by Nobody, Joe
While Bishop chased, Nick watched. Twice, the ex-operator had Ketchum Jones in his sights but didn’t pull the trigger. To do so would have given away his team’s hiding spot and allowed more of Blackjack’s henchmen to escape. That would have put Operation Noah at risk, and at best, would result in the deaths of more of his own men. “I’m sorry, brother,” Nick whispered. “Hang tight. I’ll get him for you and Terri.”
It appeared that Blackjack was having trouble rallying his troops. There was a lot of pointing and shouting by the ex-Ranger, his men shuffling and staring at the dirt as if they had lost confidence in his leadership and didn’t want to execute his orders.
All the while, the sounds of an intense firefight raged in the distance.
Finally, Blackjack seemed to find the right rhetoric. Without any further discussion, a line of men took off jogging toward Jackson’s, many of them checking their weapons as if preparing to engage.
Nick let the entire squad of enemy shooters string out before turning to his men. “Now!” he barked, bringing up his own weapon and letting loose with an extended burst of automatic fire. “Give ’em hell! This is the moment! Everything you’ve got!”
Over a dozen rifles opened up on Ketchum’s column, four of their targets crumbling down in a heap before the echoes of the initial salvo finished resonating through the city.
Initially stunned, many of the victims didn’t grasp that they were taking fire, some of them freezing mid-stride and peering around with puzzled expressions.
Blackjack, his reactions honed on the battlefield, was the first to dive for cover, screaming, “Get down!” as his body flew behind a pile of rebar and concrete. Over and again, Nick’s men reloaded, sending wave after wave of lead into the hapless thugs. It was the classic ambush, the kill zone a landscape of horrors for those trapped inside.
Only a handful of Blackjack’s team made it safely to cover, some scrambling to the nearest mound of debris, others throwing down their weapons and running away from the conflict. After all the movement had stopped and no targets were visible, Nick spotted several of his men rising to give chase. “Let them go!” he ordered. “We have to join Charlie and finish this.”
As his giddy men began regrouping, Nick strolled amongst the dead, hoping to find Blackjack Jones’ worthless carcass among those lying strewn on the pavement. When he finally reached the end of the kill zone, the big man glanced up toward Bishop’s position and said, “Sorry, brother. We missed him again.”
The roar of Nick’s ambush reached Bishop’s ears, the ex-contractor pulling up short. Was that Nick doing the punching, or was his team the punching bag?
Fighting off his first instinct to abandon his pursuit and assist his friend, Bishop quickly reasoned that there was nothing he could do anyway. Just as quickly as the second firefight had started, it suddenly stopped. Now he was sure rushing to the scene would be a waste of energy, and besides, he was after Ketchum Jones.
Slowing to a jog, Bishop continued south, positive his target would be heading for the underpass and an escape vehicle. Another block passed before he spotted a man walking at a brisk pace, traveling the next street over. “Gotcha,” he whispered, again breaking out in full sprint.
At the next intersection, the Alliance stalker cut toward the path being used by his prey. He was twenty feet from the crossing when he noticed part of a face peer around the corner. “Damn,” Bishop cursed, cutting hard into a doorway and slamming into a wall.
A second later, four shots zipped near his head, a large automatic handgun disappearing after the final blast. “So much for my surprise attack,” he hissed.
Again, the handgun appeared and fired. This time, after three rounds, Bishop heard the pistol lock back empty. Opportunity presented itself, and he charged.
The shooter was just pushing in a full mag when Bishop darted around the corner, his shoulder down. Despite being significantly lighter than his adversary, Bishop’s speed and momentum delivered a punishing blow to the target’s chest. Both men tumbled to the ground in a heap.
The Texan’s carbine was on a sling, thrown behind his back so he could run unimpeded by the barrel. He’d been so desperate to close before his opponent could reload, he’d never repositioned his weapon. Besides, he wanted to take Ketchum Jones with his knife. It would be the most gratifying way to end the monster’s career.
Scrambling to his feet, Bishop pulled his blade while turning to face his attacker. A look of disappointment washed over the Texan’s face when he realized the man he was facing wasn’t Ketchum Jones. Close in physical size and shape, but no Blackjack-cigar.
His opponent didn’t seem to care, storming toward Bishop with a roar of fury, his clenched fists like giant clubs ready to pummel his challenger.
Sidestepping the more muscular man, Bishop narrowly avoided a roundhouse punch that would have dimmed his lights. As he jockeyed to the side, the Texan slashed viciously, his blade finding flesh across a shoulder blade.
Panting to catch his air, the daunting biker loomed in a combat crouch, his weight forward, his dark eyes locked onto Bishop’s knife. “Come on in, little man,” he taunted. “I’ll bite off your head and piss down your throat.”
“How’s the shoulder doing, friend?” Bishop replied. “Burn much?”
Twice the biker attempted a feint, acting as if he were going to charge his opponent, watching to see how Bishop reacted.
Despite having his blade, Bishop didn’t want to get in too close. The man he was facing was heavier, just as fast, and had obviously been in a fight or two. It was a standoff, each man leery of the other’s skill.
As they began to circle each other, Ketchum’s soldier stepped on a hunk of broken concrete and nearly lost his balance. It was the opening Bishop had been waiting for, the biker’s eyes instinctively darting toward the ground in the attempt to see what was underfoot.
Two lightning-fast steps in, Bishop concentrated all his strength into a thrust, his knife flashing upward at his foe’s gut. The tip of the blade found flesh, penetrating almost an inch before the biker’s arms managed to block the thrust.
Nearly losing the grip on his knife, Bishop tried to retreat, but he was too slow. Thwarting the attempt at disembowelment, the biker threw both hands at the Texan’s chest, his two palms striking with significant force and sending the smaller man flying backward.
Bishop hit hard, landing at an awkward angle and absorbing most of the blow on his tailbone. Panic accelerated the beat of his heart, his legs shaking with tingling numbness.
Seeing his enemy drop to the ground and struggle to recover, the biker growled and charged, taking one step and then launching headfirst through the air.
At the last nanosecond, Bishop regained control of his legs and rolled hard to the right, the contender landing badly on empty, hard asphalt, skidding across the pavement.
Dropping to a knee, Bishop spotted his adversary lifting himself off his stomach, determined to regain his feet. The man from the Alliance dove into the ruffian, his slashing knife carving a deep wound across the brawler’s triceps and eliciting a howl of pain from his throat.
Bishop maneuvered his way on top of his enemy, his knees straddling the biker’s barrel-like chest. Raising his arm for a thrust to the throat, he was surprised once again by the brute’s strength and speed.
Four inches from the criminal’s Adam’s apple, Bishop’s blade stopped cold in mid-air. An iron-like hold gripped his wrist, the felon’s eyes intense with hatred.
With both hands now on the hilt, Bishop tried to push down with all his strength and weight. The knife didn’t move down a millimeter, the man threatened by the blade groaning with exertion as he staved off the deadly thrust.
Up and down the deadly tip of the blade traveled, but never more than an inch in either direction. The two combatants’ pupils were locked, both focusing every ounce of muscle and sinew into the struggle. Bishop’s arms and shoulders were on fire, burning with exertion, his entire body torqued against t
he handle of his knife.
It was at that moment that he realized that the softball-sized chunk of concrete that had tripped his antagonist was only a few inches away.
With all his mass still bearing down on the hilt, the Texan let go of the knife with his right hand, grasping the heavy lump of debris. In the process, he slightly lessened his concerted force on the blade, a trade-off necessary to bring the new tool into the skirmish. As Bishop’s hand closed on the improvised weapon, the biker began to actually lift the Texan’s upper body into the air, desperately seeking to unseat his attacker.
Seeking to reassert his leverage, Bishop used the hunk of wreckage like a primitive hammer trying to drive a nail, striking the hilt of his knife with a powerful blow. The tip of the Texan’s blank sank downward, cutting the biker’s neck, a small dot of blood oozing from the wound.
Clearly startled, his challenger’s eyes opened wide at the prospect of his enemy’s new tactic. Responding to the obvious endangerment of his life, the biker’s body managed another adrenaline dump, his muscular arms now focused on saving his own life rather than taking Bishop’s. With tremendous force, he pressed upward on the one arm pressing the blade at his neck.
The Texan, sensing a change in the tide of battle, struck harder. Wham! Wham! Wham! The sickening thud echoed in the vacant street as Bishop hammered his blade slightly lower and lower, each strike seeming to weaken the now-desperate man beneath. On the fourth blow, the biker lost his grip, the blade plunging into his throat.
The dying man’s spasms threatened to oust Bishop, the victor’s exhausted muscles unable to maintain his perch. Rolling onto his back, the ex-contractor was covered in dirt, grime, blood, and his own perspiration. He sucked air into his chest, his body shaking from exhaustion.
In the distance, Bishop could hear Charlie’s people battling with the thugs trapped inside Jackson’s Department Store. He knew he should manage his feet and help, but his body simply didn’t have the juice at that moment.
It was the sound of running boots that gave Bishop another burst of energy. Had Blackjack’s men finally broken free of the old retail establishment? Was the crime lord sending in more reinforcements? Shifting his weight to an elbow, Bishop struggled to bring his carbine into play as the sounds of the footfalls grew closer.
The first guy rushing up the street was as large as Blackjack, but in an instant, Bishop realized it was Nick’s ground-eating stride rushing toward him at break-neck speed. Relaxing again, Bishop laid his head back on the concrete.
“You okay?” Nick asked as his eyes took in the dead man sprawled nearby.
“Yup, I’m as fine as frog hair,” Bishop croaked.
“Is that Ketchum?”
“No, damn it. You don’t know how much energy I wasted on that guy. He had some impressive moves and was as strong as an overgrown ox on steroids.”
Offering to help his friend up, Nick stated, “I caught a glimpse of Blackjack just up the street, but we missed him.”
“We need to get back and help Charlie,” Bishop replied, glancing in the direction of the dwindling gunfire.
Waving his people forward, Nick hung back until his buddy had gathered his wits. “We’ve hurt them bad,” the big man reported. “Real bad.”
All that Bishop could manage was a curt nod, and then the two of them began jogging toward the ruckus of the distant battle. The carbine in Bishop’s hand felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, almost as much as his boots and vest.
By the time they arrived at the party, Charlie’s men were gathering to rush Jackson’s. Smiling at the arrival of serious reinforcements, the local leader reported, “I think we’ve taken most of them down, and quite a few have turned tail and run. They’re not putting up as much of a fight as I expected.”
“Time to mop up. You need to go in the back and the front of Jackson’s at the same time,” Bishop proposed. “Just don’t shoot each other.”
“Good idea,” Charlie nodded. “Which one do you want to lead?”
“I got this one,” Nick replied, evaluating the level of exhaustion indicated by Bishop’s sweat-stained clothing and soaked hair. “You’ve earned your pay for today.”
It was twenty minutes later when the final shot was fired, and that discharge was an accident. Bishop, leaning against a wall and sucking water from his Camelbak, heard a cheer of victory swell from dozens of the victorious throats once the last holdout in Jackson’s had finally fallen. Sister Rose’s followers not only had triumphed but had delivered Blackjack Jones a resounding, total defeat.
“New Orleans is ours again!” the men shouted, hopping up and down in jubilant celebration. Hugs and smiles abounded throughout the ranks of the conquerors.
Even Mr. Rutledge joined in the victory dance, the old engineer acknowledged by everyone for his valuable contribution. “The pumps have been reversed, and they are draining out the water. We did it!” he told all who would listen.
While Bishop felt a sense of accomplishment and pride, he didn’t join the revelers. He’d failed in his primary mission, to kill or capture Blackjack Jones. He was already rehearsing the words he would use to break the disconcerting news to his wife.
Nick stepped to his side, motioning for his fellow Texan to stand. “We found a wounded man with a radio. I recognize his voice as one of Blackjack’s commanders. He’s dying, and he knows it. Maybe we can convince him to talk. He might know where his boss’s bug-out location is hidden.”
His muscles loosened with renewed energy, Bishop sprang up and jogged alongside his friend. Entering a shot-to-hell Jackson’s, the big man pointed toward the far corner. “He’s over there.”
Bishop found one of Charlie’s troops standing guard over the fallen criminal, the nervous sentry happy to see the arrival of friendly faces. Taking a knee as he assessed the amount of bloody froth around the wounded man’s mouth, Bishop stated bluntly, “You’re not going to make it, friend. What’s your name?”
“Spike,” the injured biker answered in a hoarse whisper, following by deep coughs that originated in his belly and then spread out to violently shake his entire chest. “I know it’s over.”
Motioning for the bottle of water in the guard’s pocket, Bishop held the cool liquid to Spike’s lips. “Here, take a sip. I can’t do much else for you.”
Managing one mouthful, Spike then smiled after a difficult swallow. “Thanks.”
“Where can I find Blackjack?” Bishop asked straightaway. “I have unfinished business with him.”
Spike’s initial thought was to keep his mouth shut, but then a series of sputtering coughs changed his mind. “So, he got away?”
“He ran away.” Bishop clarified the fading man’s inquiry, intent on disgracing the biker’s leader and destroying any loyalty the drug lord’s foot soldier may have felt. Maintaining full eye contact with the fellow on the floor, Bishop made another verbal jab at the opposition’s top dog. “That’s the second time Ketchum Jones proved that he is a coward.”
Spike blinked at the man above him, his mind trying to determine what Bishop was talking about. To prompt failing man’s memory, Bishop added, “I was at Forest Mist. I led the people who stopped Ketchum from taking over the town. He got away from me then. He abandoned your friends… the men who trusted him… and left them to die. He slipped away in the middle of a fight. Now, he’s running again. Where can I find him?”
Instead of answering, Spike’s fading gaze shifted to the bottle of water in Bishop’s hand. The Texan was happy to accommodate, again pressing the container to the wounded man’s mouth and letting him drink.
That effort produced another round of deep, wet coughing, a stream of blood and spittle running down Spike’s chin.
For a moment, Bishop thought the light was going to fade from the man’s eyes before he could get an answer. He repeated, “Blackjack left you here to die. I’ll settle that score for you. Tell me where he is.”
“The Royal Hotel. Near the French Quarter,” the faint whisper weakly
revealed.
Spike managed three more breaths, the distance between each longer and longer. Bishop, however, wasn’t there for the end.
Chapter 18
Lefty’s pickup nearly careened on two wheels as Bishop took the final corner, his foot making the big V8 work hard. “We’ve only got six mags left between us,” Nick commented from the passenger seat after regaining his balance from the high-speed turn. “And if you kill us on the way, we won’t need any of them!”
Slamming on the brakes in front of the luxury hotel, Bishop grabbed his half of the ammunition and darted out of the cab in a heartbeat. “I’ll kill him with my bare hands if need be,” he grumbled.
The two men rushed to the front doors. As Bishop prepared to “go in hot,” Nick held up a hand. “Hold on a second, Mr. Pants-on-fire. Slow down. Take a breath. We’ve been through too much the last few days to get our asses shot off on the last leg of this marathon. Let’s do this the right way. Slow is smooth; smooth is fast.”
Sighing, Bishop started to protest, but then he stopped. Nodding his acceptance of his friend’s advice, he muttered, “You’re right, as usual. Sorry. I just want this guy so very, very badly.”
“I know. Me, too. I’ll take the lead,” Nick smiled, happy to see his buddy was still able to function on a professional level.
They went in, weapons high, sweeping right and left.
The lobby, once a welcoming haven of relaxing opulence, had been thoroughly looted and was in complete disarray. “How are we going to find Blackjack’s lair?” Nick asked after clearing the room. “This place is pretty big.”
“He’ll be in the penthouse,” Bishop offered, “If I know that guy from Adam, he’ll take the best.”
Nick agreed, pointing toward a sign that read, “Stairs.”
The two men began their climb, taking each landing one at a time, weapons ready to engage. The entire hotel was absolutely quiet, not even a fly buzzed through the humid air.
“At least there are only three floors,” Nick whispered once they’d reached the top.