The four companions crouched in the brush, where the raised roadbed shielded them from the sniper. It was quiet.
“Dammit,” Trost groaned.
He slumped against the gravel embankment leading up to the shoulder of the highway. His face was pale, and he clutched his left forearm. Eliza crawled over and unbuttoned his shirt at the wrist, then rolled it up. One of the bones between his elbow and wrist bulged out, almost, but not quite breaking the skin.
“Your arm is broken,” Grover said.
Trost spoke through clenched teeth. “Thank you, I never would have noticed.” He pulled away from Eliza. “Worry about that sniper. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Time enough later.” He swallowed hard. “Not much of a shot, was he?”
“We have no way of knowing,” Miriam said. “He was probably waiting for us to get up that rise. The ground is flatter, with nowhere to hide. He could have picked us off one by one as we ran for cover.” She looked at Grover. “Where’s your shotgun?”
“On the saddle. I didn’t have a chance to grab it.”
“Oh, that’s nice. And there’s your horse over there, halfway to the hills. What else have we got?”
“I’ve got the Glock,” Trost said.
He leaned to show the pistol Miriam had lifted from one of Gibson’s guards, which was still holstered to his side. Miriam reached over and unbuckled the holster, then put it on herself.
Eliza showed her rifle. “It’s loaded.”
“Mine is too,” Miriam said. “That leaves us a dozen shells and a dozen more bullets in the pistol.”
“Not much for a shootout,” Eliza said.
“No. I wish we knew what we were dealing with.”
Grover pulled something out of the dirt. “Does this help?”
It was a bullet, presumably the one that had ricocheted off the pavement from the sniper’s second shot. It was impressive that he’d spotted it among the bits of broken glass, lead wheel weights, and plastic drink rings that had collected in the brush off the side of the road.
“Nice job, Grover,” Miriam said. “I knew there was a reason we didn’t eat you when the food ran low. Let me see that.”
The boy still looked shaken, and his hand trembled as he held out the bullet. Miriam turned it over, then held it up to her eye. Calm and steady. Eliza felt her racing heart slowing.
“It’s a 7.62,” Miriam said. “Most likely a sniper rifle. Lovely.”
“So he’s with the army,” Trost said. “What’s he doing out here?”
“He’s got a military rifle,” Miriam said. “That’s not necessarily the same thing. But these days, I wouldn’t rule it out either. Lone sniper might be all they can afford to guard this road.”
“How do you know he’s alone?” Grover asked.
Miriam pocketed the bullet. “If there were two shooters, we’d be dead. What do you think, six, seven hundred yards?”
Eliza thought about the flash of reflected sunlight. “Seems about right.”
“So we’re well within his range,” Miriam said. “Unfortunately, we can’t make the same claim.”
Eliza was still thinking about who might be shooting at them. “I don’t see how it’s the army. Why would they shoot at random travelers?”
“Maybe they wouldn’t,” Miriam said. “We don’t know anything yet. And I don’t much care. Whoever it is, I want him dead.”
That was all great, but here they were, short on weapons and ammo, and Trost with a broken arm.
“We may be at a tactical disadvantage,” Miriam said, “but we’re not four random idiots. We know how to shoot, how to defend ourselves. And we are God’s chosen people. We wear His garment, which is a shield and a protection.”
Had Miriam forgotten Eliza’s father, murdered by Elder Kimball? The Lord’s own prophet, cut down by his enemy. The undergarments hadn’t stopped a bullet then, so why would they now?
But Miriam wasn’t speaking for her benefit, Eliza realized as her sister-in-law sized up Grover. “You received your endowments in the temple last month, Brother Grover,” Miriam said. “You exchanged covenants with the Lord.”
Grover licked his lips. When he spoke, he sounded a little stronger. “Yes, I did. What do you need me to do?”
Miriam examined the two rifles and handed over the 30.06 to Grover. It was a type of gun he must have fired hundreds of times.
“You’re going to shoot this gun at that sniper.”
“That’s a really long shot.”
“You don’t have to hit him. You probably can’t, not from this distance. And he’s well concealed—you can count on that. So you have no hope of out-dueling him. Try that, and you’ll die. Your head will stick up a little, then he’ll fix you in his high-powered scope and blast a gaping hole from one end of your skull to the next.”
“Then I don’t understand. What am I trying to do?”
“You need to take plausible enough shots that it will draw his attention. While you’re doing that, Eliza and I are going to flank him. Send his miserable soul speedily unto hell.”
Eliza’s stomach dropped.
“And me?” Trost asked.
“You make sure Grover doesn’t get killed. Find him some rocks and have him push them onto the shoulder. He can shield his gun. Grover, do not stick your head up. Do not look for the sniper.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
“Trost, are you still wearing that old watch? Good, you keep time. Ten minutes, then Grover fires the first shot. After that, count the minutes. One shot every sixty seconds.”
“How about if Grover makes me a rock shield, then keeps time while I do the shooting?” Trost said.
Miriam shook her head. “No. Stick with the plan.”
“Eliza, don’t you think so? Tell her.”
“Listen to Miriam,” Eliza said. “She knows what she’s talking about.”
Trost persisted. “I know I’m injured, but I’ve got steady nerves. I could do it.”
“No,” Miriam said. “And that’s final. Do you understand?”
He stared back. “Fine.”
“Listen to me, both of you,” Miriam said. “The man who sticks his head up dies. I cannot emphasize that enough. A fraction of an inch above the road, and it’s over. Do not do it.”
Miriam pulled out the magazine of the Glock to count the bullets, then returned the pistol to her holster. She looked at Eliza. “Ready?”
“Not really.”
“If it makes you feel better, neither am I. Come on.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Eliza felt surprisingly calm as Miriam led her south behind the shoulder of the road, first at a crawl, then at a crouch as the ditch dropped lower below the road surface.
It was training, she supposed. All those hours with Miriam, Lillian, and Rebecca at Yellow Flats. Shooting, running through scenarios. Some of the scenarios were not so different from this one.
Miriam brought her about two hundred yards south of where they’d left Grover and Trost. “Look up ahead. See the culvert? That’s how we’re getting across.”
A pipe about thirty inches in diameter ran beneath the highway, carrying the wash from one side to the other. The spring flooding must have overflowed the culvert, because the asphalt above it slumped and appeared ready to fall away completely.
“How did you know we’d find a culvert?” Eliza asked.
“I scanned the terrain before I dove off the road.”
While drawing her rifle and shouting a warning to the others? Sure, why not?
“You’re so confident,” Eliza said. “I wish I felt the same.”
“It doesn’t do any good to show fear. Hurts me, hurts my companions. But I do feel pretty good, yeah. Guess you could call it confidence.”
“I don’t suppose yo
u have any tips, do you?”
“You’re like your brother, you know. Jacob is self-deprecating too. It makes me want to tear out my hair, makes me even doubt him. But when the shooting starts, he’s cool and collected. So are you. You’ll do fine.”
“I hope so.”
“Do you remember what happened in Colorado City last fall?” Miriam asked.
“I wasn’t there, but I heard. You and Steve went up against those bandits.”
“Believe me, it was more dire than this. It was dark, which helped, and we had night vision, which our enemies did not. That helped a lot more. But those enemies were a small army. This is one guy. He doesn’t know what’s about to hit him. He has no idea who we are.”
“You have no way of knowing that,” Eliza said. “Lots of people know we’re out here—Kemp’s group, Cedar City, maybe even the guys flying the drones.”
“Last fall I was in a bad place,” Miriam continued, without addressing Eliza’s point. “My confidence was shaken. I think it was the pregnancy. And I was having nightmares about the Kimball cult hiding in those old missile silos. But when I got into action everything fell away. My body did what it was supposed to. It will this time too. So will yours.”
They reached the culvert. The flow was no more than a trickle, and didn’t make it ten feet from the pipe before disappearing into the sand. The inside of the culvert was damp and cool and just wide enough to squirm into.
Eliza bit down her claustrophobia, slung the rifle over her shoulder, and entered on her belly. She focused on the dim light at the far side and inched forward. Miriam came in behind her. When Eliza reached the end, Miriam grabbed her ankle to hold her up.
“What do you see?” Miriam asked.
“More of the same—brush, rocks, sand.”
“Can you see the sniper’s hill?”
“No.”
“Good, then he can’t see us either. Stick your head out. Then tell me what you see.”
Eliza leaned out. She could see the hill now, but only the far western shoulder, as the road curved ahead to get around the rocky outcrop. It was about a hundred yards away now. An easy shot for any reasonably competent marksman, if he somehow had a view of this position. She described it to Miriam.
“You’ll have to risk it,” Miriam said. “Go.”
They popped out of the culvert and then hugged up against the highway. After a moment, Miriam proclaimed their position safe. Eliza’s knees and shirtsleeves were wet and sand clung to her wet boots. She brushed off the rifle.
“See those boulders at the foot of the hill?” Miriam said. “Look, there’s a magpie sitting on the tallest one.”
“I see them.”
“That’s good cover. We’ll hide behind there. When you run, pay attention to your surroundings. We’ll make another plan when we get there.”
“When do we go? Now?”
“Not yet. Wait for Grover’s first shot. That’ll be what? Three, four more minutes, I think.”
This surprised Eliza. She would have guessed that it had already been ten minutes. “What if the sniper spots us running for the rocks?” she asked.
“Most likely he will. But if I’m right, he’s got his gun on a tripod. And if Trost did what I asked, Grover has been pushing rocks onto the shoulder. The sniper is watching. By now he’s probably had a dozen shots at that kid’s hands and arms. He’s disciplined. He’s held back.”
How chilling to imagine a sniper blowing off one of Grover’s hands. And chilling to know that Miriam had risked it. All her warnings about sticking one’s head above the roadbed held equally for other body parts. What if Miriam had guessed wrong about the man’s discipline?
“Most likely, he’ll see us running,” Miriam continued. “But Grover’s shot will force his attention. No way does he get his gun turned around to shoot at us before we’ve taken cover.”
“Assuming there’s only one gunman.”
“Yes, assuming. I’d better be right about that.”
Grover’s rifle fired. The two women had been waiting in a crouch, like runners ready to break from the starting blocks, and Miriam was off in an instant. Eliza scrambled to keep up.
The ground between the culvert and the pair of boulders was sandy and gave poor footing. They struggled to build up speed. Eliza tensed herself for an answering shot from the sniper. A sharp, searing pain in the lungs, then she’d go down. The shot never came. Moments later, the two women sat gasping in the cover of the boulders.
“Wait,” Miriam said. “Don’t do anything. Not yet.”
The sun was dipping west and directed its full force against the flat surface of the black volcanic tuff. It radiated heat like a stone plucked from the coals of a fire. Sweat trickled down Eliza’s brow. She wished she’d had time to grab a canteen before jumping from her horse.
“The sun is our friend,” Miriam said. “It’s shining in his eyes. I like our odds better now.”
Another gunshot from Grover’s rifle. It rolled over the desert. Still no answer from the sniper.
“Is he gone?” Eliza asked.
“I doubt it. Okay, here’s what we do. On top of the hill there’s a knob that looks like a huge nose. You saw it?”
Eliza shook her head.
“You didn’t? I told you to pay attention. What were you doing?”
“Running for my life.”
“There’s a knob. It’s the best feature for a sniper to use as cover.”
Another gunshot.
“Next shot we go. The instant Grover fires, you stand up and you shoot at that knob. Keep firing until you empty your magazine. Take your time. Aim.”
Eliza swallowed hard.
“Listen to me,” Miriam continued. “I’m making a run up that hill and I need that shooter off my butt.”
“Got it.”
Except Miriam had given a stern warning to Grover to keep his head down. To not aim. Eliza would be aiming and shooting, again and again. And closer to the sniper. But at how much greater risk to Miriam, sprinting in the open toward the hill? Not to mention the risk of friendly fire from Grover and Eliza.
But now Eliza understood Miriam’s strategy. Two rifles firing at the hill from different angles. They would force the sniper to keep his head down. And while he was ducking, Miriam would overrun his position and put a couple of bullets in his head.
Eliza waited, cooking in the sun. She tightened her grip on the rifle with sweating hands. Miriam squatted beside her with the pistol held firmly in her grip, her breathing slow and fluid. She stared at the ground without blinking. It was like she’d entered a trance.
Grover fired.
Eliza didn’t wait to see if Miriam would run, but jumped up with the rifle. It took her a second to identify the nose-like protrusion from among the other rocks, boulders, and humps sprouting along the hill. When she found it, there was nothing to give it away as the sniper’s blind, no twinkle of reflected light off a scope, no rifle muzzle jutting out. Trusting Miriam, she fired, her aim a few inches to the right of the knob. A puff of dust rose up where her bullet struck.
A figure raced up the hillside on the right edge of Eliza’s peripheral vision. Miriam. Eliza chambered another round, aimed to the left of the knob this time, and fired again. The rifle kicked against her shoulder. No sign of movement. A few seconds longer and she fired again, back to the right. Grover also fired.
Finally, the sniper answered. A hollow thump from his rifle, distinct from the other guns as the fire was suppressed. Not shooting at Eliza; she’d be dead. She fired again. Miriam was straight in front of her now, scrambling up the hillside, but partially shielded from the gunman by the hill itself. Unless the sniper rose to his feet, he’d never get at her. And Eliza saw no movement.
Suddenly, Grover was popping off shots. Eliza looked carefully for movement, then fired again. Miriam disappeared
behind the rocky protrusion. Grover kept shooting.
“Hold your fire!” Miriam screamed a moment later. “Eliza, tell that idiot—”
Grover didn’t stop.
“Grover!” Eliza shouted. She was midway between Miriam on the hill and Grover and Trost where they’d jumped off the highway. “Stop shooting.”
But apparently he couldn’t hear. When he finally stopped—most likely because he was out of ammo—Miriam rose from behind the rock, ran to the edge of the hillock, and fired her pistol several times down the highway to the south, out of Eliza’s view.
Miriam turned around and shielded her eyes to look against the sun toward Eliza. Even a hundred yards away, her disgust was clear as she shoved her pistol into her holster and came back down the hill.
Behind them, Grover came running down the highway, waving his arms. “Over here! Help.”
“Shut up, you idiot,” Miriam yelled. “If you hadn’t been shooting off your gun—”
“It’s Trost. He’s hurt.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Trost wasn’t hurt. He was dead. He lay on his back in the dirt, with his lifeblood spilling out of a gaping wound in his skull. His body was still twitching, his chest still taking shallow gasps. His fingers clenched and unclenched on the ground. But the light was fading from his open eyes. He was dead already, even if his body hadn’t realized it yet.
Eliza couldn’t turn away from the horrific sight. Miriam muttered something unintelligible and angry-sounding.
“Aren’t you going to do anything?” Grover asked. His voice was pleading, his face stricken and pale. Another moment and Eliza thought he’d be sick.
“Turn away, Grover,” she said. She put her hands on his shoulders and flipped him around to stare back toward the highway.
Hell's Fortress Page 14