by Bobby Akart
“Stand up,” ordered Junior.
Alex didn’t move.
“Come over here, now!” he yelled as a crowd of curious deputies began to surround him.
Alex slid off the steel bench and walked over to Junior. She looked him directly in the eye. “What?” Alex was challenging him.
The two strong-willed, unyielding sets of eyes stared at each other as everyone grew silent.
“Well, lookie who we have here, boys,” said Junior. “This is quite the prize, but she’s only one out of the three on our most-wanted list. Git her out so I can find out what she knows.”
Chapter 31
8:00 p.m., November 1
Harrison-McGarity Bridge
Crump
Stubby positioned his men. One of the biggest challenges he thought he’d face—besides getting shot at, something he hadn’t experienced since Cambodia—was interference from the refugees. He was encouraged to find they were harmless. A few were desperate and had to be subdued. But overall, he didn’t feel threatened by any of them. These were not the gangs of roving marauders that he expected out of the Memphis area. They were ordinary people looking for a way to survive.
He encouraged them to stay under the bridge and out of the line of fire. While the exchange with Junior’s men would take place over the arch in the four-lane bridge, there was a possibility of a stray round as Stubby and a few of Javy’s men beat a hasty retreat off the bridge at the end of the operation.
The bridge was only five hundred feet long, but with the pronounced hump in the middle allowing for an eighty-foot clearance above the river, they wouldn’t come into view of Junior’s men until they were a few hundred feet away. There would be several seconds as they positioned the truck to block the east span of the bridge where they’d be vulnerable. When it became time to back off the bridge, there would be several hair-raising moments.
Javy and a group of eight men would wait at the bridge’s entrance to provide Stubby and the other shooters cover while hightailing it off the bridge. Another half dozen men would keep the onlookers at bay, hopefully encouraging them to take cover. Everybody had a role.
They awaited the flashlight signal from Jake. He struck up a conversation with several of the refugees and learned about the massacre in Adamsville. It saddened Stubby, as he had several longtime friends living there. It also reminded him of the evil that existed within Junior Durham. He was frightened more than ever for Alex’s safety.
He never thought to obtain the type of gear he had been issued as an Army Ranger. His new AR-10 was the only reminder of the load-out he’d become accustomed to as a soldier. He’d provided Javy’s top man with an AR-15 just like the one belonging to Alex. It was an excellent weapon, and it was symbolic that it would play a role in her rescue. The other two men would use their shotguns firing 00 buckshot. The effectiveness of the shotgun from roughly a hundred yards was a concern, but the deterrent effect of raining continuous rounds of double-aught buck on the heads of Junior’s frightened men was what Stubby counted on. He would provide the high-powered accuracy of the NATO 7.62 rounds. Let the other men keep Junior’s men on the defensive.
A flash of light below indicated to Stubby that it was time. He would drive the truck to the apex of the bridge span and then park it facing Savannah. He would then open fire on the checkpoint, at which time, hopefully, the high-pitched sound of the outboard motor would be masked.
Stubby wouldn’t be able to see the small boat emerge from behind Wolf Island as it raced across the three-hundred-foot width of the Tennessee River. He only hoped they would get across while he pinned down Junior’s men on the bridge. With any luck, he’d draw even more attention, effectively tying up a large part of Junior’s forces.
He prayed that he could extract the men off the bridge without getting shot in the back. He had a surprise for the enemy that would buy them some time.
Stubby eased up the bridge with the headlights off and got to just past the center point, where the truck could easily be seen by the men behind the barriers. The standoff began. The interior dome lights were disabled and the lack of ambient lighting gave Stubby plenty of cover. While he waited, he got to work on his surprise.
“Hey!” came a shout out of the darkness from the end of the bridge. “State your business!”
Stubby didn’t respond. The men opened all four doors of the Wagoneer and then popped open the rear hatch. He shook his head and smiled before giving instructions.
“We’ll just open fire,” said Stubby. “Slow and steady at first. Be as accurate as you can, but most importantly, stay behind the car doors and be safe. We need to keep them occupied for at least ten minutes. Does everybody understand?”
“Si!”
Stubby opened fire, sending round after round downhill toward the men. Shouts filled the air and a siren began to blare. Stubby hadn’t anticipated their ability to warn others although the sound of gunfire probably woke the entire town. He faintly heard the outboard motor start near the riverbank.
Tink—tink—tink!
They began receiving return fire. Several rounds ricocheted off the hood of the Wagoneer. This old warhorse had seen plenty of action in the last month. Today would be its final mission.
All of Stubby’s men fired back. Rounds were flying in both directions, but his men remained behind cover. In a firefight between civilians, most rounds were destined to miss their target. Because of the darkness and his lack of a night scope, he didn’t expect to find the mark either. But he continued to rain bullets on their heads nonetheless. This barrage had a purpose.
Stubby checked his watch. It had been ten minutes and was time to put an exclamation point on this message to Ma and Junior. He started the truck and checked the rope tied to the door frame. It was secure. Before they left the ranch, Stubby had adjusted the carburetor so that the Wagoneer’s big motor would idle at a high rate. When he put it into drive, the Wagoneer eased its way forward, picking up steam as it rolled downhill.
Junior’s men focused their attention on the truck, so Stubby instructed his guys to retreat. It was up to him now. Just as the truck reached the bottom of the bridge, the tires were shot out with a BOOM!
But the sound of the tires exploding was muted in comparison to the explosion created by Stubby shooting out the small propane tanks and gas cans strapped to the rear of the truck. The massive explosion ignited the fuel tank, causing the rear end of the Wagoneer to lift into the air and stand the truck on its nose momentarily before flipping over onto the top of the concrete barriers protecting Savannah.
Stubby walked backward off the bridge, awaiting the inevitable response from Junior’s men. It never came. It was out of his hands now.
Chapter 32
8:00 p.m., November 1
Tennessee River
Savannah
Chase rode point with his rifle, studying the east bank of the river. Jake, who was much heavier than Colton and Chase, rode in the last seat and steered the outboard motor. The underpowered fifteen-horsepower engine was not designed for nearly six hundred pounds of men, but it persevered.
Throughout the hail of gunfire on the bridge above them, Colton searched through the channels of the Midland two-way radio. As soon as the siren went off, chatter picked up on channel 1. To the uninformed listener, the gibberish about red and left and various numbers would mean nothing. Colton was able to discern what it meant, however. The words repeated periodically during their ride across the river.
Tiger Tails. Red right. Tiger Tails. Red right. Return. Red right return.
A listener might pick up on the red-right-return reference and associate it with boating parlance. However, Colton immediately took it to mean that the Tiger Resistance should rendezvous at the home on Pickwick Street where he’d first met Coach Joe Carey, his son Beau, and adopted sons Jimbo and Clay Bennett.
The three men arrived at the clearing near where Town Branch emptied into the river. This uninhabited stretch just south of the bridge was use
d for shore fishing and picnics. Tonight it was completely deserted. As Jake and Chase pulled the boat onto shore and covered it with tree limbs, a massive explosion caused them to hit the ground and scramble for cover.
Colton took a deep breath as the history of the Jeep Wagoneer and the Ryman family sped through his mind. Trading the shiny, but worthless Corvette to those good old boys in Arkansas had been one of his greatest deals. The Wagoneer had survived a lot, and now it served its purpose in trying to rescue Alex.
“Let’s go,” said Jake as he found his way over to the creek. “Stubby said to follow it towards town and take the left fork, which is Town Creek.”
“Eventually, it will start to look familiar to me,” said Colton.
They worked their way upstream, resisting the need to rest. Several cars sped past them from the south toward the main part of town. Stubby was correct in his prediction. Junior was reinforcing the west flank.
“We have to pick up the pace,” said Colton, who was carrying Alex’s AR-15 by the handle. They began to jog up a slight incline when they came upon a four-lane road. The three crouched below a stone bridge and listened. “We’re near the jail. This is where I escaped before. We’re on the right track.”
Chase crawled to the end of the stone structure and looked up the road. There were several men gathered in a gravel parking lot. They seemed agitated and one began pounding the hood. Curse words were being thrown around. Chase rejoined the guys.
“Stubby’s really pissed them off. They’re distracted. We can make a run for it—one by one.”
“I’ll go first and cover you guys,” said Colton.
The crossing was pulled off without a hitch. They ran through the woods with only an occasional barking dog breaking the silence of the night. The gunfire had stopped shortly after the Wagoneer exploded. It appeared Junior’s men were regrouping.
The rumble of a loud muffler urged them to pick up the pace. Up ahead, through the sparsely leafed trees, he could see CR128. It was very familiar and he began to run toward the street at a full sprint. Chase stayed with him, but the heavier Jake lagged behind.
“C’mon, Dad,” said Chase, who joined Colton behind some brush. “Where to from here?”
“There,” said Colton, pointing across the way. “The third house is their meeting place, kinda like a headquarters.”
“Isn’t that downtown to our left?” asked Jake, who had regained his breath.
“Yeah, they’re right under Junior’s nose,” replied Chase. “Should we run over to the house, or try to raise them on the radio?”
“Are they armed?” asked Jake, breathing heavily.
“Yes.”
“Try the radio first,” Jake suggested.
Colton thought for a moment. How could he reach out to Coach Carey without giving away their position or his? He needed to refresh Carey’s memory so he knew it was safe to contact him back. He recounted their conversation and came up with a simple message. He hoped it would resonate with the Tiger Resistance.
“Tiger Tails. Tiger Tails. Ryman plus two. Ryman plus two. Young one sacked. I repeat, young one sacked.”
Colton waited. There was no response. Did I scare Coach Carey away? Did he suspect this was a trick by Junior? Minutes passed. It was excruciating. Just as Colton was pressing the button on the Midland to give it another try, a cryptic message came across the radio.
Point of entry—where they first met.
Colton replied, “Red right return, point of entry.”
He turned to Jake and Chase. “Follow me.” They’d accomplished an important second step in the rescue of his daughter.
Chapter 33
10:00 p.m., November 1
Hardin County Detention Center
Savannah
Junior flung his hat across the room in a feeble attempt to hit the wall hook adjacent to the portrait of the forty-fourth president of the United States. He refused to hang the new guy’s portrait.
The trash can full of beer cans was the next target of his rage. The kick sent it across the room and down the hallway at the feet of several sheepish deputies who were responsible for guarding the westernmost checkpoint entering Savannah.
Junior stood alone in his office, hands on his hips, where he had a clear line of sight to the smoldering mass of steel overturned on the concrete barriers.
“How did you let that truck get so close?” he bellowed at them. “Didn’t any of you have the balls to come out from behind your comfy hiding place and take the fight to the enemy? I’ve been hunting these people day in and day out for a month, and you let ’em get away!”
Junior flung himself into the chair and spun around in a complete three-sixty. He pulled out his shiny, stainless steel .357 revolver and slammed it on the desk.
“Come in here, you cowards!” he shouted to the five men, who shuffled their feet amidst the beer cans in the hallway. “Now!”
Only one of the men had the bravery to speak up, despite the barrel of the .357 pointed at his crotch. “Sheriff, we were taking a barrage of gunfire and they had us pinned down. I’m guessing there were at least seven or eight different attackers. Sheriff, we were easily outnumbered.”
Junior leaned back in his chair and assessed the five men in front of him. He’d heard the details of what happened twice before. It was clear that this was a diversion of some kind and that the night was young. The parents of this young girl were coming for her, but they weren’t gonna use the bridge. They must’ve slipped across the river!
Junior took a deep breath and mindlessly reached for his gun. The men inched backward and one even made a motion towards his own sidearm. Junior began to twirl it on his metal-top desk with a pencil. The pistol would rotate several times and then stop. Junior would repeat the process in an odd form of Russian roulette.
“Relax, boys. I ain’t gonna shoot ya. It’s just beyond me how you guys couldn’t take out their tires or somethin’. Heck, when they shot up the Fairlane, that teenager in the cell hung out the window and placed a dozen rounds in my car and the tires. All of this while her momma blew past me with a big grin on her face.”
“We’re really sorry, Junior.”
“Okay, listen up,” said Junior, pointing to the four men who remained speechless. “I want you to grab some guys and fan out along the riverbank on both sides of the bridge. Put more guys on the south end. Look for boats heading our way or that may be stashed around. If you find anything, let me know immediately. That little trick on the bridge was just for starters. They’re not finished yet, and neither are we.”
“Yes, sir,” one of the men replied as they left Junior’s office.
“Pick up those beer cans on the way out!” Junior turned to the last man and tossed the jail cell keys to him. “Get the girl. She needs to spend a little quality time with the sheriff.”
Junior continued to spin the powerful handgun. He was perfecting his technique as he got at least ten rotations out of each effort. Spin too hard, the weapon might fall off the table and accidentally discharge. Spin too soft, and the gun didn’t provide enough entertainment for his unstable mind. Junior was learning to apply just enough pressure to get the desired result.
Alex was forced down the hallway and stumbled into the half-opened door due to the newly installed ankle cuffs around her legs. The Realtree Camo sweatshirt she wore had been loaned to her by Emily. Pieces of grass still hung to the embroidered stitching of the logo. Holes had been torn in the knees of her jeans as a result of the scuffle with Junior’s men. Her face, however, was defiant. Junior admired that, although she might change her attitude soon.
“Sit down,” he said to Alex.
Alex stood taller and jutted her chin out.
“Please, young lady. Don’t make this difficult. Sit down or we’ll make you sit.”
Alex hesitated before sitting in the chair closest to the desk. Her eyes momentarily darted toward the gun and widened slightly.
Junior leaned over the desk and caught her g
aze. “Do you want to go for it? With your hands tied behind your back? How’re ya gonna shoot it, with that sharp tongue of yours?”
Alex slouched in the chair.
“Much better,” said Junior. He then motioned for his man to leave the room. “Shut the door behind you. Nobody comes in until I say so, got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You remember me, don’t you?” asked Junior.
Alex remained silent.
“Well, I sure remember you. You try not to forget someone who tried to kill you.”
Junior stood up and walked toward Alex. He ran his hands through her long hair. She winced and shied away from his touch.
“Yeah, I’ll never forget seeing these goldilocks flying out the window of the truck right before you shot at me with that assault rifle. Nope, never forget that.”
He continued to circle her, fiddling with her hair. Alex was stoic. She wasn’t showing any signs of fear.
“Oh my goodness, did my boys mess up your sweatshirt?” he asked as he brushed the grass off the front of her chest. Alex scowled and slid the chair away from him with her feet.
“And look at this, you’ve torn holes in your jeans.” Junior bent over and slid his fingers inside her pants at the knees. Alex was repulsed and shuddered at his touch.
Junior continued to torment her. “I’m thinkin’ we should get you out of these raggedy clothes and into a comfy orange jumpsuit. Whadya think?”
Alex broke eye contact and looked toward the .357 again. Junior grabbed her chin and forced it upward to make eye contact with him.
“Whadya think?” he repeated. “Should we get you undressed and into something more comfortable, or should we talk about what’s going on tonight? Your choice, missy. I personally hope that you don’t cooperate. I’m feelin’ it, you know?” Junior forced his crotch onto Alex’s shoulder.
“Fine.” She finally spoke, attempting to lean away from his body. “Let’s talk.”