Renegade - 13

by Joe Nobody

  The wall next to Bishop’s head exploded with impacting rounds as he dove for a nearby utility pole, a hissing, snapping string of lead chasing him every inch of the way.

  Bishop hit the sidewalk hard, grimacing from the pain and rolling behind the wooden pole at the same instant.

  Despite the rounds zipping past his head, the Texan managed to snap fire four quick shots toward the location where he’d last noticed the murky outlines of the muggers. Even as the last brass was arching from the ejection port, his eyes were desperately trying to identify a target.

  He detected movement behind a parked car and lowered his aim to just a few inches off the pavement. A spread of three shots sent sparks raging off the asphalt, the Texan hoping to strike the enemy’s feet or ankles.

  The effort evidently wasn’t appreciated by the outlaws, a vigorous barrage of return fire compelling Bishop back behind the pole.

  Realizing he was taking fire from two different angles, the VP of Security couldn’t chance revealing even an inch of his body, the steady thump, thump, thump of impacting rounds spitting splinters and bits of concrete flying in all directions. “Whoever you are, you’ve got some impressive skills,” he whispered, waiting for a break in their rhythm.

  It never came.

  The incoming fire grew more intense, sawing away at his wooden cover. It quickly became clear that he couldn’t stay in his current position and wait for the attackers to exhaust their ammunition supply. Every time he was about to roll from behind his cover, the return fire switched positions. They’re working you like a pie, he realized.

  The Texan wanted nothing more than to help his men, but he was pinned down with no options. Advancing would mean certain death within seconds. He had to retreat and couldn’t remember anything that had ever troubled him so deeply.

  Lurching hard from the badly-chewed pole, he spun and rotated his body until he made the corner of the nearest building. A swarm of pings, thunks, and hissing rounds chased him the entire way.

  Pissed and desperately worried about his crew, Bishop popped his head around the foundation, fully expecting another barrage of lead to slam into the structure. Nothing happened.

  Again, the Texan exposed himself, sweeping the street, searching for a target. The aggressors were gone.

  He was out in an instant, advancing cautiously, ready to re-engage. The sound of a racing engine and the red glow of distant taillights told Bishop that the bushwhackers had made a clean getaway.

  Rushing to the stagecoach SUVs, the Texan found his first two men’s lifeless bodies in the street. The driver of the chasing unit had died behind the wheel, the windshield a spider web of shredded glass. The passenger had managed to exit but had been gunned down before he could manage more than a couple of steps. Both were lying in expanding pools of thick crimson, their chests and heads distorted by multiple wounds.

  The lead SUV, carrying the boxes of trash, had been stopped by a downed utility pole that blocked the street with a tangle of wires jumbled around the thick base. A quick glance told Bishop that it was a cousin to the one he’d just been hiding behind. He found the driver still alive, bleeding badly with two red holes in his chest.

  A pink foam covered the wounded man’s face and neck, his breathing shallow. “Hang on,” Bishop ordered, ripping open the blood-spattered shirt. “We’ll get you some help.”

  People from the restaurant were approaching now, alerted by the gunfire and explosion. Ward, along with a shotgun-toting bartender, were leading the cautious, but curious throng. “Get a doctor! Now!” Bishop yelled. “Hurry, Ward!”

  “They blew the pole,” the dying man gasped. “Must have used det cord. Snapped it clean … no smoke,” he sputtered, a harsh coughing spell terminating his report.

  “Hang in there,” Bishop continued to comfort. “You’ll be okay as soon as a doc gets here.”

  “No. I’m done. Don’t bullshit me. I can feel it. I did two tours in Iraq. I know what’s going on,” insisted the downed driver.

  After another bout of bloody convulsions, he managed, “They were pros, Bishop. Expert timing on the IED, hitting us with a perfect spread. I never saw it coming. Real pros.”

  “How many?” Bishop asked.

  “Four. I counted their boots at the back when they were unloading the boxes.”

  “Did you hear any names? See any faces?” Bishop asked, following the fading man’s eyes as they glanced toward the rear of the SUV.

  There was no answer, the life having left the driver’s eyes.

  Sirens announced the arrival of the two deputies who’d just finished dining at Pete’s Pit, the two lawmen recognizing Bishop right away. “It’s all over,” the Texan informed the officers. “Bad guys four, good guys zero.”

  Sheriff Watts’ men had just finished roping off the crime scene when Pug returned. “Deposit made, sir. That was one hell of a call you made. How did you know?”

  “I didn’t,” Bishop answered honestly. “Ward spotted some fellow with a cell phone, and it just struck me as odd that someone would be looking at a map at this time of night. Sometimes, you just have to go with your gut.”

  Pug followed Bishop as he stepped around the ambush scene for the Nth time. “There were four of them,” the Texan explained. “They hit the SUVs from four different positions. Doesn’t that strike you as a bit odd?”

  Pug turned to stare at Bishop with a complete look of innocence. “No, sir,” he responded. “Should it?”

  Heading where the deputies had marked a pile of expended brass lying in the street, Bishop pointed to the opposite side of the kill zone where a similar pile of cartridges was scattered on the sidewalk. “They were damn close to hitting each other with friendly fire. Less than 10 degrees of separation divided their lanes. Either they were damn good … or very stupid.”

  “Aren’t all criminals ignorant?”

  “Maybe,” Bishop replied, pointing toward the corpse lying on the passenger side of the lead unit. “But if they were just common crooks, why didn’t they take our guys’ weapons? Why didn’t one of them grab their watches, or rings, or wallets?”

  Pug still didn’t seem impressed. “They believed the stagecoach was full of cash. Why bother with the little trinkets? Personally, I wouldn’t take the chance, sir. I would grab the primary objective and egress as fast as possible.”

  Bishop glanced at the former soldier and nodded. “That’s exactly what I was thinking, Pug. You and I, however, are pros. Both of us have earned paychecks by carrying guns … and done so for a very long time. I think whoever did this is more like you and me than the typical, armed felon. This job reminds me more of a Special Forces operation than Bonnie and Clyde.”

  Now, the Korean got it. “You think Pete’s facilities are now being targeted by a rogue military unit? Maybe a bunch of ex-soldiers turned to crime? If that’s true, sir, then we are going to have to step up our security measures.”

  Sheriff Watts arrived at the scene the following morning, the harried lawman racking up the miles on his government issued cruiser at a remarkable rate. He met Bishop at Pete’s Pit, and over coffee, listened intently as the recently hired security supervisor relayed the events of the previous evening.

  “Let’s go take a look,” Watts grumbled, clearly unhappy with the entire episode. “An attempted robbery and multiple homicides are never good, but with the election turning nasty, Nick will want me to investigate personally.”

  Within 30 minutes of walking through the area, the Alliance’s top officer looked at Bishop and said, “These perpetrators were professionals. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  “No shit,” Bishop acknowledged, frowning at the memory of having to retreat. “There for a bit, it was touch and go.”

  The sheriff began pointing at various evidence scattered around the street. “I see a judicious use of ammunition, perfect vectors of attack, and precise timing. I noticed that your boys didn’t get off a single shot, which reminds me of another crime scene I recently examined.
A drug den up in the panhandle was raided a few weeks ago, eight hardcore men inside, and not one of them managed to fire a weapon in defense.”

  Rubbing his chin, Bishop offered, “Are we dealing with contractors? Hired guns, like those guys my team encountered when you sent me up to separate the Fort Davidson ranchers? Those were some skilled hombres – just ask Grim.”

  Watts shrugged, his mirrored sunglasses locking onto a pile of brass littering the nearby street. “Could be. This attempt was executed with military precision. I get the feel of aggression here, like infantry taking an objective, not common criminals looking for a quick score.”

  “Are you thinking the two incidents are related?”

  Shaking his head, Watts replied, “No way to tell. Both crews had four shooters, but the gang up in the panhandle had a sniper with a .308, and I don’t see that here. On the other hand, with both incidents, the crooks were after large sums of cash … at least that’s why we think they hit the dopers.”

  One of the small army of deputies working the scene arrived at the sheriff’s side just then, the eager man obviously eager to relay something of importance. The sheriff acknowledged his subordinate’s presence with a curt nod.

  “Sir, we’ve determined that the utility pole was taken down with detonation cord of a common variety.”

  “Common variety?” Watts asked, his eyebrows twisting into a knot.

  “Yes, sir, at least common around these parts. Oil rig crews regularly used explosives to clear areas for their platforms and access points. Before everything went to hell, blasting caps, det cord, and TNT in this part of Texas were common.”

  “Great,” Watts sighed, rubbing his temples. “As if AR15s and sniper rifles weren’t enough.”

  “According to my local expert, whoever rigged the pole knew exactly what they were doing. He said they used a method identical to that used by exploration crews to fell a tree. Blocking the road was no accident.”

  “Thank you, Deputy. Good job. Please forward the details to my office in Alpha as soon as possible.”

  “You got it, sir.”

  “What’s next?” Watts muttered, turning to face Bishop. “Hand grenades and claymore mines?”

  Bishop did little to lighten the old law dog’s mood. “To be honest, I’m surprised you don’t see more of this shit. How many ex-military guys are wandering around Texas? Now, with the recovery in full swing, they suddenly find themselves in a target rich environment. Two years ago, there wasn’t anything worth stealing. A couple of guys down on their luck might decide the fruit is suddenly hanging low on the tree ... might conclude that using what Uncle Sam taught them 15 years ago is the now fastest way to get ahead.”

  Nodding his agreement, Watts added, “You’re right. That’s why I’ve been begging the council to increase law enforcement’s capabilities. Take last night for instance. If my two deputies had been one minute closer, they would have run right into these guys. Given what you’ve told me, and what I see here, I would probably be making funeral arrangements for two dead officers about now.”

  “That is my next task,” Bishop grimaced. “Pete informed the next of kin last night. I’ve got to bury four co-workers.”

  Shaking his head to clear the image, Bishop’s thoughts reverted to Watts’s dilemma. Diana and the council wanted to keep administration costs low and government small. Every dollar collected by the Alliance in taxes and unclaimed real estate was being allocated in 20 different directions. There were so many priorities, so many different needs.

  The situation was exasperated by the uneven nature of the recovery, both economically and geographically. Pete, as an entrepreneur, was far ahead of the herd. His success was rare … but not unique.

  All over the Alliance, motivated entrepreneurs were identifying a need and fulfilling it. Often, the results were proving lucrative.

  Texas required these titans of growth, now more than ever. They created both hope and jobs. Yet, elected officials didn’t want to tax men like Pete into oblivion, despite the daunting, seemingly endless problems faced by the general population. Law enforcement was just one of many “standards of living,” that was nowhere near pre-collapse levels.

  “People want everything to be as it was before the downfall,” Watts continued as if he were reading Bishop’s thoughts. “Now that their bellies are reasonably full, citizens think my department should just be able to flip a switch and protect them like the ‘good ole days.’ Hell, half of the territory still doesn’t even have dependable electricity. Our officers no longer enjoy the benefit of the internet, cell phones, computer networks, fingerprint databases, or crime labs. Texas may have lost half of its population, but we have lost 90% of our police officers. That’s not a recipe for rule of law.”

  Watts then paused his bitch session, his face coloring with a seriousness that extended beyond the old lawman’s normal scowl. “I’m getting worried,” he announced in a low voice. “While I’m not ready to call it a crime wave, I see more and more of this type of law-breaking, and I don’t think it’s going to just naturally go away. If I were you, I’d be watching my back and my employer’s assets. The murderers who tried to pull this off aren’t going to be thrilled when they figure out that their ill-gotten gains amounted to a bunch of stinking trash. Call me if you come across anything else that might help me take these guys down.”

  It was the opening Bishop had been waiting for. “I think I know who is behind this, Sheriff. I think our old friend Cameron Lewis is back in business, trying to disrupt the Alliance.”

  Watts was ahead of him. “That was my first thought as well. After that guy tried to steal the Alliance’s gold deposits, his name was at the top of my list.”

  “And?”

  “I checked with a US Federal Marshall I know. According to him, Mr. Lewis was last seen in Idaho, despondent, and trying to lay low.”

  The Texan wasn’t buying it. “No way,” he barked, “that guy is never going to give up. We hurt him badly the last time, but a man of his questionable character never, ever throws in the towel. This fits his MO perfectly. We know he likes to use hired guns, and the man has the resources to bring in the very best. We saw that in Fort Davidson. Those guys he hired tore my team a new one.”

  Rubbing his chin, Watts considered Bishop’s argument for a moment. “What you’re saying does make sense, I suppose, if he is employing someone else to do his dirty work. I’ll put his name back on my short list. Now, I have a sensitive question that I have to ask you. Are Pete’s businesses really generating that much legitimate cash?”

  “As far as I can tell, yes. Every one of his restaurants and bars I’ve seen is as busy as a bee hive.”

  Watts wasn’t finished. “He has expanded and grown at an incredible pace, and that is causing more than one set of eyebrows to raise.”

  “Why would Pete try and steal his own money?” Bishop asked, still not following the law dog’s logic.

  “Could be a false flag to throw off law enforcement. He might have partners he’s trying to dupe. Pete wouldn’t be the first guy to fake stealing from himself in order to throw the law off the scent of other nefarious activity.”

  “If I even get a hint of wrong-doing, you’ll be the first to know,” Bishop answered, extending his hand. “Sorry to cut this short, sir, but right now, I’ve got to locate a church that can host four funerals.”

  Bishop walked away. “I think the good sheriff is getting a little paranoid,” he whispered, “but hell, I would too if I had his job.”

  Chapter 9

  Hunter was finally getting accustomed to life in the RV, eventually snuggling his blanket and surrendering to slumber. Terri was overwhelmed by her temporary circumstance as a single parent. Bone-weary from the day’s responsibilities, missing her mate, and frustrated with her son’s unwillingness to close his eyes, the mother and campaign manager relished the rare opportunity to simply sit and relax.

  Like the beginning days of the Alliance, the entourage was traveling t
he territory in a Class A motorhome. Political types called it a “whistle-stop tour,” the term derived from a time when traveling by train was the primary mode of transportation. Contenders would deliver cryptic speeches in the hamlets located along the tracks, called whistle stops, as candidates’ locomotives progressed along the route.

  Increased access to aircraft, a well-developed interstate highway system, and modern media coverage of the process had rendered the campaign technique obsolete, but not the need. Once again, those advancements were out of reach, but Diana was not about to let the lack of cable news prevent her from reaching her constituents. The Alliance ramrod had simply substituted the train with an RV, complete with her smiling face and optimistic slogans painted on the side. Like a mobile billboard, it was a great way to attract attention as she rolled through the countryside and into the tiny towns that composed so much the core of the Alliance.