Defiance: Judgment Day (The Defending Home Series Book 3)

by William H. Weber

  “Looks deserted to me,” Dale noticed, nudging Alberto forward.

  “Come back,” Carlos shouted, pointing energetically toward the road.

  A Mexican police SUV was heading toward the ranch, followed by a billowing cloud of dust. Dale hurried back up the ridge and onto the other side. After tying Alberto’s reins to the branch of a nearby tree, he went back to Carlos, who was lying prone. From here it looked to Dale as though the local police were checking on every conceivable hideout for any signs of him. Precisely the reason he and Carlos had made a point of staying off the main roads.

  The police SUV braked by the main house and five heavily armed men got out. Carlos was already watching them through the scope of his .22. Dale returned to the mule and got the kid’s Remington 70 and a handful of .30-06 Springfield cartridges. When he returned, they watched through their respective scopes as three policemen spread out to search the nearby buildings while the other two knocked on the front door of the ranch. A short, stocky man with a deep tan appeared. The three of them spoke for a few minutes, the police moving their arms in an animated fashion. To them, Dale was a dangerous criminal on the loose, a terrorist, one who needed to be stopped and brought to justice as soon as possible.

  “Sometimes people don’t know what they don’t know,” Dale muttered under his breath.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Dale?”

  Dale patted the kid on the back. “Never mind.”

  On the other side of the ridge, Alberto let out a loud whinny, followed a moment later by another.

  “Something’s gotten into him,” Carlos said, snaking away to check it out. By the time the kid disappeared, the mule was in a full panic.

  Down below, one of the Mexican police began searching the horizon for the source of the noise.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dale said, swearing as he swung around to find out what the problem was. Alberto had sure picked a heck of a time to have a temper tantrum.

  Dale wasn’t quite there yet when he heard Carlos cry out for help. Beneath that was the low growl and vicious yapping of a pack of coyotes. Dale arrived to find Alberto surrounded by at least twelve of the creatures, kicking wildly. Nearby, Carlos swung his .22 like a bat, trying to frighten them off. Both of them knew firing a shot would only draw the police. But at least some of these wild animals had grown up never knowing man. There was no fear in their eyes, only a deep hunger. Two of them waited for Alberto’s hind legs to recoil from a kick before they lunged, clamping into flesh and bone with a mouthful of sharpened teeth. The mule shrieked, streaks of blood trickling down its leg. To his left, Carlos backed away, tripping to the ground over an exposed root, as another coyote rushed in. The boy held his rifle out with both hands to ward off the beast, which clamped onto the weapon’s wooden grip, snarling as it tried to yank it from his grasp. Carlos’ vulnerability drew in six more snarling animals, who circled him, ebbing and flowing with his frantic efforts to scare them away.

  Whatever their hesitation before in firing their weapons, Dale knew now there was no other choice. In a rapid, practiced motion, he drew his pistol and emptied half the magazine, swiveling from one animal to the next. In a matter of seconds, four were dead and two more seriously wounded. Dale spun toward Alberto and let off another three shots. More coyotes dropped to the ground, their teeth stripped bare even in death. The few that remained scattered at once, yelping as they scurried into the low brush.

  Dale pulled Carlos to his feet and patted the dirt off his back.

  “You get bit?” he asked, checking him over.

  The boy held up his rifle, displaying the teeth marks dug into the grip of his .22.

  “She’ll live,” he said. Alberto would too, although threads of blood were running down his back leg. “Do you think the police heard us, Mr. Dale?”

  Dale frowned. Of course they had.

  Chapter 18

  Brooke

  That morning Brooke and Caleb were heading toward the second of Nobel’s weapons caches when they spotted a man with a dog heading south along Mason Road. This was a particularly dangerous location since Mason intersected with Charleston, the street where the family compound was located. But more than that, Mason was close to where they’d been held and tortured by the Brigade.

  Caleb slowed as they approached the man. He was thin and disheveled with a leash in one hand and the handle to a cart in the other.

  “Is that Billy?” she wondered, recognizing the funny way the man walked. It took her another second to realize who his companion was.

  “Stop!” she shouted, opening the car door and jumping out.

  “Duke,” she shouted, watching the dog tear out of the old man’s grasp and charge her, his tail wagging furiously. He whimpered like a homesick child as he tried to lick her face through the muzzle.

  “Where were you?” she asked him as though he could answer. “We thought we’d never see you again.” She tore off his muzzle, which only excited him more. Caleb got out and swung around the front of the Subaru.

  Brooke rose to her feet, Duke continuing to dance around her. “Down, boy,” she said, holding out her palm. The dog sat, tail wagging, a bundle of raw energy.

  “Mr. Forest, where did you find him?” she asked, elated.

  “Found him? More like he found me,” Billy said, crankier than usual. “Those army folks are all over your property. Went over there to do some trading as usual and was told none of you lived there. But I knew something was fishy when I heard Duke barking inside like he had something real important to say. I figure someone musta opened a door to pee him and he made a break for it, leash and all. And if you’re wondering about that face mask he was wearing, well, I wasn’t gonna dare take it off. We don’t get along all that well, he and I.”

  Brooke poured some water into a small cup and the dog lapped it up greedily.

  “Why are you out here?” Caleb asked. “Looking for new trading partners?”

  “Ha,” the old man said. “I wish. Those military types showed up this morning and forced me out of my own house. Can you believe it? It’s bad enough Sheriff Gaines and his posse stole the water from my well, but now they gone and took everything.” Billy was on the verge of tears. “Got what few things I could and started walking down the street, trying to figure out where an old sod like me should go. That’s when old stinky breath came charging out of the brush. Thought I was gonna soil myself. ’Scuse my cussing,” he said to Brooke. “Turns out he didn’t try to eat me. We were just two lost souls swimmin’ in a fish bowl.” He paused. “Pink Floyd wrote that one, not me, so I can’t take credit, but it seems fitting enough, I thought.”

  Caleb ushered Billy into the Subaru, loading the items from his cart. Duke got into the back seat next to him. “You better behave,” the old man said, aiming a crooked finger in his direction.

  Duke stopped panting long enough to let out a whimper.

  “He probably ain’t had a thing to eat in a few days,” Billy said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out bits of chicken. “I suppose since that mouth of yours is free, we might as well feed you.” He held his hand palm down, but Duke wouldn’t take it. “Come on now, boy, I know you want it.”

  Brooke leaned back as Caleb made a right onto Joseph Drive. “My dad’s trained him not to take food from strangers.” She reached out her hand and Billy gave her what he had. “It’s all right, Duke, go ahead.”

  The dog dug in, devouring it in seconds, licking her fingers to make sure he got every last morsel.

  “There’s something else you should know,” Billy said, reaching into his other pocket for a pepperoni stick. “I guess you might say it’s another reason I knew things at your place weren’t quite right. These last few days I seen a number of trucks coming and going.”

  Brooke turned her head, puzzled. “What sorta trucks?”

  “Water trucks. Three or four at a time, day and night. Seems they’re trying to do the same thing they did to me. Suck out every last drop until there’s no
thing left.”

  •••

  Dale

  By the time Dale and Carlos climbed the small crest overlooking the ranch, they saw that two of the four Mexican police officers were heading toward them. Assault rifles drawn, the officers threaded over the uneven terrain, weaving past sandpaper bush, using juniper trees for cover. It was clear they weren’t sure who they were up against.

  The handful of shrubs along the ridge where Dale and Carlos were positioned provided some concealment, but not much. Judging by the way the cops were moving forward, they seemed intent on climbing the outcropping to see what was on the other side. If Dale allowed them to get that close, then it would already be too late. Working the bolt, he chambered a round, estimating the distance between him and his target. He would start with the guy on the left, the one closest to him. Dale realized there hadn’t been time to ensure that Carlos’ rifle was sighted properly. He would have to aim for center mass and hope for the best. Slowing his breathing, Dale worked the bolt, sending a .30-06 round into the chamber and then lowering his eye over the scope. His target wasn’t stationary, which would make the shot that much more difficult. Dale swiveled the crosshairs so that they rested over his target’s left breast pocket. Since the man was shifting to the left, he hoped leading the target would help land the round dead center. Holding his breath, Dale gently squeezed the trigger. The rifle let out a deafening crack as it rocked back, biting into his shoulder. A spot on the ground just over the target’s head exploded, tossing up a plume of fine powder.

  “Down and to the right,” Carlos called out. “So sorry, Mr. Dale. I forgot to tell you, she always shoots high and left.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” Dale said sarcastically, working the bolt and eyeing the scope.

  Return fire began pouring in from the two men in the desert as well as the other two near the ranch.

  Bullets buzzed overhead. Others thudded into the earth in front of them, kicking up dirt and temporarily obscuring their view.

  “Concentrate on the one to the right,” Dale barked. “If they pin us down, then we’re as good as dead.”

  Carlos curled his fingers into the okay signal and went to work, firing and sliding the bolt on his .22. The round from his less powerful rifle might not knock a man off his feet, but it was more than enough to do the job. Besides, these guys weren’t wearing any protective vests. At least that removed one advantage.

  Dale’s target scurried to the right, ducking behind the base of a barrel cactus. He was trying to move around and come at them from behind. Although Walter wasn’t here to offer his tactical opinion, Dale instinctively understood that would be a very bad thing.

  The guy’s left foot was exposed and Dale decided to take the shot. Down and to the right, he whispered, lining up the crosshairs before squeezing. The attacker’s left foot exploded in a red mist and he rolled over in agony. The pain must have been excruciating. His days of hopping around like a bunny were done. But the cactus wasn’t cover, was hardly more than a bit of squishy concealment and he sent a volley of rounds through the desert plant, killing the man behind it.

  Dale then swung over to the men near the stables. One was perched over a rain barrel, using it as a shooting platform. Dale made the same estimation with his scope, fired and watched the man’s ear get sliced in two. At once, he dropped behind the barrel, clutching his wound. It wasn’t fatal, but just enough to force his head down for a bit.

  Dale then went to help Carlos, whose target was shooting at them from behind a boulder. Dale zeroed in and squeezed the trigger, but instead of the thunderous boom he’d been expecting, he heard only a tiny click.

  “I’m empty,” he shouted at Carlos, who fired, his own shot sparking off the large rock.

  “In my backpack,” Carlos said, ducking an incoming round that landed right in front of him.

  There was no time for that, Dale decided, opting to swing the Fx-05 around instead.

  He nudged the selector switch to semi-automatic. The Fx-05 had a built-in four-power scope which was more than enough to engage the guy behind the rock. Dale waited for his head to pop up before rattling off three shots. Two of them pinged off the boulder while the third struck the top of his skull, killing him instantly.

  “Mr. Dale, they’re leaving,” Carlos shouted, taking aim at their vehicle with his .22.

  The scope on the assault rifle wasn’t going to give him the accuracy he needed to stop them.

  Squinting from the pain, Dale rolled over and hurried back toward Alberto and Carlos’ backpack. He spotted it plopped in the shade and rummaged through it, feeling precious seconds slipping between his fingers.

  “Come on, come on!” Then finally he opened a side compartment, dug his hand in and felt a jingle, his fingers recognizing the familiar feel of the .30-06 at once. Instead of filling his pocket, he grabbed the entire backpack and both blankets off of Alberto’s back. By the time he returned, the police SUV had made a U-turn and was heading down the long dirt road which led to the highway.

  Hands shaking, Dale loaded the Remington 70, tossing the blankets down on the eastern side of the ridge. A searing bout of pain screamed from his belly as he lowered himself onto the ground. He eyed the wonky scope, knowing he needed to lead the target and adjust accordingly. He went for one of the front tires first, squeezing the trigger and watching it explode. The SUV lost control, swerving off the road, crashing through a patch of desert shrubs and kicking up a roiling beige cloud. But they didn’t stop, even though their front right tire was nothing but a silver rim. Dale placed a second shot through the passenger side window. Only after did the SUV drift to a stop. Dale glanced up from the scope. Maybe they were stunned, he thought, half expecting the vehicle to tear away any second. But it didn’t.

  “Stay here and keep an eye on that house,” Dale said, leaving the Remington in favor of the FX-05. Jogging down the slope, he worked his way behind the SUV and switched the selector to fully automatic. If either of the two crooked cops inside were still alive, he wanted to make sure neither had an angle on him.

  Weapon leveled, he closed in on the vehicle. With a blown-out front tire, he wasn’t sure they would have made it back to town to notify the cartel. But it wasn’t a chance he could take. Drawing even with them, Dale opened the back door, peered in and saw the driver’s head slumped over the wheel. From here he couldn’t see the passenger. He ordered him to raise his hands. The man partially complied, raising a single bloody hand into the air. After transitioning to his pistol, Dale swung open the passenger door. Resting at the living man’s feet was his assault rifle, which Dale removed along with his pistol. The other hand was clutching his neck. Dale’s shot must have gone through his throat and into the driver’s head. By the time Dale swung around to collect the driver’s weapons, the passenger was dead.

  He searched the SUV for anything useful, finding a green knapsack containing a thirty-two-ounce water bottle, two burritos and three magazines loaded with 5.56. That gave him five total, not including the one loaded in the rifle already.

  From there, he waved Carlos forward and headed up the road back toward the ranch. The straps from the three long rifles dug into his shoulders as he went. Minutes later, Carlos arrived at the stable, Alberto in tow.

  “Saddle us up a couple of horses, would you?” Dale asked, leaning the assault rifles in a corner. He then popped a fresh magazine into his pistol before making his way toward the ranch house.

  “Where are you going?” the kid asked.

  “Inside,” Dale replied coolly, motioning to the house with the end of his gun. “Gonna talk this rancher into selling us two of his horses.”

  “What if he works for the cartel?” Carlos said, skeptical.

  Dale pulled back the slide. “Don’t worry, I won’t be doing the talking.”

  Chapter 19

  Sandy

  Sandy woke up feeling nauseated, unable to shake the feeling no matter how hard she tried. Nourishment was scarce enough that she dared not st
ick her finger down her throat, in spite of the overwhelming temptation. Over the last two to three weeks, a combination of poor diet and stress had taken their toll. The first proof of it had come when she’d missed that time of the month. Sandy remembered watching an old documentary on how the same thing had happened to women living in Nazi concentration camps, during the Second World War. She might not be hemmed in by an electrified fence, but back at Fortress Hardy, there was no denying that was how she’d sometimes felt.

  Stress and lack of nutrients aside, there was another possible explanation for the symptoms she was experiencing. Since she’d rekindled her relationship with Dale, the two of them had become intimate, which had surely not been lost on the others. In spite of working very hard to keep things on the lowdown, it was inevitable that word spread when you were living in such cramped quarters. Discreet or not, she was convinced they had used all the necessary precautions. Besides, if she was pregnant… she paused, having difficulty even thinking the words. She forced herself nevertheless. If she was pregnant, would she be feeling it this soon?

  Given the upheaval they’d faced over the last few days and weeks, it was hard to be sure of anything. There was a way, of course, to find that certainty, but it meant taking a trip to the pharmacy in town, a place that had already been looted many times over.

  “I could use your help with something,” Nobel said, scanning her clipboard while chewing the end of a pencil. Sandy had discovered it was a habit carried over from her days keeping inventory for the gun shop. Nobel glanced up, her eyes shifting over Sandy’s pale complexion. “You don’t look so well.”

  Nobel took an almost involuntary step backwards. It was a move that confused Sandy until she suddenly remembered. They were living in a post-H3N3 world, where things like the common cold or food poisoning often took on far more sinister overtones.