by Joe Nobody
Bishop looked down into the now smiling man’s eyes, his foe trying to nod in friendliness - despite the cold steel at his jugular.
“What should I do, Rocco?” Bishop asked. “Will they think I’m soft if I let him live?”
The local leader scratched his chin, moving just a step closer and lowering his voice. “I’d kick his ass a bit more, and then let him go if it were me.”
Bishop nodded, rising slowly, never taking his eye from the now humiliated hombre.
After a few of his friends had helped their bleeding comrade to his feet, he was quickly hustled around the corner. “I suppose a couple of his buddies will help him come back in a bit,” Bishop said to his host. “I bet they’ll bring rifles with them the next time.”
“No, I don’t think so. I know these men, have lived around them all my life. You showed honor and mercy. They’ll respect that.”
Bishop wasn’t so sure but accepted Rocco’s words with a nod. “Now, about my truck….”
There were at least 20 of them, spread across a skirmish line and making more noise than a herd of elephants on crutches. Nick was perched on a limb about five feet from the ground, using the elevation to scout the area ahead, making sure no one was catching up from behind.
Using his optic, he studied their spacing, speed, and alertness. A grunt escaped his throat, “Training, gentlemen,” he whispered, “it’s all about the training.” Exhaling in a deep sigh, he continued to observe what the ex-military operative considered a “Three Stooges” level of execution. “The semester is about to start – class will soon be in session. I’m your professor today, and our subject is how not to conduct a manhunt. There will be a quiz.”
The men hunting Nick were spread too far apart, 25-30 paces separating each member of the group. That formation left wide gaps – an abundance of opportunities to bypass their prey. Nick resolved to make them pay for the poor tactics.
For the last 24 hours, they’d been trying to close the umbrella, gradually tightening their patterns, slowly closing in from all points of the compass. The retired Special Forces Sergeant had played along, intentionally exposing himself now and then, teasing his pursuers.
He estimated there were at least 300 men tromping and stomping through this section of northeast Texas, all of them seeking to kill or capture his carcass. Now it was time to go on the offensive and really piss them off.
It didn’t take long to identify the perfect spot. Nick had watched the pursuers long enough to know they were neither professional, nor motivated. Just a few minutes of observation convinced him that they were definitely leaving stones unturned. There wasn’t any need to expend a lot of energy creating an expert hide.
Ten years ago, the Rocky Mountain juniper would have made an excellent Christmas tree. Thick, full branches of bushy, dark green needles indicated a healthy specimen, the evergreen foliage draping gracefully to the forest floor. Its abundant height now far exceeded the clearances of most household ceilings, the crown nearly 20 feet high, and excusing the specimen from holiday duties.
Nick found the tree’s younger sibling a short distance away. Being careful to twist and not snap, he removed three thin branches from the smaller example, each about as long as his arm.
Carrying his small bundle of kindling, the big man returned to the mature juniper and went prone. Lifting the ring of foliage, he backed in feet first, careful not to disturb the layer of old needles and leaves littering the ground.
Twice he had to risk making a noise, his way hindered by an offshoot bough or twig that required a hardy kick. As he backed in closer to the trunk, he pulled the kindling and his rifle along. He had to maintain a low profile to the ground, the tree’s lower branches scraping across his back and legs as he wiggled, pushed, and wedged his way underneath the canopy of green.
After a few minutes, it was clear he couldn’t move any further. Still, the big man was pleased with his hide. He was on the pine’s far side, away from the approaching hunters. This positioning was intentional, as he knew most searchers spent far more time looking ahead than behind. They would pass by him, probably without glancing over their shoulders.
And even if they did, he was nearly invisible. While it was impossible to be sure without a comrade verifying his cover, Nick believed a man could stand less than a foot away from the juniper and not be able to see him. It would take the most bizarre, unlikely set of circumstances for anyone to discover his position. The carbine would sing its song if things played badly.
Voices were the first indication that the pursuers were close. Nick grimaced, almost insulted at the lack of discipline his hunters were maintaining. As he lay listening intently, the big man heard everything from a prediction of cold temperatures that night, to a detailed observation of how short Dottie Mae’s skirt was yesterday. If he’d been leading these men through the pine forests of Fort Bragg, they would all have been doing pushups in the mud until their arms fell off.
Footfalls began to intermix with the weather and fashion reports, the occasional scrape of a boot or the snapping of a twig announcing their proximity. A few moments later, Nick spied a pair of blue jeans standing not more than four feet from his juniper fortress.
“Psst… hey dickweed… Steve… did you hear that?” whispered the blue jeans.
“What?” came a hushed, anxious voice from nearby.
“Did you hear that? I know I heard something…. Listen!” hissed the reply.
Nick’s heart rate jumped, his mind certain he hadn’t made a peep. What the hell could the man beside him have heard? His grip tightened on the M4, thumb poised on the safety.
“I don’t hear a damn thing,” came the eventual reply. “What is it?”
A loud, rumbling fart split the morning air, the flatulence immediately followed by belly-deep snickering.
“Asshole! What a fucking clown. C’mon, dude… this is some serious shit.”
“Oh, fuck off, shithead,” Mr. Blue Jeans replied. “That dude ain’t within five miles of here. He’s hightailed it back to West Texas or wherever the hell he’s from. Chill out.”
Nick’s underbrush grin had nothing to do with the amateur status of his opponents, nor their schoolboy hijinks. He was smiling because of the intelligence he’d just gathered. Priceless, he thought.
It was 30 minutes before the operator chanced exiting his hide. While the skirmish line of armed men had long faded into the deep woods, he had to be certain there weren’t any follow-on forces behind the initial formation. Again, his adversaries displayed their lack of experience.
He headed out in the direction opposite of his pursuers’ route, but his logic had nothing to do with putting distance between himself and a sizeable, armed foe. Nick understood that his enemy was losing interest in catching him, some of them even doubting he was still in the area. He had to correct their perspective.
It was two miles before he came upon their transports, three ATVs and four pickup trucks parked along what had been a muddy logging road. Shaking his head, Nick questioned his antagonist’s seriousness – not a single sentry had been posted. “Damn! Not even a welcoming party. A guy could take this personally.”
Pulling his fighting knife, he ducked underneath the first truck and rammed the thick steel blade into the gas tank. Within two minutes, the three remaining vehicles were all leaking petrol. He pushed the ATVs close to the pickups, allowing plenty of time for the flammable vapors to inundate the area. Satisfied with his handiwork, Nick then surveyed the terrain for a suitable path of escape.
Next, he retrieved a small limb lying on the ground, offering just enough dry foliage to feed the flame for a few moments. He held it under the still-flowing stream of fuel for a quick douse, and then stepped back to a safe distance.
His kit contained a book of waterproof matches for just such occasions. A second later, he lit the torch and tossed it under the nearest truck. There was a significant whoosh, and then a ball of fire that would have impressed even the most persnickety pyrom
aniac. Nick watched as the blaze leapt to the surrounding pools of gas, the inferno growing as it spread. Then he wistfully sighed and remarked, “Dang it! Left the marshmallows at home.”
Nick trotted away, heading off to find a hiding spot for the night.
When the remaining fumes inside one of the punctured tanks reached a critical temperature, the container exploded with noteworthy force. A huge, black cloud of ominous smoke and flame soared skyward as the detonation’s thunder rolled through the forest. Three more nearly-identical blasts soon followed.
The ex-Green Beret paused his stride, turning to watch the columns of fire and ash rising above the forest canopy. “That’s really going to piss someone off,” he smiled.
The massive bonfire was raging in full glory by the time the owners came rushing back. A long string of breathless men and boys appeared, hustling through the trees to see what was burning. The once-formed skirmish line was now a ragtag, undisciplined parade of markedly angry, cursing individuals.
Many of the former hunters began swearing about their bad luck, extended streams of foul language competing with the roar of the inferno. Others only shrugged their shoulders and started walking home.
Mr. Gospel wasn’t happy with being called out so late at night. He had just settled in, removing his boots for a quiet evening at home.
When the chief banged loudly at the front door, Standowski had answered with a shotgun. Despite the law and order his men maintained in Cartersville, in this day and age, prudent fellows said, “Hello,” while chambering a round.
“Stan, put that damn thing away,” the ex-city cop and longtime friend chided. “One of these days, you’re going to shoot me or one of my men.”
“With that stranger on the loose, I’m keeping it close at hand,” the town’s leader replied. “That son of a bitch is dangerous as hell.”
The silver-haired cop chuckled. “If I had been that drifter and wanted to murder your sorry ass, do you think I would’ve knocked?”
Standowski ignored the rebuttal, motioning his old friend inside. “What’s up?”
The head of Cartersville’s security forces delivered the bad news, informing the de-facto mayor of the destroyed vehicles and failure to capture the fugitive. Stan took it all in, only occasionally grunting or shaking his head.
“We have to catch that bastard, and we need to do it quick. I don’t care how many men we need to send out into those woods; I want that asshole standing trial, and then I want his head on a pike, garnishing the courthouse lawn.”
“Why, Stan? He’s gone now… and probably will never show his face around here again. I’ve already been reassigning men who were guarding the gates and the trailers, pulling manpower from every one of our outposts. We have people murmuring about the three boys he shot, rumors circulating all over town. Let it fade, my old friend. Let it drift away, and a week from now, no one will even remember it happened.”
But Mr. Gospel wouldn’t hear of it. “That’s how it starts! It’s the little things that snowball out of control, and pretty soon we’ve got political unrest. From there, it’s only a short distance to outright anarchy.”
The old cop shook his head. “So you want to make an example out of this guy, regardless of the cost?”
“You’re damned right I do. Look, my guys already hear gossip and whispered bullshit. People are talking about this Alliance and wondering if any of it’s true. Word is all over the Exchange and spreading out to the farms. You need to catch this asshole, and then we’ll have a little private persuasion session with him. Within a day, my boys will have him admitting he was lying about the whole ordeal.”
The former chief was pensive. “You really think letting Nick go is going to cause us that much trouble? I don’t know about that… I think you’re overreacting. My advice is to let him wander off, and the whole affair will die down into nothing.”
“But he’s not wandering off, Chief. He has not gone back to wherever he came from. You said yourself just yesterday that he could have slipped away a dozen times. Yet, he hasn’t chosen to do so. That man is up to something, stalking around out there in the woods and making us all look like fools. I don’t know what he’s got planned, but I’m sure we’re not going to like it.”
The chief couldn’t argue with Mr. Gospel’s logic. “I suppose you’re right, as usual. Tomorrow morning, I’ll put another hundred men on the hunt.”
“What about Greyson and his boys?” asked Stan.
“I thought about that, but you know what an asshole that guy can be. I hate dealing with that prick. He doesn’t give a shit about anybody but himself and that damn farm of his. The sons aren’t much better.”
Gospel nodded, “I know. I don’t care for him much either, but they were the best hunters around here before the collapse. They’ve got all those fancy hog-tracking doodads… thermal imagers… night goggles and gawd knows what else.”
The chief grunted, “Yeah, I know. Back in the day, they had better equipment than my department.”
“Offer old man Greyson a reward if he brings in our fugitive. Let him and those boys he’s always bragging about prove they’re the best hunters in East Texas.”
The sign at the end of the long driveway read, “Greyson Ranch: Safaris, Guided Hunts, Hunting Leases, and Equipment Rental.”
The chief pulled his cruiser to the sturdy gate, noting the main house still boasted electric lights. Mr. Greyson hadn’t been forthcoming when asked where he obtained the fuel for his generators.
The speakerphone buzzed, “What do you want, Chief?”
“I’ve got a proposition for you, Greyson. Stan sent me out to talk to you.”
“You don’t say,” came the static-filled reply.
The gate swung open via a humming motor, making the old cop wonder just how much electrical power the ranch could produce… and how it managed to do so.
He continued through the threshold, driving slowly along the winding drive. An image appeared at the edge of his headlights, a sole figure holding a tactical shotgun of wicked-looking configuration.
The chief stopped the car, shaking his head at the old man’s paranoia. “You won’t need that scatter gun, Greyson,” he announced as he exited the cruiser. “I’m here to hire you, not arrest you.”
“Hire me for what?”
The chief relayed the story of the fugitive troublemaker, highlighting that the man was a suspected thief, preying on the poor, nearly starving vendors at the Exchange. In addition, the wanted thug had blindsided a couple of the town’s deputies, assaulting the unaware officers without cause.
Greyson was pessimistic. “More like a couple of your boys got a little forward with the wrong guy,” the old coot grumbled. “No matter. What’s the job pay?”
“What do you want?”
The chief’s host scratched the salt and pepper stubble on his chin. “Well, for damn sure I ain’t interested in any of the monopoly money Standowski prints up. We can always use more ammo though. We need .308 and .338, and of course, a man can never have enough 12-gauge shells.”
“That might be arranged.”
“We’ll take 500 rounds, any mix if we bring him in alive. Our invoice will be 250 cartridges if he’s dead.”
The chief laughed, a pre-rehearsed reaction, no matter what the old man asked for. “Come on, Greyson. You know ammo is in short supply everywhere - they ain’t making it no more. The town will pay 300 rounds alive, 150 dead.”
Back and forth the negotiations went, the two men haggling more for the sake of victory than the actual terms of reward or cost.
When they finally came to an agreement, the chief extracted a map from his front seat. “We think he’s in this area here,” he explained, drawing an outline with his finger. “I don’t have anyone out there at night, so anybody you see is fair game. I’ll hold my boys back until 9 a.m., and then we’re coming in with 400 men.”
Greyson laughed, shaking his head. “My old granny could outfox that plan. She could hear you c
oming with 400 noisy-ass rednecks a mile away. We’ll get ’em, Chief. We’ll go tonight. You head back into town and get our reward all counted out and wrapped up with a pretty, little bow.”
Nodding, the old cop turned, strolling back to his car. As he reached the door, he heard Greyson call out, “Did you hear that, boys? We’re going hunting. Get your shit in one bag.”
Three outlines appeared, rising out of the darkness like ghouls in a horror flick. All of them sported high-powered rifles and were wearing various forms of camouflage. One of them, outfitted with a straw-colored ghillie suit, was less than 10 feet from the chief’s cruiser.
The old officer had to smirk as he put the car in reverse. “At least he didn’t call out all five of his boys for my welcoming committee.”
The shallow canyon was really more of a wash than a formation. Shoulder-high from top to bottom, Nick surmised that drainage had sculpted the terrain.
Ridges of sandstone protruded from the north side, one of the flat, shelf-like rocks extending over three feet from the earthen wall of yellowish soil. It was shelter of a sort, large enough to keep dew or rain off his sleeping bag or hide the flames of a small fire.
Using his knife to dig, pick, and scrape, he cleared the soft dirt to excavate enough space to accommodate his oversized body. It wasn’t the Waldorf, but he’d slept in worse places.
Next came the trip wires, barely over an inch above the ground and covered with dead foliage and pine needles. He spanned the primary approaches to his den, attaching the taunt ends to homemade noisemakers.
Standing back to inspect his labors, Nick surmised that only a well trained professional might avoid the web of early warning fishing line.
He gathered a small supply of the driest wood he could find, knowing the odor and smoke trail were risky. His desire for a hot meal and longing for steaming coffee overrode the odds of discovery. He’d keep the blaze small, the duration short. There was a slight breeze to disperse the aroma, and it was unlikely anyone would observe the smoke after dusk.