by Joe Nobody
There he was, the one in the center—the diversion. Bishop watched as he rose from behind a mound, moving slower than normal. Adjusting the crosshairs away from the bait, Bishop spotted the body of a second man rise from behind a boulder. He whispered, “Send it,” and pulled the trigger.
Not waiting to see the results, Bishop managed a second shot as another intruder ran bent at the waist across the opening. That fast, the three men had cleared the open ground and were again advancing with good cover. Or were they?
Bishop twisted the rifle back to the first target and saw a man rolling on the ground. A hit! He couldn’t believe it when the guy rolled twice, and then suddenly rose up and ran back to the rocks. Damn it! I must have hit his armor.
Before he could ponder a next step, bullets started impacting around Bishop’s position. It took him a second to realize his shots must have given away the hiding spot—probably the dust kicked up from the muzzle blast. Staying low, Bishop retreated to a spot he’d identified before, disgusted and worried by the results of the first encounter.
Deke was hurting. That fucking shot had entered one of the spare magazines strapped across his abdomen, goring through to the Kevlar vest beneath. While the bullet hadn’t penetrated his body, the kinetic energy had knocked the air from his lungs, and he was sure at least two ribs were broken.
Pushing back the pain, he gritted his teeth and used hand signals to let his teammates know he was okay.
The ambush was a minor annoyance. Their target had shown his inferior tactics with the warning shot, an important indicator of his mindset. It was unlikely they would receive another warning, but that was acceptable. They knew where he was.
The round that found its mark on his chest was probably luck. There was no foolproof way to cross an open area, and the shooter had just been aiming at the right place at the right time. They would have this operation wrapped up by lunch. Deke hoped the kill shot would come from his weapon, payback for the sore ribs.
When the first shot had echoed down the canyon, Terri had been folding laundry while wondering if Bishop were using the Christmas gift she had made for him.
“He was right about the footprint,” she said out loud. Her hand drifted to the pistol on the counter as she peered warily outside. She couldn’t see anything from the tiny camper window, its view restricted to a small portion of the canyon’s opening. “God, please keep my husband safe.”
When the next volley of gunfire bounced along the rock walls, Terri made up her mind to move. Bishop had always warned her that the camper was a bad place to be if anyone ever attacked the ranch. As she put on her shoes, she remembered his words. “Terri, if someone starts shooting, the skin of the camper is like cardboard. The bullets will go through like a hot knife through butter. Don’t stay in here—go to the Bat Cave if you can make it safely.”
Terri intended to do just that.
Wishing she’d paid more attention when Bishop had tried to teach her about self-defense, Terri pushed open the camper’s door and paused. After hundreds of bullets didn’t come screaming through the opening, she popped her head around the corner once, twice, and then sprang from the doorway.
Running as if she was being chased by wild demons, Terri made for the Bat Cave. Breathless, she pulled the heavy steel door closed behind her and dropped the latch. Terri leaned against the cool, stone walls, drinking in the air and plotting her next action. She looked down at the small pistol in her hand, and then at the rack of rifles hanging along the opposite wall. “I need a bigger gun,” she announced.
Bishop sprinted for the boulder, the crack of passing bullets snapping at his back like the jaws of a ferocious dog. Cutting behind the large hunk of granite, he circled the stone and came out firing on the other side. Instead of surprising the pursuing attackers and catching them out in the open, Bishop was knocked flat to the ground. Lying stunned, he couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. His vision was blurred, and he felt like someone had just hit him in the forehead with a baseball bat.
More bullets reached for his body, the puffs of stinging sand scratching at his face. Only extreme force of will pulled him out of the daze, giving him the wherewithal to roll hard and get behind the boulder. He managed one knee and leaned out; sending two quick rounds back, a desperate act designed to inform the stalkers they had missed. He had no idea where the bullets went.
Bishop lowered the weapon, noticing something different. He was shocked after looking down and finding the rifle stock covered in blood – his blood.
Removing his glove and gingerly feeling his scalp, he discovered a long gash on his head. His ear was too painful to touch. That was close, he thought. Terri’s going to start calling me numbskull.
Despite the throbbing, burning pain building inside his head, Bishop knew he would live—at least for a few more minutes.
Several hostile bullets plastered the rocks he was using for cover, their angle advising Bishop his adversaries had advanced, signaling it was time to move again.
Bishop’s legs pushed hard, thrusting with every ounce of power as his body launched over the waist high pile of rocks. Twisting in mid-air, he landed with a rolling motion to dissipate the force of the impact. The heavy barrel of the AR10 came up quickly, three shots barking where he anticipated the closest predator would appear. All three rounds pinged off the rock face, harmlessly flying off into the desert without touching human flesh.
Kicking with his legs while using his elbows, Bishop scooted on his belly to the stone barricade he had just hurdled. Geysers of desert sand erupted where an elbow or leg had been just a moment before, chasing him like a cloud of stinging bees until he was tight against the rock. This was his fourth egress since firing that first shot at the attackers.
Fear was now a second adversary, a foe as dangerous as the men trying to kill him. He fought hard to push down the determined uneasiness, a sensation trying its best to build into full-blown panic. Bishop was scared because he’d never encountered anyone quite like the team pursuing him. They moved as if controlled by a single mind. Their lines of advance were always perfect, their timing impeccable. No patterns were repeated, no mistakes made.
One shooter would cover two with withering fire, soon followed by two covering one in the advance. They didn’t spray or rush their shots, their rhythm like a metronome of hot lead and crackling death. Regardless of the movement or cover, they always projected more fire at Bishop than he could return. As individuals, they rarely offered a target, forcing Bishop to expose himself at great risk. Exploding shards of rocks burning into his cheeks dissuaded Bishop from using that tactic more than once. Screaming ricochets from near misses were always pushing him down and back, herding him into the dead-end canyon for the eventual kill.
Two of them would spread left and right, bounding from boulder to the outcropping, never moving at the same time, never in the open, unless one of their own was pouring round after round at Bishop’s head. It was a small miracle he hadn’t been flanked yet. Twice they had been within a few steps of that goal. It would all end quickly if they achieved that advantage.
Back, ever back they had pushed him, herding his retreat into the canyon he called home. Now, the camper was in clear view over his shoulder. This is it, he thought, looking at the open spaces behind him. I can’t go backward any further – there’s no cover – no place left to hide.
Trying to anticipate their next move, Bishop popped up and snap-fired three rounds, but only insulted the desert air with the attempt. The rifle locked back empty. He ejected the spent magazine and slammed home another—his last one. His hands a blur, Bishop punched the bolt release and slapped the forward assist. This was his last 20 rounds. After this, it was his pistol, and that might as well be a squirt gun against the body armor worn by his attackers.
Terri had her rifle loaded and a spare magazine lying on her lap. She was sitting in the old lawn chair, rocking nervously back and forth, listening to the sounds of the battle outside. It hadn’t escaped
her attention that the gunfire crept closer and closer.
After securing her rifle, she had occupied herself scooting the heavy metal boxes of gold away from the wall, the effort taking all of her strength. She figured to hide and fight from behind them, if and when the bad men tried to enter the cave.
Three times the gunfire had subsided long enough for her to think Bishop had either won or been killed. Despite knowing he would be furious with her for leaving the safety of the Bat Cave, she had risen with the thought of going outside and checking on her husband. The sounds of more shooting rolling down the canyon walls always made her return to her perch.
Now, the gunfire was close, very close. She could discern at least two different types of rifles by the sound of their discharge. Bishop was up against more than one person, and she concluded he was losing. There was no other explanation for the movement and pattern of the fighting.
Thoughts of the child growing inside of her faded, replaced with love and concern for her husband. I’m still pretty lithe, she told herself. I’m going to at least stick my head out and see what’s going on. Bishop might need me—it’s happened before.
Deke wasn’t pleased. This entire operation was taking longer than anyone had anticipated, and his ribs were aching to high heaven. The man they were engaged with was the luckiest fuck he’d ever encountered—always moving just in the nick of time, foiling the kill.
In the grand scheme of the universe, it didn’t matter. They had him pinned now, no place to run, no escape. The boulder field he had been using to cover his retreat had thinned out to a flat, barren surface. If their target made a mad dash for the camper beyond, they’d cut him to shreds within 10 steps. If the fool decided to make that last little mound of rocks his Alamo, so be it. He would die just as badly there as anywhere else.
He decided to give his men one more minute of breathing before he would signal the final advance. He slowly scouted the area in front of his team, mentally planning the final push. This job was nothing different, just another snatch and grab after removing the protection.
Glaring at the rock Bishop was hiding behind, he snorted. “I am Godzilla; you are Tokyo.”
Bishop used the pause to draw air, not inspiration. He guessed his antagonists were plotting their final rush, no doubt exchanging hand signals while out of sight. They’ll throw a head-fake at me again, he thought. The first guy I see won’t be the real attack.
The problem was he didn’t know if it would be the left or the right side that charged his position. He guessed it would the left. There was slightly better cover, and the guy on that side had seemed the most aggressive of the three.
Bishop was wrong.
Without warning, all three attackers popped up at once, rifles firing where Bishop’s head was peeking over the top of the rocks. Ducking and rolling once to his left, Bishop fired two shots, adjusted, and fired two more. The incoming lead followed to his new position, so he rolled right, and again, sent more rounds down range.
Back and forth the exchange went, Bishop counting down the rounds remaining in his weapon. When he got to five rounds left, he was going to have to risk exposing himself for a better shot. He pulled the pistol from its holster, sitting it beside him just in case.
He was down to eight rounds when he changed his mind. Fuck it, he thought. They’re going to get me anyway. At least I can make the odds a little better for Terri if I can take one of them out.
Boldly, he rose from behind his cover and remained exposed, almost daring one of the assaulters to take a shot. The man flanking right obliged, spinning out from behind his shelter and firing. Before Bishop could adjust for a shot, a new weapon joined the fray, sending the man shooting at Bishop scrambling for cover. Confused, thinking someone had gotten around him, Bishop pivoted to address the new threat and stopped cold when he saw Terri firing at the bad guys. She had snuck into a small notch in the rock wall and appeared to be well protected.
Terri’s fire surprised the attackers, breaking their momentum and leveling the balance of combat power. With her covering one side of the canyon, Bishop could focus on the other. He was in position and waiting when the two men rushed around a truck-sized boulder, charging Bishop’s position.
Bishop almost smiled as his weapon’s recoil pushed into his shoulder. The closest man went down, his forward progress causing him to hit the earth hard and tumble. The second dude cut right just in time, Bishop’s rounds chasing him back into the boulder field.
Terri kept up a steady stream of bullets, suppressing any forward movement from the right side of the canyon. More than just covering an angle, her presence broke the rhythm of their attack…made the musicians in their band play off tempo. Popping three shots here, three there, she was keeping the bad guys from storming Bishop’s position and giving him the opening he needed.
Movement caught Bishop’s eye, and for a moment, his heart froze. An arm arched over the top of a nearby boulder, a small metal object flying through the air directly at Bishop’s position. Grenade!
Bishop buried his face in the hard dirt and steeled himself for the blast. He heard the metal canister strike stone and bounce once—it sounded very close.
Rather than an ear-shattering explosion, Bishop heard a wimpy little “pop” followed by a hissing sound. Exhaling, he realized his foes hadn’t thrown a hand grenade, they had popped smoke. This was probably a tactic to break contact and rescue the downed man.
In the next few seconds, Bishop had to decide between shooting through the gathering cloud, per chance hitting someone trying to rescue the wounded man, or using the drifting white wall of smoke to make for Terri’s position. An injured man will slow them down, he thought. I’m about out of ammo – it’s time to get out.
A minute later, Terri and Bishop were in the Bat Cave, breathing hard from the sprint. Bishop immediately moved to switch rifles and began loading magazines for the new weapon into the pouches on his vest. Terri covered the door until he was ready. Bishop turned to his wife as he made for the opening, “Stay here.”
“Hold on just a second there, mister, you’re hurt. There’s blood everywhere.”
Terri moved to check Bishop’s wound, but he waved her off.
“Stay here, Terri, please. These guys aren’t some amateur bunch of bank robbers, or thug criminals. These guys are pros. I’ve got to get back out there.”
“I know, and I’m going with you. But if that wound gets infected, you’re in a lot of trouble. We can take three minutes to clean and bandage it.”
Bishop exhaled, exasperated. “Terri, I think they’re falling back to regroup, and then they’ll be back. If I don’t get out there, we’ll be trapped inside this cave until who knows when. I can move faster without you.”
With her hands on her hips, Terri made it clear she wasn’t letting Bishop out of her sight.
The pounding in his head was becoming worse, and the blood was beginning to dry, adding to the discomfort. Pulling the chair around so he could watch the door, Bishop sat with the rifle across his lap.
Terri took a clean cloth and dipped it in the bucket of water they kept in the cave. She gingerly dabbed the head wound, trying not to hurt her husband. Bishop sat stoically, eyes never leaving the entrance. “Hurry,” he said.
Giving up on gentle cleaning, Terri picked up the bucket and warned, “There’s too much blood to clean the wound that way. Tilt your head and close your eyes.”
Terri poured a steady stream of water over Bishop’s injury. She had to repeat the pour, wipe, pour process until the bucket was empty. Sitting the bucket on the floor, she stood up to check the wound and gasped.
“What?”
“Bishop, the top half of your ear is gone, baby. I’m sorry … but it’s just gone.”
Bishop’s hand immediately went to his head, feeling his ear. His touch caused a painful wince, and he gave up trying to assess the damage.
“Just pour some of the powdered antibiotic on it—I’ve got to get moving.”
&n
bsp; Terri dug in the kit and found the small packets of medicine. She poured as much of the brownish granules as possible into the gash created by the bullet, a shot that had missed killing her husband by less than half an inch. Next was a bandage, which she wrapped around and around his head, taping off the loose end. Finally, she found the bottle of painkillers and made him swallow a full dose.
Bishop stood, stepping immediately for the door. His second stride was stopped by Terri moving in front of him and putting both of her hands on his chest. “Bishop, please wait. Let’s take just a minute to talk this over.”
“I’m all ear.”
Terri snickered, more from relief that her husband was back to his normal cornball humor, than the play on words.
“Bishop, I’m going with you. If I stay here, they could get behind you and kill me anyway. If I’m with you, I might be able to help. I should mention that I just bailed your ass out, in case that thump on the head has damaged your memory.”
Bishop had to admit, she had a point. If she came along, he’d be worried. If she stayed here, he’d be worried. His head was pounding so badly now, he didn’t have the mental energy to argue with her.
“Okay, you’re with me. But, please do what I ask you to do—nothing more and nothing less.”
Terri picked up her rifle and stuck two full mags in the back pockets of her jeans. Despite the blood and sweat, Terri reached up and brushed Bishop’s hair. “I love you, and don’t worry about that wound. I still think you’re ear-resistible.”
Chapter 12
Bishop’s Ranch
January 1, 2016
Hugging the canyon walls, Bishop moved to the point of last contact with the intruders. It didn’t take him long to find their trail. The blood spots, boot prints, and other disturbances to the earth were easy to follow. Bishop turned to Terri, and warned, “We need to be extra, extra careful here. They don’t seem to be concerned about anybody following them. It’s almost as if they want us to find them. That’s a sure sign someone is setting an ambush.”