by Joe Nobody
The man with the shotgun laughed, his head scanning the immediate vicinity. “I don’t see any trouble. I think you’re just blowing hot air.”
“Just shoot him,” added his partner in crime. “There’s a town up ahead, and this might be a busy road.”
“Why waste the shells,” came the response. “I’m sure these fellas won’t mind shucking off those fancy duds and taking out whatever they got in the pockets.”
“I’m not going to warn you again,” Cory stated. “You have no clue what you’re dealing with. Move on.”
The two bushwhackers threw a glance at each other, the man with the shotgun shrugging his shoulders. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, lifting the 12-gauge to take aim. “I should just kill ’em and be done with it. Shame to put double-aught holes in them nice duds.”
Cory saw Grim rise up from behind the two nomads, his outline magically appearing less than 50 feet away from the highwaymen. “He’s not going to like that,” Cory asked, pointing over the shoulder of the 12-gauge’s owner.
The robber grunted, a smirk cracking the lines of his dirty face. “You expect me to fall for that old trick?”
“I got no problem shooting you in the back, friend,” Grim snarled.
The sound of a voice so close and so unexpected panicked the scattergun’s owner. Reacting on pure instinct, he tried to swing the weapon around to cover Grim, but instead smacked his partner in the head with the barrel. Cory charged.
It was only three steps to the thieves. They were bone-thin, under-nourished, and in shock over Grim’s sudden appearance. All of this flashed through Cory’s mind as his shoulder slammed into his target’s sternum. But what overrode all other thoughts was the man’s body odor.
Spearing his opponent to the pavement, Cory heard the sickening snap of bones, followed instantly by a howling of pain. He saw the shotgun rattle across the blacktop.
His next thought was of the pistol in the other bandit’s belt.
Rolling free of his initial target, Cory tried to orientate himself on the new foe, but he wasn’t there. The sound of footfalls explained the absence, the crook evidently deciding he didn’t need a new wardrobe after all, and choosing to run like hell instead.
The three men from Cartersville watched the escaping outlaw as he made his way across a section of thigh-high grass and weeds that had once been a roadside pasture. It occurred to Cory that the guy was showing an exceptional amount of spunk for such a low looking and horrible smelling creature.
Bounding, hopping, and scurrying across the field, it looked like a clean getaway, until another coyote brown figure rose up from the undergrowth directly in the escaping man’s path.
Kevin’s rifle stock struck the man’s head with a vicious butt-stroke, the impact so brutal the renegade practically did a back flip.
After verifying his opponent was out of the fight, Kevin looked back at Cory and shrugged his shoulders. “Ooops.”
“Pick him up and bring him back over here,” Grim ordered, strolling up to join the trio from Cartersville.
Nodding, Kevin bent over the unresponsive man at his feet, and then recoiled. “I ain’t picking him up, sir. No way.”
Grim, thinking the pistolero was putting up some sort of resistance, began jogging toward his youngest team member, M4 carbine snapping shoulder high.
Kevin clarified his disobedience quickly. Backing away in horror while aiming his rifle at the threat, he wrinkled his nose and said, “Ewwww… this guy’s got head lice crawling all over his scalp. I ain’t picking him up… no way… sir.”
Pulling up short from his rescue-assault, Grim started laughing at Kevin’s reaction. The humor was contagious, every man on the road joining in with a hearty chuckle.
“What?” Kevin questioned. “What’s so funny?”
Shaking his head, Grim replied, “Nothing, son. Nothing at all. Just tie a piece of paracord around the vermin’s foot and drag him over here.”
“But he smells really bad,” came the response.
Much to Kevin’s puzzlement, another round of chuckles rose from the onlookers, Cory regaining his composure first. “Is he still breathing?”
“I don’t think so. I… I crushed his skull,” Kevin replied, scowling down in disgust at the body.
“Well, just take his weapon and come on back here,” Grim ordered, shaking his head at the kid’s bug-revulsion.
With two fingers extended gingerly, Kevin bent over. He reemerged holding the old revolver at arm’s length, examining it for lice eggs or creepy crawlers.
“Good move on the take down,” Grim said to Cory. “I’d been watching those two scumbags for the last 15 minutes and could have shot them any time, but the gunfire might have drawn unwanted attention.”
Nodding his understanding, Cory turned to his two guests from Cartersville. “Gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to Grim and Kevin. They’re part of my SAINT team. We’re all from the Alliance of West Texas.”
It took less than ten minutes of conversation before Victor and the doctor got the picture. After deciding both of them were trustworthy, Grim even went so far as to fill them in on Nick’s diversion plan.
While Cory and Kevin tied up the surviving bandit, Grim explained their association with the big man who was causing such a ruckus with Mr. Gospel’s security forces.
The doc got it first. “So all of this has been staged intentionally to undermine Stan’s control of the town. You’re trying to sow the seeds of an uprising.”
“Yes, yes we are, and we need your help,” responded Grim. “We don’t give a rat’s ass if the town overthrows the local dictator or not. What we do care about is the citizens being able to travel and trade freely. Our experience has been that if people see things are better elsewhere, they’ll take the steps to improve things at home.”
Victor chimed in, “If this Alliance is all you say it is, why you didn’t just show up at the south gate with hundreds of armed men?”
“We’ve done that before,” Grim explained, “and it didn’t work out so well. The ruling council is trying to walk a fine line between ensuring everyone’s basic freedoms and being a conquering force. We are authorized to induce and promote internal changes, but invasion isn’t an option.”
Both of the men from Cartersville seemed to accept that logic. “So Mr. Gospel has hundreds of semis full of goods… medicine and supplies that might have saved my family’s lives.”
“If there are more of the antibiotics Cory showed me, he could’ve saved thousands of lives,” the doctor added.
“But that would have caused a problem with the hordes of truckers showing up,” Cory said. “I bet if you go back and looked at the mortality rates of Cartersville’s citizens versus the new arrivals, the survival rate was much higher for those men who were loyal to Gospel.”
Grim waved the group toward the discovered treasure, clearly worried about the time. “Come on, I’ll let you see with your own eyes.”
As the group began walking north, Grim turned to Kevin and instructed, “Move on ahead. Give me 30 meters off-center to the right; I’ll take a 40-meter flanking position to the left.”
Kevin nodded, jogging off to get ahead of everyone else and make sure there weren’t any surprises along the road.
Grim spun and informed the men from Cartersville what was going on. “I’ll meet you all a half-mile up the road.”
No one seemed to mind having the two armed men for protection.
Dr. Hanes climbed down from the semi-trailer, a look of pure disgust all over his face. “This is a crime… nothing less than a crime against humanity. I’ve known Stan since he moved to Cartersville, and I would have never thought the man capable of such an atrocious act.”
“With these supplies, we could have saved thousands and thousands of people,” Victor added. “I’ve always heard power was corruptive, but this is just insane.”
“We’ve seen it over and over again,” Grim responded. “I hope you both understand why our team
has been so deceptive and has had to resort to violence.”
Victor looked at his friend. “So, Doctor, how do we go about sparking a revolution in Cartersville?”
The physician rubbed his chin, deep in thought. “We can’t be overt with this information. Stan and the chief still command the loyalty of hundreds of armed men known for their trigger fingers. There has been enough death and destruction already. We need subterfuge and sedation.”
“We are willing to help,” Cory added. “But as Grim said, we’re limited in our scope.”
Kevin’s voice sounded from atop a nearby trailer, “I’ve got another security patrol coming down the east fence. You guys should take cover.”
After helping the two older men climb into the empty hold of an adjoining semi, Grim said, “Whatever you decide to do, it has to happen quickly. Our man Nick can’t stay out in the woods forever, and as soon as Gospel gives up hunting for his head, he’ll put all those guards back here to protect this stash. I don’t think there’s much doubt that will make your job all the more difficult.”
“You’re right,” whispered Victor. “Our community has suffered enough already. We need to take advantage of this window of opportunity to improve our situation.”
“If I know Stan’s heart, the word of your Alliance is going to make him tighten down on the town even more. Now’s definitely the time to act,” the doctor added.
A few minutes passed before a soft thud sounded on the semi’s wall, the result of Kevin tossing a small stone to indicate the “all clear.”
All four of the occupants squinted when Grim pushed open the rear doors, bright sunlight flooding their hide. “We need to get you men back to town,” the ex-contractor stated. “That way you can plot your treason in the comfort of familiar, secure surroundings.”
The return trip back to Cartersville passed without incident, Cory and the two locals strolling the distance in silence. Everyone was deep in thought.
They cleared the north gate without much harassment from the guards, then entering the Exchange and returning to Victor’s place of business.
Dr. Hanes turned to Cory with an inquisitive expression. “I’ve got an idea, but it is going to require some research. Can you and your team give me another day or two?”
“We’ll try. I don’t know Nick’s status. Like Grim said, he can’t be the rabbit indefinitely, and if Gospel does manage to corner him, a lot of people are going to die before my boss goes down.”
Victor’s grunt signaled his agreement. “I saw him take on four of the chief’s deputies. Clearly, he’s not a man to be trifled with.”
“Then I’m off to my reference books,” announced the sawbones, turning to exit. “I’ll be in touch through Victor as soon as possible.”
Nick was bored.
While the loft provided the most comfortable sleeping accommodations he’d experienced in days, by late afternoon he was experiencing cabin fever.
It was a common problem in his line of work. Over the years, he’d been deployed on countless hide and observe, scouting, stakeout, and intelligence gathering missions. Hours upon days, days upon weeks, and finally months of doing nothing more than hiding, watching and waiting.
He often mused that he would have never applied for Special Forces if he’d known of the boredom, been aware of the monotony. The tedium, and its mind-numbing effect, was increased exponentially as a result of the intensive training and discipline imposed on the teams.
Nick thought “the teams,” were men of action, trained specialists in the science of violence, death, and destruction. And they were.
But those duties seemed minimal compared to the countless hours spent doing nothing, much of that time requiring the utmost restraint and non-action.
Rising up on one elbow, he peered down into the barn’s central area, cautious that his movement didn’t draw the human eye. There were only two men still inside the structure, the rest having moved out hours ago to scour the forest in search of his skin.
How many times had he carefully peeked through a jungle canopy, hoping to catch a glimpse without being spotted? He’d lost count of the desert washes that had hidden his body, forgotten more of the spider holes, dugouts, trap doors, and ghillie suits than he could remember. They were all used to conceal his presence, so much of his lifetime’s work spent where he wasn’t wanted – or expected.
Silently, he smiled, thinking back to a miserably muddy, excessively cold hole in the Afghan mountains. A buzzing barn fly reminded him of a camel spider, the six-inch beastie deciding to visit his hide in the Syrian Desert. Those monsters have pinchers that can take off a man’s finger, he remembered. Maybe the hay loft isn’t so bad.
The dichotomy was a strain for men like Nick. They were immersed in the finest training available, instructed, drilled, and tutored in the art of ultimate violence. Each man was skilled to a high degree in the application of firearms, explosives, sabotage, and maneuver. Physical prowess was required to make the cut, the ability to endure extreme hardship, mental duress, and grueling standards of personal discipline all being minimum requirements.
Yet, the finest, most highly trained killing machines available spent copious amounts of time hiding, stalking, sneaking, and remaining as absolutely still as they possibly could. It was torture of a nature, a necessary evil that most accepted, but never embraced.
As time wore on, Nick’s restlessness continued to build, forcing the big man to resort to mental games of distraction. Images of Diana and Kevin were always near the surface of his conscious mind, his occupational downtime leading to the usual wonderings of what his loved ones were doing, how their days were progressing, and if they were thinking about him.
His thoughts of Kevin were especially poignant, his only son now carrying a rifle in harm’s way, probably no less than a few miles from his present position. He tried to redirect that negative energy, but didn’t succeed. If something happened to Kevin, he knew it would be a struggle to remain on the reservation.
With an extreme effort, he pushed it aside, entertaining himself by guessing the time of day from the scarce shadows within view. He made a serious attempt to eavesdrop on the limited conversations nearby. Tried to catch up on his sleep. Nibbled on the salted beef from his pack.
A ray of sunlight brought him back to the job at hand, the narrow slice of light finding a small gap in the planks that comprised the barn’s wall. About two hours of daylight left, he judged. The men hunting him in the woods would soon be returning, moaning and tired, bitching about yet another day of fruitless activity. The thought made Nick smile.
He then had an interesting idea, a concept that could make his new friends from Cartersville adore him even more.
There was only one man in the barn turned command center, an older gentlemen who seemed to be enjoying his afternoon nap. Nick listened carefully for several minutes, trying to determine if there was anyone else nearby. He heard only the occasional bird and buzzing insect.
He repacked and shouldered his ruck carefully, eyes darting between the main door and the snoring gent below.
A last minute idea popped into the operator’s head. Taking his Shemagh from around his neck, he quickly folded the square cloth into a triangle and then began wrapping it around his face and head, Palestinian style. When he’d finished, only a small slit reveled any part of his face, an inch-wide opening for exposing an assassin’s eyes.
Down the ladder he stepped, gradually letting his weight settle on each rung, hoping to avoid squeaks and creaks. The solid, packed earth ground felt good under his boots. It was only four steps to the sleeping man, Nick’s knife drawn and carried low to thrust. He gave the dozing occupant a rude awakening.
With one large hand, his cupped the poor fellow around the mouth, jerking up and back with unbelievable force, tipping chair and man over, and pinning both to the floor.
Nick was just above his victim’s shocked face, staring though his cotton mask with steely, green eyes that promised death. F
or a moment, the big man thought about screaming “Allahu Akbar,” the traditional Islamic battle cry, but decided his new friend’s heart probably couldn’t handle it. Bishop would do it, he decided.
The barn-keeper must have thought terrorists had invaded the Texas countryside, his face growing instantly pale as he peered up into the nightmare hovering just above his nose. Nick’s voice did little to settle the man’s heart rate, growling low and harsh. “Make a sound and I separate your head from your body,” he stated.
With his eyes darting between Nick’s knife and the unblinking, fanatical stare, the older gent nodded a rapid agreement.
Before removing his hand-gag, the big man let his victim feel the point in his throat.
“When are the patrols coming back?”
“I… please… I,” muttered the terrified prisoner.
“When!” hissed Nick, pretending to be on the edge of homicidal rage.
“Dusk,” came the whimpered response.
“How many men are guarding the transports outside?”
Nick saw a flash of bewilderment pass behind his new friend’s eyes, the man more frightened of not knowing the answer than anything else.
“Transports?” came the honest question.
If he hadn’t been playing crazed-madman, Nick would have laughed at the situation. “Transports. The buses and trucks used to haul the men from Cartersville. How many men are guarding them?”
The guy started to nod his understanding, but the tip of Nick’s blade made him reconsider the expression. “Three I think, maybe four.”
“Okay, friend. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to let you up, and we are going to stroll to the door. You are going to call to the guards, instruct them to come inside the barn. Tell them you just received some good news. Tell them anything you have to, but get them in here. Do you understand what I am telling you to do?”
“Yes.”