Raging Storm

by Vannetta Chapman

  “I don’t know.”

  He thought that would be the end of it, but she reached out a hand, squeezed his arm, and said, “Thank you.”

  And how did he answer that? How did he admit to Shelby that he would sacrifice his life for her?

  The next hour passed without encountering anyone else, unless you counted the two times they heard cars in the distance. Both of those times, Shelby had frozen in the middle of the road.

  “Long way off,” he’d assured her. “We’re about halfway. Maybe one more hour.”

  During the day he’d done a good job of keeping his doubts at bay. But as the clock ticked toward midnight, those doubts pressed in, nearly pushing him to the ground.

  Had it been foolish to split up their group?

  Did Patrick and Bianca and Bhatti get away unharmed?

  Would they encounter Spike again?

  How many other groups like his were in the city?

  The questions circled round and round, and try as he might he couldn’t find a single answer.

  Soon Shelby was pulling him to a stop and pointing to a barely discernible shadow to their northwest.

  “That it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Should we call first? So they don’t, you know, shoot us?”

  “Good idea.” He pulled out a flashlight, and Shelby checked her watch.

  “We wait here until quarter past the hour.”

  Thirty minutes later, he turned on the radio.

  “Patrick, you there?”

  Nothing but silence. Shelby was standing close enough that he could hear her breathing, practically feel her pulse. “Try again,” she said.

  “Patrick, come in. Are you there?”

  “We’re here.” He must have been standing guard because he sounded wide awake.

  “Just knocking on the door, buddy. Shelby didn’t want you to shoot us.”

  “I always said she was the brains of the group.”

  “Okay. We’re coming in.”

  “West side.”

  They hurried across the field, their steps lighter, anticipating the reunion.

  Bianca and Bhatti were sleeping, but they both struggled to a sitting position as Max and Shelby and Patrick greeted one another. Patrick slapped Max on the back and pulled Shelby into a hug, sweeping her off her feet.

  Bianca hopped up and practically threw herself at the two of them. Bhatti shook Max’s hand and nodded toward Shelby.

  “Tell us what happened,” Max said.

  So they sat near an upturned flashlight—Bianca and Shelby next to one another, Patrick and Max on either side of the girls, and Bhatti completing their circle.

  “Not much to tell.” Patrick placed his rifle on the ground next to him. “They managed to shoot out one of your side view mirrors.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yeah. We got lucky.”

  “We saw you and Bianca peel away, but then nothing else.”

  “Bianca’s driving is as good as mine, but it was Bhatti who saved us.”

  All eyes turned to the doctor, who shrugged his shoulders and offered no opinion.

  “What happened?” Shelby asked.

  “They never would have caught my Mustang. That old jalopy of yours, though—well, they were gaining on us.” There was no mistaking the laughter in Patrick’s voice, but then he grew more serious. “The SUV was bearing down on Bianca.”

  “And what? You shot out the tires?”

  “I shot the driver,” Bhatti said.

  “You killed him?” Shelby’s voice rose in alarm.

  Patrick came to Bhatti’s defense. “Kill or be killed, Shelby. We didn’t have a choice. We’re fortunate that Bhatti knows his way around a rifle.”

  Max was watching the doctor, trying to put together several things at once.

  On the first night he’d met him, Bhatti had admitted that he “needed some distance from a situation in Austin.”

  Shelby claiming she’d seen him bury something under a tree in Max’s backyard.

  Bhatti’s comment about the IED.

  And now this—his proficiency with a rifle.

  Patrick was describing how they’d found the barn, confirmed it was empty, and then moved inside. He’d been checking the perimeter every thirty minutes but hadn’t seen any sign of other people.

  Max was listening to Patrick and thinking about Bhatti, when suddenly the quietness of the evening was broken by the sound of a truck.

  They stood and grabbed their weapons. Max climbed up the stairs into the loft. When he looked out the window, he knew they were in trouble. More than a dozen men were quietly exiting the truck, moving into position to surround the barn. He could see them because the guy in charge—an older guy with a completely white beard and mustache, had turned on a spotlight which would blind anyone coming out the front of the barn.

  And then the man picked up a bullhorn. “Leave your weapons inside and come out with your hands up.”

  THIRTEEN

  Carter couldn’t sleep.

  He’d put in a full day of work. In fact, his muscles were screaming at him to stay in bed, which his mother had set up on the back porch of the cottage.

  Max’s parents had suggested that he move back into the main house, but Carter resisted and they didn’t push. He wanted to be here when his mother came back. He wanted to believe that she was coming back. And besides—if he wasn’t safe here, he wasn’t safe anywhere.

  He couldn’t blame his insomnia on hunger. Georgia had fried the catfish to perfection.

  His blood sugar level was fine. He’d checked it before climbing into bed.

  But something had woken him up. What?

  The storm had long since passed through, and everything smelled fresh—clean, even. Seeing the dark clouds approach, they’d gathered up every pot and bottle they could find and set them out in the yard.

  “But we have the springs, and you have a hand pump on your well.” He’d been surprised when he first arrived at High Fields to learn there was water when you turned on the tap. Roy had explained that there was a generator in the pump house. When the electricity went out, the generator kicked in. In the first week he’d switched back over to the old windmill built next to the pump house in order to conserve generator power. It ran on gas, and there was a limited supply of that.

  As he’d set out the pots to catch rain water, Carter wondered if Roy was looking for work to keep him busy. But Max’s father wasn’t like that. Carter was quickly learning that there was plenty of work on a ranch. No one had to think up extra things to do.

  “The springs can go low,” Roy explained. “Down to a trickle in July or August. I’ve seen it happen before.”

  “What about the well?”

  “It’s never gone dry, but twice the water level has dropped so low that we had sand running into the kitchen sink. Not something that made Georgia happy.”

  So they’d put containers everywhere and waited. In his mind, Carter began designing a new water reclamation system. With the surface area of the barn’s roof, they should be able to catch quite a bit. They could store it in barrels or tanks and use it to water the vegetable garden. He’d even sketched out some ideas and shown them to Roy, who had nodded and said, “Good to have you around, son. I never would have come up with that. Max said you were a bright one.”

  Max had said that about him?

  The rain hadn’t disappointed them, but the storm had passed through hours ago.

  Why was he awake?

  Then he heard it again, the sound of wheels on gravel. He’d fallen asleep fully dressed, so all he had to do was put on his shoes and grab his rifle. He made it outside the same time that Roy did.

  “Georgia needs you to go with her.”

  “Where?”

  “There’s been an accident. Tate Markham was hurt.”

  “What about the vet? Wouldn’t he be better able to—”

  “Jerry Lambert left yesterday for Hamilton looking for more livestock vacc
ine. I want you to go and help however you can.”

  Georgia hurried out the front door, paused to squeeze her husband’s arm and nod at Carter, and then she was practically running toward the idling truck.

  “Should I leave my rifle?”

  “Always keep that rifle with you, son. Now hurry. Don’t want to keep them waiting.”

  Carter didn’t have time to ask why he was going and why Roy was staying at High Fields, but he didn’t have to wonder for long.

  “Roy is passing the word on for the guards on roadblock duty to be on the lookout.” Georgia cleared her throat. “Andy, how did it happen?”

  “Ambushed down near the low water crossing an hour ago.”

  “Any idea who did it?”

  “No, but if I find out, the person will regret the moment he pulled the trigger.”

  Georgia didn’t respond to that. She waited, and then she asked, “Why was he out so late?”

  The man—he must have been Tate’s father—rubbed a hand over his face. He’d never once glanced back at Carter or over at Georgia. His eyes were completely focused on slinging the truck around corners and crossing cattle guards at a speed that rattled the fillings in Carter’s teeth.

  “A girl. He snuck out to go and see a girl.”

  “And the injury?”

  “Shoulder.”

  Carter still couldn’t fathom why Georgia had wanted him to ride along. How could he help? For that matter, how could she? They slammed to a stop in front of a double-wide trailer with a rather large deck built across the front. Tate’s father jumped out of the truck and took the steps two at a time, Georgia close on his heels.

  Carter glanced around before entering the home.

  A small Chevy S-10 truck was parked in the middle of the yard. Carter walked over, reached out, and touched the bullet hole in the front windshield. The driver’s door remained open. Peering inside, he was able to make out dark, wet spots on the upholstery. He shut the door, shifted his rifle to his left hand, and hurried toward the house—skirting around a basketball, a bicycle, and a box of cans that someone had been using for target practice.

  There was a single light on in the living room. A boy of about ten years old sat on the couch, his legs pulled up and his arms circled around them. He nodded toward the left, and Carter made his way down a darkened hall.

  He stepped into a small bedroom, probably the size of his room back in Abney. There were two beds and one dresser. A lantern on the dresser bathed the teenager lying on the bed in a bright light. Black curtains had been pulled across the window.

  “I’m going out to keep watch.” The father turned to Carter. “You come and get me if anything…”

  For a split second the hardened expression on Andy Markham’s face cracked. It was like watching a curtain be pulled back to reveal the man underneath. The naked pain and fear there reminded Carter of Kaitlyn’s mom the day of her funeral. It reminded him of the hurt and bitterness that he was still fighting to overcome. Bile rose in his throat, and he feared he might lose last night’s dinner, right there in Tate Markham’s room as the boy bled to death from a gunshot wound.

  “Come get me if anything changes.”

  And then Andy Markham was gone.

  Georgia pulled Carter to the far side of the room. “I’m going to need your help. I need you to hand me things. Follow my instructions closely. We have to work quickly, and we have to do it right. We won’t get a second chance at this.”

  “But I don’t know anything about gunshot wounds.”

  “Just follow my directions.”

  He wanted to run. Right that moment, he wanted to rush back through the living room, out into the night, and run until he found himself back in his old life. Only that life didn’t exist anymore, and Georgia needed his help. Tate needed his help. The younger brother on the couch and the father outside were depending on their help.

  So instead of running, Carter said, “All right. Tell me what to do.”

  FOURTEEN

  Max confirmed what he was seeing from all four windows of the barn’s loft, one situated on each side. Then he slung his rifle over his shoulder and hurried back down the ladder.

  Patrick and Bianca were at the west side of the main room, positioned on either side of the large doors. Shelby stood near a window on the north side, and Bhatti was covering the south. Max motioned them to the middle of the room.

  “There’s at least a dozen men, all armed, and they’ve surrounded the barn.”

  “What do they want?” Shelby hissed.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Patrick’s expression was inscrutable, his voice hard. “We’re not walking out of here without a fight.”

  “First thing we need to do is knock out the rack of spotlights on top of their vehicle, which can’t be done from here. The driver positioned the vehicle where we don’t have a shot.”

  “They’ve done this before.”

  “Yeah. Looks like we walked right into somebody’s territory.”

  Max nodded toward the ladder. “I think it could be done from upstairs, but it won’t be an easy shot.”

  “I’ve got it,” Patrick said.

  Max took his position near the doors.

  Patrick’s first shot missed, but the second found its mark, plunging them back into darkness. Max flipped his rifle’s thermal night scope to the on position. Standing to the side of a window, he rested the barrel of his rifle on the ledge and scoped left to right. At first he saw nothing, but then someone stepped out from the left. Max would have hit his mark, but the man fired at the same time he did. The window he was looking out of exploded.

  The bullet didn’t hit him, but shards of glass did.

  Shelby screamed.

  Max jumped away from the window.

  Bianca let loose a barrage of fire.

  “Save your ammo,” Max called out just as the barn doors burst open and the entire group rushed into the room.

  Eleven weapons trained on five.

  No one flinched. No one lowered their firearm. Then they were bathed in the headlights of the truck, and a twelfth man walked in—leaving no doubt in Max’s mind that he was the group’s leader. He scanned his people quickly to make sure no one was hurt and assessed what they were up against, his gaze pausing as he noted the blood running down Max’s face.

  With the precision and execution of the attack, Max would have expected a military guy to be in charge. The man who stopped in the center of the room didn’t look like a member of the armed forces. His stomach strained the buttons of a denim shirt. He sported a thick white beard and mustache, but his head was bald.

  Max couldn’t actually feel the cuts on his face—maybe because of the adrenaline coursing through his veins, or possibly the cuts weren’t deep. He forced himself to ignore the blood dripping down his forehead, cheeks, even into his eyes. Blinking, he gripped his rifle more tightly, careful to keep the leader in his sight.

  They might be outnumbered. They might die in the next few minutes, but if they did, this man would die with them.

  “Maybe we should all put down our weapons,” the older man said.

  “Why would we do that?” Patrick was perched halfway down the ladder, also training his rifle on the leader, and he looked completely at ease.

  “Because you’re on my property? Because you’re outnumbered? Because we’d rather talk than shoot? Take your pick.”

  “You have a funny way of starting a conversation,” Max said.

  “Didn’t know what we were going to find in here. Do yourself a favor and lower your weapons.”

  “Put yours down first.”

  “Not going to happen.” This from a man who had the shape of a professional athlete and was carrying an M-16.

  “It seems we have quite the standoff.” Instead of looking worried, the leader chuckled. He turned to a small, thin guy. “Micah. These folks seem to require a show of faith. You and your five men lower your weapons.”

  Max’s head jerked up at the man’s word
s. He finally took his eyes off the leader, glancing toward Patrick, who also looked startled.

  Could it be that simple?

  Could they trust what Pastor Tony had told them? Or was it a coincidence? The leader was studying them, waiting.

  If they fought, they had no chance of surviving. But if what he’d heard was the signal…

  He glanced again at Patrick, who nodded once. Pulling in a steadying breath, Max said, “I’m putting mine down, and so will the rest of our group.”

  Bianca and Shelby both began to protest, but Max had already set his rifle on the ground. “Trust me. Put them on the ground and take two steps back.”

  FIFTEEN

  Carter was pretty sure he was going to be sick.

  The boy lying on the bed looked to be fifteen or sixteen. The stench of blood filled the room, and he wished that he could open the window, turn on a fan, anything. But fans were a thing of the past, and opening the window would make them a target if anyone was out there.

  He watched as Georgia opened what looked like a makeup bag and began pulling out bandages and creams. “Can you sit up, Tate? I need to see if the bullet came out the other side.”

  The boy’s face was whiter than his sheets. His dark hair flopped into his eyes, and he looked left and right as if he couldn’t focus on one thing for longer than a split second.

  “Pa said it went through.”

  “Let me see for myself.” She slipped on a pair of disposable gloves and motioned for Carter to do the same. “Help me sit him up.”

  Pulling scissors from her bag, she cut away the blood-soaked shirt. “All right. That’s good. Carter, hand me the bottle of water.”

  He didn’t notice it had a squirt top until she began cleaning the wound, squirting the water on it in short rhythmic bursts. Tate didn’t holler, though it must have hurt. Instead, he began to shiver, his teeth actually knocking together. Sweat broke out across his forehead, and his breathing became faster.

  “He’s going into shock,” Georgia explained. “Try to keep the blankets tight around him. Can you do that and help me?”

  Carter nodded and yanked up on the blankets with his right hand. With his left he held a clean towel below where she was working, to catch the water as it ran off the wound—stained with blood and containing bits of cloth.