by Reed Hill
*****
Raúl scanned the area from his hiding spot in the corral bushes near the orchard. Behind the tall waving plants of the garden, he was almost completely obscured, so much so that the broad-shouldered man who ran to collect the girl hadn’t even noticed him despite running within fifty feet of where he lay.
Raúl had the man’s back in his sights like the broad side of a barn, but he couldn’t bring himself to take him down. Not with the girl in his arms. Those idiots Diaz, Vargas and Apestosito couldn’t keep their heads about them for five minutes. Pendejos. They got what they deserved. They obviously saw the blond chica bonita picking apples and their lusts had gotten them killed. The one who had shot them – the small pale man with the barbas chivas naranjado, orange goatee – he was Raúl’s target.
That second shot which killed Diaz through the neck and Vargas in the torso with a single round was simply something to be admired. Perfecto. Three men with two bullets. It’s as if the man knew El Chacal was watching him and had thrown down the gauntlet. Such a man is a worthy enemy.
Raúl put his eye back to the scope and inched forward in the brush giving himself a little better perspective on the house. There were several men running around in the courtyard by the main house, and the pops of gunshots from inside the house got Raúl’s attention. Hector would be making his push to the front any minute. He told himself he would take down the orange rat and be done with this insanity. Hector will come and then I will have you, el rata naranjado.
*****
The trucks raced down the dirt and gravel lane only a couple hundred yards away when two peeled off to their left and another two peeled off to their right, toward the garage leaving a single one speeding toward the main gate. What was the lead truck doing?
That moment Brodie saw that the driver in the lead truck was alone in the cab, and on the seat beside him on the long bench seat were at least five or six red plastic gas cans, the tall five-gallon variety. As the truck rumbled past the large oak in the center of the looping gravel oval in front of the courtyard, Brodie saw the flicker of flame in the cab and the driver dived out of the driver’s side door. The truck was heading toward the main gate, directly to where Kirk Thompson huddled with Charlie Duggan and his son.
Brodie heard a bullet fly past his head like a mad wasp, “Get away from the gate!” He waved his hand and Kirk Thompson saw the incoming truck and swerved to his right, away from the gate, pulling the Duggan boy down by the collar. The bending sound of a bullet bouncing off the wall near him didn’t faze Brodie as he ducked for cover behind the wall.
He heard the explosion and felt the ground shake under him as the truck hit the six-foot gate pillars, blowing a heat wave past him that curled the tops of Brodie’s crew cut. Bits of stucco flew and hit the wall and the grass near him as the massive smoke cloud rippled out like the rings made from a stone dropped in a pond. He discerned the vague odor of ozone and gasoline as he caught sight of the huge circle of flames rise up from the gate area.
Several gun shots rang out from his left and his right. He focused on the two trucks that had veered to his left. To his right was a maelstrom of smoke and flame, as the massive bonfire of smoke, debris and five-foot high wall of flame in the center of the courtyard burned.
Mac Harris had his AR-15 pointed at the trucks which had swerved and come to stop sideways about fifty yards away. In the dying light, Brodie saw the glimmer of flame again, this time tumbling through the air, a single spinning spark against the blackening twilight. What the hell was that?
The tumbling spark descended slowly and just as Brodie saw it was a bottle of vodka with a fiery rag attached, he could see that the Molotov cocktail was heading toward Dennis Evans. Dennis stood transfixed by the falling bomb, narrowing his eyes as he looked at it, “Dennis! Get down!” He heard the shout and tried to duck, but his reaction was a little late. The makeshift bomb, hit opposite him on the other side of the wall, but the flaming splash caught fire and enveloped him. Two more Molotov cocktails were launched from the trucks, as Brodie heard a hail of gunfire from behind him, and the sound of broken glass. Do something!
Brodie saw Mac Harris run and throw his body toward Dennis as he fell to the ground screaming. Brodie fired his AR-15 at the trucks which were silhouetted against the last orange layers of sunlight, and he saw the jump of sparks from the metal body panels and he heard the ping of the rounds against trucks.
After a couple more shots from his AR-15 trying to pin down the attackers, Brodie saw Glen Tucker wheel his pump shotgun to the sky and – his shot connected with one of the falling bombs , which erupted a large explosion about thirty feet in the air between them and the trucks. The other Molotov cocktail landed short of the wall, creating a ring of fire just outside the wall near where Mac Harris had been.
Harris was on Dennis Evans and was pulling his friend’s burning jacket off him. Brodie could see Harris cringe in pain as he grabbed the flaming windbreaker and tried to pry it off. Evans screamed as many parts of the nylon appeared to have melted, adhering to his skin and Harris shouted in pain himself as he pulled the fiery jacket off rending flesh as well as molten nylon.
There was a scream from behind him, and Brodie fired a pair of rounds from his rifle and ducked down, risking a look the other way past the gate. He spied the movement of many marauders beyond the stucco wall, but it was difficult to see much with the massive smoke in the area. Several indistinct voices speaking in Spanish also called out, although he couldn’t gauge how many or understand what they were saying. Thompson, Calderon and the Duggans were going to need to hold the area. Brodie has his hands full on the left side. Just hold this side.
*****
Haslett heard the blast at the front of the courtyard and saw the light from the intense explosion fill the darkening sky and the billowing smoke cloud rising up behind the roofline. He resisted the urge to run to the danger, knowing that the rear would be completely uncovered. It was a good thing since he spotted movement in the form of a shadowed outlined moving beyond the garden.
He put his eye to glass and was able to make out a vague figure as it crouched low and shuffled to a stand of dog hobble and low trees. He tried to calm his breathing and tamp down the snapping of gunfire coming from the other side of the ranch house. He trained the cross-hairs on the dark impression in the brush, and focused on the leaves of the dog hobble dancing in the light wind coming down from the orchard. He wasn’t sure the man was still there, so he eased back off his aim and searched for movement. Haslett had been trained to make one shot for one kill and he didn’t intend to buster a shot and blow his position, just to flush an enemy.
Be patient.
A rushed shot is an errant shot.
Haslett scanned the area through the scope and tried to relax his back and shoulders. He was a little too short to be able to use a crouched firing position on the wall, next the pillar. So he had done the best he could in a rush, and taken a split-stance leaning forward into the wall. That stance put pressure on his back muscles something fierce. He blew out a heavy breath, giving his aching back and neck a rest while he found his target. Dammit! Where is the bastard?
Haslett told himself to calm down and re-focus. Put away that fiery attitude. That crazy Mick blood that ran in his veins had a way of making itself known at the worst of times. His old man called it Irish mad, but had probably just made that up as a way to tell himself it was okay to get drunk and beat on his wife and kids. Regardless, he needed to rein it in before he went tits up out on the lawn like some damn garden gnome. Focus dammit.
Then he thought he saw movement again, a shadowy form easing its way down the little swale. Was that a man belly-crawling? Haslett wasn’t sure if it was just a shadow or an actual man coming down the slope.
There were only the barest streaks of reddish purple in the western sky when a flash of white light exploded and the sound of wind gusting behind him, illuminating the fifty feet or so in front of him.
Movement.
There was screaming behind him and he tried to block from his mind the long, dark outlines of a man on fire being cast on the stucco wall like some kind of horrible form of art. Haslett spied the glint of light on glass about two hundred yards down in the little valley and moved the cross-hairs to find it. Dear God give me strength to overcome my enemies.
There!
Crouching in the brush was a man with a scoped rifle. Haslett hastily went through his ritual.
Slow breaths. Calm down.
He found the glinting glass in the bee brush and spied the small figure. His rifle was trained precisely on Haslett.
Praise God, my protector. He trains me for battle and prepares me for war.
Haslett pushed away chaos of gunfire behind him and steadied his hand on the grip of the boy’s little wooden stock, blowing out a deep breath as he listened for the beats of his heart.
He is my protector and defender; my shelter and savior, in whom I trust for safety.
Haslett began the smooth pull on the trigger between breaths.
*****
Rounds peppered the wall above Brodie when he turned back toward Evans and Harris. Harris had scraped his way back to his rifle under cover fire from his son, who just lifted the muzzle over the wall and fired in the general direction of the trucks without exposing his body to return fire. The kid is pretty smart. Brodie saw Harris curse in pain as he picked up his battle rifle with burned hands, and Brodie came back up to the wall, put his sights back on the trucks and fired another pair of aimed shots at nearby movement. A scream came from the area as one bullet found flesh and the other struck metal.
Harris was back on the wall and fired off a triplet of shots at the attackers, and Brodie heard a volley from behind him, followed by a more distant scream. I hope that was one of them and not us.
The sound of mighty, brief wind gust broke behind him and Brodie couldn’t help but look. Another explosion had rocked the wall, painting it in the gleaming orange, yellow and red of fiery intensity, sending Duggan’s boy running, with flame dancing on his sleeve. He shrieked as he dropped his rifle and tore off his long-sleeve t-shirt flinging the flaming garment from him.
Then, through the smoke, Brodie discerned the distinct shape of a mohawked figure in the reflected light of the dying circle of fire. The man turned as he unleashed a barrage of bullets from some kind of automatic pistol that sprayed the ground of the courtyard, throwing up grass and dirt.
The Mohawk from Rocksprings.
Brodie’s world closed down to the small bubble around the Mohawk thug. Brodie rose and stalked toward him, he ran out of rounds in the auto-pistol. There was no other place except for the area surrounding the criminal’s figure. The thug dropped the magazine from the pistol and reached behind pulling another from his belt as Brodie moved toward him, raising his rifle to his cheek and finding the front sight. The Mohawk ruffian wheeled on Brodie, sneering as he cocked the auto-pistol.
Stay composed.
Focus.
Fire.
Brodie unleashed a volley of shots one after another stitching a pattern from head to waist, which sent the thug flying backward against the side of a gray truck. As he slumped to the dirt, Brodie fired two more rounds and only stopped when he saw the gaping maw of entrails spilling out and that the side of his head was gone.
Suddenly, Brodie felt a sharp pain in his side like the sting of wasp, and looked down to see blood staining his plaid shirt. “I’m hit.” He stumbled and moved backward to one of the large pillars at the gate, where his legs became wobbly, “I’m hit!” What was I doing outside the gate?
There was a barrage of fire and whirlwind of screaming and shouting in Spanish from the opposition. Brodie felt intense pain in his gut as well as a wave of heat and nausea. He felt his gorge rise in his throat as he brought up his weapon to protect himself. Kirk Thompson shot him a concerned look, but kept his eyes down range, firing. Brodie fell to his knees.
Mark Simmons was firing and moving toward him in a hunkered walk, and Brodie tried to wave him off, “I’m okay…” Brodie felt a little weak and dropped the rifle. Hold your weapon up! Brodie knew he would be a sitting duck if he couldn’t raise his weapon and he tried to get to his feet, but his limbs wouldn’t obey.
An intense ringing in his ears took over all the sounds in his awareness. Mark Simmons mimed something to him, and he felt his friend’s hand on his chest. Kirk Thompson appeared above him and he felt his hand being grasped.
I want to see Lauren – Sam and Jack.
Sara...
A tunnel of darkness enveloped Nick Brodie.
Chapter 17
Three Eagles Ranch
Outside of Hunt, Texas - July 5th, 2017 – 9:45 p.m.
“Callie,” Doyle held her hand and gave it a little squeeze as he looked into her emerald irises watching as the pupils expanded and contracted. “It’s okay. I’m here.” Callie’s eyelids finally budged and opened as is they had hundred pound weights attached to them. She was still quite pale as she lay on the zoo animal themed sheets in the boys’ bedroom.
Doyle had been worried despite the fact that Sara had told him a dozen times that Callie would be fine. Sara had rushed to get a large first aid kit and promptly went to work on her wounds. In spite of the massive amount of blood she shed, Callie was going to be okay.
Callie was extremely lucky that the bullet penetrated her shoulder and passed through only nicking her left collar done. A few inches lower and it would have been a much different story. Sara had just shaken her head at the mention of it. What she needed most was rest and Doyle wondered what had hit Callie harder the flying bullet from the bastard Lopez or the weight of the day finally catching up to the beautiful, young attorney he was feeling drawn to.
“Jeff?” her eyes were straining to focus. “Where am I? What happened?”
“You are at the Brodie ranch – in the boys’ room,” Doyle smiled sweetly and touched the side of her face gently. “You took a bullet when you saved the Governor. You knocked him out of the way, but Lopez’s bullet hit you.”
Callie tried to sit up, but flinched in pain and fell back down quickly.
“Don’t try to move,” Jeff gently patted her good shoulder. “The bullet tore through your shoulder on your left side, just above your collar bone. Mrs. Brodie patched you up. You were extremely lucky.”
“I don’t feel very lucky,” Callie let one side of her moth turn up. “Where is she? I want to thank her,” Callie turned her head a little to look toward the door but she shrank back in pain again.
“She said what you need now is rest, so you need to lie back and just relax.”
“What about the Governor? Is he okay?” her voice was weak and Callie looked like she was heading back to sleep.
“I’m fine,” the Governor stood in the doorway with a kind face, “thanks to you and Jeff.” He walked in and crouched down by the side of the low bed and touched Callie’s arm lightly. “Things got really dicey and you two were looking out for me. That means a lot.”
“You are more than welcome, Governor,” Callie’s voice was weak and she blinked slowly.
“I’m also very proud of you, what you were able to do in court today,” the Governor smiled as he gave her a quick pat on the hand. “You and Bill made history for us. We all owe you and Bill a great thanks. I appreciate your courage.”
Callie’s eyes began to well up, and a lone tear rolled down her cheek, “Thank you.”
“We will all miss Bill, terribly,” the Governor stood and looked down on Callie with gentle, kind eyes. “His spirit will carry on with you, I’m sure, Ms. Morgan. He’d be very pleased I’m sure.”
She blinked very slowly and looked like she was going to fall back asleep for a moment before looking up to Governor again, “Thanks for coming in. It means a lot.”
You get some rest now,” Chase smiled broadly. “We’re going to need that legal head of yours very soon.” And with the slight wave goodbye he was back out the
doorway.
Doyle turned back and knelt once more by Callie and chuckled.
She was already asleep again.
*****
July 6th, 2017 – 12:45 a.m.
The lean black man and his son came through the foyer with a tall, slender man escorted by one of the Rangers who pointed to Doyle at the edge of the hearth room by the kitchen. Doyle learned that this was one of Brodie’s lifelong friends, Kirk Thompson, and the older black man, Mac Harris, had stepped up to help organize the night patrols. The men looked like they’d been to war, given the dirt and debris all over them. Harris’ hands and arms were badly burned from the pink blisters rising up on the brown skin of his arms and on his palms. Thompson had dried blood all over his shirt and pants.
They stopped and faced Doyle and all of them kept their rifles lowered. Harris stepped forward, “Mr. Doyle, we’re running patrols outside as you requested, but I wanted to let you know that we’ve accounted for all of our people and have cleared out the marauders from the near property as well as their vehicles.”
“Thank you, Mr. Harris,” Doyle was incredibly tired. He had fallen asleep in the hearth room twice in the past few hours and was having trouble staying awake if he didn’t stay on his feet and keep moving. “Is there a final accounting for the losses at this point?”
“Well, we don’t know how many escaped,” Harris shifted his weight on his feet. “We know several of them turned and high-tailed it out of here once their leader went down, the one with the Mohawk. It looked like ten or so got away in two of their trucks, but it was hard to tell with all the smoke and the chaos of the fighting. We contacted both the group to the north and those in the south that a group of thugs may be heading their way.”