them, and saw how it had happened, saw how the bodies had fallen. Three individual ranks, each one about a dozen bodies long, had fallen atop each other. They’d lined up a dozen and then mowed them down, and then lined up the next dozen, and the next.

  Men, women, and children. Young and old.

  Abe spat off to the side and shook his head.

  How did people die like this? He’d always wondered that. He remembered watching videos of Nazi soldiers exterminating Jews. Setting them up, just like this, and then walking down the line and shooting them in the back of the head. Abe had never understood how the last guy in line just sat there. Did he think he would be granted mercy at the last minute? Or were their spirits just broken? If you knew you were about to die, why not fight back, even if you knew it was hopeless? Why not at least run? Why not at least make it harder on the fuckers that were trying to murder you?

  He’d never understood it. But that’s what had happened here.

  Three dozen people. Each dozen had watched the previous dozen get murdered, and still they’d allowed themselves to be pushed into position over the bodies of their family and friends, and they’d met their fate with wide, disbelieving eyes.

  Menendez and Breck met Abe where he stood.

  “Christ,” Breck breathed.

  Abe tore his eyes from the pile of bodies and the cloud of flies that swarmed over them, and took in the houses around them, the silent, empty buildings, the quiet stillness of the countryside around them.

  “Whoever was here knew we were coming,” Abe said.

  No one responded. They knew it was true.

  “That sniper wasn’t there to take us out. He was there to report when we arrived and give us something to think about. Fucker probably ran after those first three shots.”

  “Cornerstone?” Breck suggested.

  Abe nodded. “That’d be my guess.”

  “How’d they know we were coming?�
�

  “I don’t know. But not only did they know we were coming, they know we’re here right now.”

  Menendez looked soul-sick. His face pained. “Why would they fucking do this? Why not stand and fight us? Why kill the civilians?”

  Abe frowned, allowing his gaze to be drawn back to the bodies. “Because they know what we’re trying to do. They know we’re trying to recruit the settlements.”

  Breck swore under his breath. “Easier for them to just gun down the civilians than to stand and fight us over them.”

  Abe nodded. “We have a serious fucking problem, gentlemen.”

  SIXTEEN

  ─▬▬▬─

  THE BELLY OF THE BEAST

  Sam was in.

  That was the most important thing. There were a million other tendrils of worry and doubt that pervaded the background of his thoughts, but that was the central emotion that he felt: Victory. He’d got into Greeley, he’d fooled the interrogators, and been given a squad leader position, and a tiny flat in the southwestern corner of what was referred to as the “Yellow Zone.”

  After his entire team had been vetted, they’d been shoved back on the bus and then driven about the city, the people on the bus with them unceremoniously dropped at various locations where there was room to house them. Each group, including Sam and his squad, were given verbal instructions before they were kicked off the bus and into their new living arrangements.

  “Orientation is at Aims Community College, located off of 20th Street. The Ed Beaty Hall,” the soldier at the door to the bus rattled off, the words coming out of him by rote, the same as he’d instructed every other group. “Orientation begins at sixteen hundred. Be there fifteen minutes early.”

  That had been about one in the afternoon, so they had a few hours to spare.

  There was electricity in Greeley, but air-conditioning was prohibited. The flat was on the top floor of a three-floor building, exposed to the sun and uncomfortably hot. The windows of the place had been left open for air flow, but when Sam shut the door to the flat behind his team, he immediately went to the windows and closed them.