Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent

by Joe Nobody

  Nick flashed Bishop a look of, “Am I glad to see you,” while the two men pumped hands. Facing both of his friends, Nick began. “Kevin and I were going hunting this morning. I rousted him before dawn, and we were heading into the mountains. As we were walking past the county courthouse, I saw a light flash in the basement. We went to investigate, and two guys shot Kevin on the way out.”

  Terri raised her hands to her cheeks, “How bad is it?”

  “He took a rifle round to the lung. The bullet shattered his shoulder blade and fragmented there. The doc is trying to figure out how to drain his lung and then operate, but the lack of equipment is holding him back. It’s 50/50 right now.”

  Bishop had to ask, “What happened to the two guys who shot him? Who were they?”

  “They got away clean. I have no idea who they were or what they were after. Kevin stayed back while I went into the basement to see what was going on. They got around me somehow and shot Kevin at the top of the stairs.”

  Bishop was puzzled. “No idea who they were or what they were after? Is there food or fuel stored in that area?”

  Deacon Brown cut in, “No, it doesn’t make any sense. There’s nothing down in that basement but old tax records, marriage certificates, birth records, that sort of thing. There is nothing of value down there, nothing worth killing a boy over.”

  Something in Diana’s explanation connected with Bishop. He hesitated for a moment and then asked, “Did you say old tax records?”

  “Yes, why?”

  Bishop’s felt weak, and it showed. Terri went to his side, taking an arm. “Bishop, what’s the matter? You don’t look so good.”

  Nick cut in, “That was my next question. Bishop, you look like you’ve taken an ass kicking.”

  Bishop looked at Terri, his expression pained. “I paid the ranch’s property taxes at that courthouse every year. That’s how they knew where the ranch was.”

  Nick and Diana didn’t get it and started peppering questions. “What? What do you mean, Bishop? Who knew what?”

  Bishop held up his hand to stop the barrage. “I’ve got to sit down, I don’t feel so good.”

  Betty opened the door to another room, escorting Bishop to a chair. After he was seated, she smiled lovingly and said, “You need to have your head examined,” which everyone thought was very funny.

  The doctor looked over the top of his glasses. “Bishop, I don’t have any local anesthetic to give you. Maybe we should ask Pete if he‘d donate some of his bathtub gin to take the edge off. It worked in the old Western movies.”

  Bishop waved him off. “It’s okay, Doc. I can stand a few staples.”

  “I don’t have any staples, only an old fashioned needle and thread. That ear is going to take a lot of sewing, Bishop. I found a considerable amount of tissue still there, hanging loose. I can reattach it, or I can amputate it. It’s up to you.”

  Bishop sighed, “That’s Terri’s call. She’s the one who has to look at me. We don’t have many mirrors around the ranch.”

  Terri, resting in a nearby chair, rose to get a closer look at what the doctor meant. Bishop could feel the probing as the doctor indicated his plans to Terri.

  “You see this section here . . . and here. I can sew those back on. It won’t look like his other ear, but it will help even things out a little.”

  Terri moved to face Bishop, her expression deadpan serious as she held her husband’s hand. “Bishop, how is your eyesight?”

  Puzzled, Bishop frowned, but answered. “Okay, I guess. I’ve not noticed any issues so far. Why?”

  Terri looked down at her feet before responding, a prediction of bad news. “Because if we don’t sew on those ear-scraps, I don’t think you’ll ever be able to wear glasses.”

  The doctor chuckled out loud, quickly trying to recover from the indiscretion. “Sorry.”

  Bishop just rolled his eyes at Terri’s joke. “How many stitches, Doc?”

  “I would estimate about 80 or so. You’ve got a two-inch long gash that’s down to the bone. The ear will take the majority of the work. I suggest you sample some of Pete’s latest concoction before I take a needle to your head.”

  “I’m not much for drinking, Doc, but it sounds like Pete’s wares might help a little. Putting 160 more holes in my head doesn’t sound like much of a party.”

  The sawbones nodded his understanding, “If the situation were reversed, I think a few nips would be in order. It’s the best we can do. I’ll send someone down to Pete’s to retrieve a bottle. Meanwhile, I want to clean all those little lacerations on your face and apply some antibiotic crème.”

  Looking up at Terri, the doctor winked and added, “Oh, and Bishop . . . I’m going to earigate that wound.”

  Bishop mumbled, thinking of drinking for the first time in years. “For medicinal purposes only.”

  Pete knocked on the doorframe, holding a bottle of some yellowish liquid and a paper bag. “What’s this I hear of Bishop getting into a fight with Mike Tyson?”

  Bishop looked at his wife smiling. “Now that’s funny.”

  “I think Mike Tyson was before my time,” she needled. “Perhaps you old timers could explain it to me?”

  Nick, hearing the voices from across the hall, decided he would take a break from his bedside vigil and joined the group.

  Pete poured a small shot of the beverage, pulled a homemade tortilla out of the bag and handed it to Bishop. “I don’t know if you’ve had anything to eat, but you don’t want to drink this stuff on an empty stomach.”

  Bishop nodded his thanks and chewed a mouthful of the wonderful, fresh flatbread. Nick sauntered over and picked up Bishop’s rifle. Stopping at the bed, Nick snapped his fingers and demanded, “Hand it over, buddy.”

  “What?”

  “Your pistol,” he demanded. “No mixing firearms and alcohol in polite company.”

  Bishop unsnapped his holster and handed the weapon to his friend, who then asked for the patient’s knife. Bishop, after a long hesitation, surrendered that as well.

  Nick disappeared from the room, returning a short time later. “Betty put them in a safe place. I’ll get them back for you later.”

  Bishop nodded and raised the glass to his lips. Pete warned, “Go easy now—that stuff has aged a grand total of about two hours. It can hardly be called mellow.”

  Bishop took a small sip and grimaced. “Hell’s demons and rabid bats, Pete. What is this stuff? Napalm and phosphorus mixed with kerosene?”

  Pete snorted, “Pretty good stuff, wouldn’t you say? That’s a five dollar bottle of my best right there.”

  Bishop smiled at his friend. “If you were an undertaker, I’d say that stuff is a great marketing tool for drumming up business. And what do you mean ‘five dollars?’”

  Pete replied, “Since we’re using real money now in the market, I had to put a price on my goods.”

  Bishop grunted, “Someone would actually buy a whole bottle of that stuff?”

  “Well, no one has yet, but there’s always hope,” the bartender said laughing.

  Terri chimed in. “I don’t think we brought any cash, Pete. We took off in such a hurry.”

  Pete pointed at the bottle, “Well, your credit’s good today.”

  Nick’s thoughts drifted across the hall to Kevin and his condition. Nothing is going to happen soon, he thought. One will be okay. Nick reached for the liquor, deciding to join in. “I’ll have a sample myself. Besides, it would be rude to let a wounded friend drink alone.” Nick took a healthy mouthful of the liquor and swallowed. “Oh. . . . Wow. . . .”

  Pete pulled a third glass from the table, not wanting to be left out. As he proceeded to pour a few fingers in the glass, he said, “I’d better sample this, make sure it’s a quality product. Either you two are pantywaists, or this batch didn’t turn out so well.”

  Pete threw back the entire pour, smacking his lips and looking into the empty glass. “Oh, that’s good. Can you guys taste the apple?”

 
“Apple?” both men replied.

  “Since I can’t age it properly, I’m trying some flavors to make it interesting. I can taste the apple I used in this batch.”

  Bishop held up his glass for a toast, “Salud.”

  The room was filled with clinks. Bishop downed a little more, refusing to admit it didn’t burn as much as the first gulp. “Pete, if you ever decided to get out of the bartending business, you could always use this stuff to clean fuel injectors.”

  Nick laughed and nodded in agreement. “Diesel fuel injectors.” Holding up his glass for another toast, the big man announced, “To clean injectors!”

  Pete, loving the attention, poured himself another.

  It didn’t take long before Bishop was feeling in a lighter mood. Nick, true to his word, refrained after one. Pete, obviously with a higher tolerance, kept up with Bishop but showed no sign of consumption. Terri sat in her chair, watching the proceedings, interested in how three of the men she adored most in the world would interact when inebriated—or at least, with a good buzz on.

  Nick, politely ignoring Bishop’s slurred words, wanted to talk. “Bishop, who did this? Who’s after you and Terri?”

  “I don’t know, Nick. I’ve been asking that very question since this whole thing got started. It could be the group that tried to kill the president. They might be pissed because I thwarted their efforts. But that’s not logical either—the president ended up dead anyway.”

  Pete offered, “Do you think it’s the gold?”

  “No, these guys made a try for us at the base. Unless they thought we would tell them where it was, I don’t think the gold has anything to do with it.”

  Terri added, “None of this makes any sense. Who has resources like that? Why would anyone waste the time to come after us?”

  Nick thought about Terri’s comment for a bit. He sighed and said, “There are lots of non-military teams with that level of training. ATF, FBI, State . . . all of them have specialized teams for various purposes.”

  Bishop took another sip. “The Secret Service has something to do with this. Powell wouldn’t have wanted to use Terri for bait if he didn’t know something was going on. I think our answers are only going to come from Agent Powell.”

  Nick’s gaze traveled across the hall where his son was fighting for his life. His voice became very low, almost a growl. “I’d like to have a few moments alone with this Agent Powell. Do you think he’s still at Bliss?”

  Bishop shook his head, “No way to tell. When we left, there was talk of burying the president at Bliss and building a monument there. I would guess they won’t do that until the new guy is sworn in. I would like to be in on any conversation you have with Agent Powell—I have a few questions for him myself.”

  Pete glanced from Nick to Bishop, feeling the fury resonating from both men. “I don’t think I would like to be this Agent Powell when you two catch up with him.”

  The doctor interrupted the discussion, sticking his head inside of the room. “Bishop, you ready?”

  Throwing back the last of his glass, Bishop thumped his sternum with his fist. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Deke closed the door, assured his man was receiving proper medical attention. Bishop’s .308 bullet had destroyed quite a bit of thigh flesh, but the wounded man was expected to recover. It was a shame, really. After all of the years of training, hard work, and hundreds of missions, Grim’s career was over. It was doubtful anyone could meet the team’s strenuous physical qualifications after such an injury.

  The gentle vibration of Deke’s cell phone broke his concentration. Out of habit, he looked at the screen before answering, but it was a wasted effort. The caller-ID feature didn’t work with the satellite modifications installed in the device. Besides, there was only one person it could be.

  “Happy New Year.”

  “Will he keep the leg?”

  “Yes, but I’m not sure that’s much solace right now. What does a man like that do with the rest of his life?” Deke prompted.

  “That risk is part of the job.”

  Deke leaned against the wall and sighed. “I’m not so sure about that anymore. I think the scope of our agreement is expanding, and I don’t like where it’s headed.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “When I start losing men, I always have a problem.”

  There was a pause of static on the line. The eventual response had an edge. “If your firm can’t handle the contract, I can make other arrangements. Should I contact your supervisor?”

  “That is up to you. This has gone well beyond mere asset protection.”

  A grunt sounded through the tiny speaker. “We have an agreement, and nothing has changed. We purchased services that, according to our contract, are proactive and preventative.”

  “I could justify our actions a few weeks ago. It all made sense—I could reconcile things then. Now, I’m not so sure.”

  Slightly distorted by the earth-space-earth connection of the satellite phone, the chuckle sounded almost cartoonish. “I can’t imagine someone in your line of work having a conscience. I thought men such as you followed orders as long as you were paid. We’re still the highest bidder, aren’t we? The only bidder, I’m sure.”

  The team leader didn’t hesitate. “Doing a snatch and grab on some terrorist financier is easy to justify. Blackmailing the occasional arms dealer was morally rewarding in a way. Hell, I’ve even enjoyed a kidnapping game we played with a cartel down in Bogota. But this . . . it all seems . . . seems so macabre.”

  The caller’s voice became soft. “Those missions served a dual purpose. You put money in your pockets and delivered a strong message—‘Don’t fuck with America.’ Now, it’s all about power, not drugs or weapons. There’s a vacuum, and someone is going to fill it. It’s going to be a mad, desperate scramble to get to the top of the heap. That’s why your firm was employed, to protect our man until things settle down and enable a smoother transition to the top. It serves a dual purpose, just like your previous engagements.”

  Deke had expected that response. “I hope you’re right about that.”

  The voice on the other end spoke again. “I need to talk to that woman. I don’t care if you can comprehend all of the moving pieces or not, do your job. It boggles the mind how your firm can boast of taking out some of the biggest, most well protected men in the world, and yet you can’t deliver some cowboy’s wife. I wonder if I’m not a victim of false advertising.”

  “We’ll get the woman. You can rest assured of that.”

  The phone’s tiny speaker didn’t do justice to the grunt issued by the caller. “Both rest and assurances are in short supply these days. I’ll expect a call soon. Very soon.”

  Chapter 13

  Meraton, Texas

  January 2, 2016

  Bishop slept most of the next day, a combination of pain, exhaustion from the firefight, and the aftermath of Pete’s product. It was mid-afternoon before he managed to rise, his scalp sore and head throbbing. After a quick check-over by the doctor, Bishop was given permission to take a dip in The Manor’s pool. The water was cold, but the shock of submersion took his mind off of the pain being generated by his injury.

  The quick swim refreshed his spirits somewhat, and he decided to dry off and warm in the sun. A squeak from the pool’s gate announced his wife had joined him. Terri pulled up a deckchair and handed Bishop a plate of food. “You’d better eat something. It will help.”

  Nibbling on a ham sandwich made with pita bread, Bishop asked Terri how Kevin was doing.

  “The surgery to repair the lung went well. He’s out of immediate danger. The doc is still worried about the shoulder though . . . that and the risk of infection.”

  “How are Nick and Diana handling it?”

  “They’re doing as well as can be expected. Just losing her own son not long ago makes it a little tough for Diana to cope. Nick just sits beside Kevin’s bed all day. I don’t think he’s moved.”

  Bis
hop continued eating his meal, the food energy making him feel slightly better. “Terri, I’m worried about going back to the ranch. The location being a secret was our best security, and now that’s no longer the case. We got very, very lucky holding out against that last attempt. The next time they will come back with more men and maybe even belt-fed, automatic weapons and hand grenades. We wouldn’t last three minutes.”

  Terri nodded, the situation being on her mind as well. “We could run . . . find someplace else to hide, but I don’t know where that would be.”

  Bishop shook his head, the pulling of his stitches causing him to wince. “I don’t want to be a refugee. Seeing those crucifixions at Fort Stockdale deters my wanderlust. Besides, we barely get by now, even with all of the supplies and amenities at the ranch. Going on the dodge with only what we can carry in the truck . . . no known supply of gasoline . . . I don’t think it’s a wise path.”

  “I know, Bishop. I thought about moving to Alpha or Meraton until this all blew over, but if those men find us here, a lot of people could get hurt. They didn’t strike me as the types that would hesitate to shoot up an entire town.”

  Bishop grunted, “You’re absolutely right about that.”

  Finishing the last bit of food, Bishop continued. “So we can’t run, and we can’t move to town. That leaves us only one option that I can think of—we need to fortify the ranch.”

  Terri looked at her husband with questioning eyes. “How would you do that, Bishop? The place already makes me nervous with all of the tripwires and traps. Would we live inside the Bat Cave and never come out?”

  Bishop stared into the distance. “I’ve got some ideas. Part of the supplies we picked up at Home Mart in Alpha could serve that purpose. Still, I’m not sure it will be enough. If we only knew what they would come after us with, it would help me devise a defense.”