Renegade - 13

by Joe Nobody

  “What about Kevin?” the sheriff asked.

  “Kevin never got a good look at the man on the roof. According to the kid, when he heard his counterpart fire the first shot, he pulled his pistol and engaged. It was dark, they both exchanged several shots with their sidearms. That little firefight lasted until Mr. Mystery Sniper pulled a flashbang and seriously accelerated the conflict. By the time I got to the roof, your son was bumbling around, struggling to stand on shaky legs. He never saw the other dude.”

  “We’re lucky Kevin was up there,” Bishop noted, gazing toward the distant rooftop. “If their sniper hadn’t been distracted, he might have inflicted a lot more damage.”

  Nick sighed, scanned the park one last time, and said, “I’ve seen enough for today. Grim, your team is still on Terri’s security detail. When those crooks find out Bishop’s dirty tricks have denied them yet again, they’re probably going to be highly pissed. As for me, I’ve got to figure out how to move Diana around until this damn election is over and done with. She’s going to need everything from a toothbrush to something presidential-looking to wear.”

  “I’ve got to go report to Pete that he’s got one less man on his payroll now,” Bishop grumbled. “He hired me to manage the security staff, not get them all killed. Wish me luck.”

  The men all shook hands, knowing they had actually been lucky not to have suffered more causalities.

  As Bishop drove toward Pete’s Pizzeria, the Texan reflected for the hundredth time what had gone wrong. “That snare we set up would have denied 99 out of 100 attempts,” he snarled. “Hell, I don’t know if any of the SAINT teams could have avoided that trap.”

  Chapter 16

  Election day finally came, most experts lamenting that the race was too close to call. All over Texas, voters lined up by the thousands to cast their ballots at schools, churches, and government buildings.

  Each candidate was allowed a single representative at each precinct, mostly to ensure that no shenanigans were attempted. Given that the simple, paper ballots were the only method available to cast a vote, the process was thought to be nearly tamper-proof.

  A citizen had to show some sort of picture identification, either pre-collapse or post. Then a mimeographed sheet, prenumbered by the election officials, was handed to each qualified voter to take into a booth and check either Diana Brown or Cyrus Young.

  The ballots were stored in the same strong boxes used for years before the downfall. They had been collected from throughout the territory, mostly stored in dank basements and government storage rooms. After the closing of the polls, those containers were taken to regional headquarters where a small army of volunteers began tallying the votes.

  Diana had decided to spend election eve in Alpha, surrounded by friends and family. Terri was there, along with Hunter. Bishop, however, was working at Pete’s Pizzeria in San Antonio. Election day was a huge event, and the restaurant magnet was sure business would be booming after folks cast their votes.

  In areas that didn’t have television or radio coverage, a group of shortwave operators had agreed to broadcast the counts as they were finalized. The entire Alliance was giddy with anticipation.

  The first results came from the remote, rural counties. Love County, for example, had boasted less than 100 residents before the collapse. They were the first to report, Diana winning by a wide margin, 51 to 2. A wild cheer caused even the walls to vibrate, and Nick delivered what was the first of many congratulatory pecks on the cheek.

  One by one, the county election officials made known their results, which were posted by Sergeant Capela on a wall map of Texas he had borrowed from headquarters. Early on, Terri realized that this wasn’t a contest of left against right, conservative against liberal, or republican against democrat. This was a clash of the countryside versus the cities, and as the evening wore on, the results indicated that divide was deeper than anyone had expected.

  Diana won county after county in West Texas and the Hill Country. Austin, the first major metropolitan area to report, reported Cyrus with 73% of the vote.

  Someone wheeled in a whiteboard as the totals filed in, Sergeant Capela keeping a tally with his normal military efficiency and accuracy.

  As expected, Diana, commanded an early lead from the minor precincts who reported first racking up dozens of small vote totals one after the other. Her campaigners were humming “Happy Days Are Here Again” well into the evening until San Antonio, Corpus, and Dallas reported huge margins for the challenger.

  El Paso was split down the middle. Texarkana went for Diana, Beaumont for Cyrus.

  Toward 11PM, the compiled tally was nearly even, Cyrus holding a slight lead. The final totals would depend on Houston, Wichita Falls, and the few remaining medium-sized cities to post.

  Houston came in first – another metro area solidly positioned in Cyrus’s camp. A hush descended on Diana’s combination living room/campaign headquarters, the reality settling in that their friend and long-time leader might actually lose.

  Abilene was next, Diana making a good showing there and narrowing the gap. “You’re going to win,” Terri announced, checking her laptop. “Wichita Falls and the pickle factory are going to take you over the top.”

  Nearly 45 minutes had passed before the shortwave operator delivered the bad news. Wichita Falls had gone nearly 80% for Cyrus. The election was over. Diana had lost.

  Terri sat stunned, double checking her notes and documents while others consoled Diana on her loss, praising her honest, clean campaign. There were rounds of hugs, sniffling noses, and wet eyes.

  Still, Terri couldn’t believe they had performed so badly in Wichita Falls. She had been assured by the local mayor that his city was “Brown Town, all the way.” Their informal surveys had clearly indicated Diana was going to dominate by quite a strong margin. The town’s leanings had never been in question, and the positive news about the new jobs at the pickle factory should have been the icing on the election-cake.

  As Capela posted the final totals, Diana had lost by less than 3,000 votes. While the close count might have saved face for the campaign, as vote tallies go, the final result was the same. Everyone knew that close only counted when you were playing horseshoes, not when you were playing for political keeps.

  Terri politely blinked back her tears, excused herself and stepped to the back porch. Her eyes, brimming with moisture, turned toward the heavens as if expecting some divine intervention or celestial wisdom. “How did this happen? How could my numbers have been so wrong?” she spat. Hot tears would no longer be denied, streaming in damp tracks across her cheeks, their saltiness stinging her dry skin.

  Pete had been right; election night was a boom for business. The pizza parlor had been packed all day, the cooks and waitresses struggling to keep up with the demand.

  For his part, Bishop had watched cash flow and made certain no one was scouting the establishment. He also passed the time watching the election results being posted on a large blackboard at the front of the dining room.

  Diana’s loss struck Bishop hard. Not only was he worried about Terri and all of the blood, sweat, and tears his wife had invested, but also the fact that a major change was on the horizon for the Alliance.

  Now, he and Terri were just regular citizens. Not only was Bishop no longer best friends with the government’s leadership, he wasn’t officially part of the security apparatus anymore either. Nick and Sheriff Watts were likely to be replaced. And when that occurred, he wouldn’t even know any of the higher ups. Folks like him who helped reorganize law enforcement after the collapse would be but a historical footnote in the tale of the recovery. “I’m just a regular old Joe Nobody now,” he whispered.

  There was part of the Texan’s mind that welcomed the change. He had begun a new job, making more than enough money for his family and him to enjoy a comfortable lifestyle. He still owned the ranch. And during his capacity as a SAINT team leader, he had made friends across the Alliance.

  By the t
ime the waitresses were taking their last orders for the night, Bishop had convinced himself of the positive merits of the electoral results … for the most part. He would do his best to help Diana and Nick through the adjustments. He would support Terri as she recouped from the defeat.

  No stagecoach was scheduled at the pizzeria tonight. Despite the busy day and huge influx of cash, Bishop had changed the rules and procedures. Now, shipments to the banks were unscheduled events occurring with no discernible pattern. Only Pete and the Texan knew the exact time and place.

  Bishop had also modified how the stagecoaches were staffed. Rather than the local security men being charged with making the deposits and runs, the head of security had formed two specialized teams that traveled among the businesses and randomly picked up the dough.

  Those teams excelled in Bishop’s specialized training regimen and drove up-armored vehicles. Even the escorting SUVs had been outfitted with body armor plates in the doors and firewall in an effort to secure Bishop’s people. There had been enough funerals.

  In a way, the customized transports reminded him of Bones and the first time he ventured into a criminally controlled Alpha. “Ahh, those were the days,” he sighed. “A fancy ride coupled with a little ammo and civilization took root again.”

  Reminiscing about times past inevitably led the Texan’s mind back to the love of his life. He knew that he needed to return to the capital and console Terri. Once he was certain that the night watchmen were in place, he started driving his truck west. It was almost six hours to Alpha from San Antonio, and it was already midnight.

  “Terri will be super pissed if you fall asleep and kill yourself on the road,” he whispered to the empty cab. “She’d never speak to you again,” he chuckled. “Time to find someplace to spend the night.”

  Sleeping in his pickup wasn’t a big deal to Bishop. Hotels were far and few between, especially outside the major cities. As he drove, looking for a good place to pull over and catch a few hours of shuteye, he tried to focus his thoughts on what he could do to help his wife process the election results and then help her move on.

  The Texan realized Terri would be taking the defeat hard and knew she would need to decompress by rehashing the matter with him, seeking his insight. Once that had been done, the two of them would be mentally spent, and he needed something to redirect Terri’s attention. Maybe he would acquire some sort of trinket or surprise to take her mind off the loss and confirm her worth in his eyes. If he slept for a few hours before continuing, he’d just be passing through the Meraton Market as it opened. No doubt he could find some goodie there.

  It dawned on him that what his wife probably wanted most was her luggage. After the event in Wichita Falls, Nick had ordered Diana’s entourage to be hustled out of the city, and Terri’s RV had become a crime scene. Since then, the coach had been confined to the garage, the majority of Terri and Hunter’s wardrobes locked away in the process.

  Just yesterday, Bishop had received word that the repairs were finished.

  “I will drive to the mechanic’s shop and spend the night in that coach. In the morning, I can load up the suitcases and surprise my wife when I get home. We’ll head down to The Manor for a few days and chill. She can shop and swim in the pool. We’ll enjoy the gardens.”

  Flipping on his turn signal at the next major road heading north, the Texan was satisfied with his plan. He’d catch some Z’s in Terri’s coach. While Wichita Falls was out of his way, bringing back his bride’s possessions would defiantly be worth the extra miles.

  It was over three hours before he made the outskirts of north Texas city, the early hour and light traffic allowing Bishop to drive well above the former, posted speed limits. “I wonder if Cyrus is going to start hiring traffic cops as part of his new regime?” the Texan chuckled.

  On his way to the mechanic’s shop, Bishop had to pass by the park where his covert operation had failed. Revisiting the location of his botched scheme, the Texan naturally replayed the happenings before, during and after the ambush. A kaleidoscope of mental images from the catastrophic operation flashed and swirled in his brain with dizzying speed. It was pure coincidence that he remembered the game cameras.

  That day had been such a disappointment. After the dismal event played out, law enforcement stepped in, and interrogations ensued. Between Sheriff Watts’s people and the local cops, Bishop had been busy answering questions and revisiting the events for several hours. He’d forgotten all about the cameras.

  The folks in Wichita Falls evidently rolled up the sidewalks early, Bishop finding no one on the streets of the sleepy community. Rather than let the expensive devices go to waste, he decided to stop and retrieve them. Besides, the cameras might come in handy at the ranch.

  Fifteen minutes later, with the cameras sitting beside him in the front seat, the Texan was driving into the mechanic’s lot. Terri’s class-A motorhome sitting right out front. It took Bishop less than a minute to find the secret, hidden key, and only another five before he was undressing in anticipation of sleeping a few hours on the cushy mattress rather than the pickup’s front seat.

  Being back inside the motorhome reminded him of that night. He’d been so sure his trap was going to work, and that was more troubling than any other aspect of the affair. In Bishop’s line of work, such misjudgment could cost a lot of lives.

  Now traveling down a path he’d tried to force from his mind, Bishop wondered if the loss of Diana’s campaign money had cost her the election. Had she not carried Wichita Falls because of the violence she and her entourage had brought to the town? He was sure he would never forget how the voters there had thrown in with the competition. A mental image of the chalkboard that tallied votes by city was burned into his brain.

  Unable to sleep, the surprise attack playing over and over again in his mind, Bishop climbed from under the covers and stepped into the salon where he’d dropped his keys and the cameras. Fingering one of the infrared units, he sighed, “Well, counting sheep hasn’t worked, and you’re not likely to find any warm milk around here … maybe you have caught some interesting footage.”

  Picking up the tree-mounted unit, he began paging through the images.

  Like all of the witnesses had stated, the men who’d highjacked Terri’s camper had worn masks. Each image also confirmed a second observation – the attackers were professionally equipped and wore their kit like a military unit. Still, Bishop could make out no patches or rank insignias.

  He scrolled through all the snapshots of the ambush and didn’t spot anything noteworthy. Guess I’ll have to wait on that Pulitzer Prize, he mused. The post-attack images continued to scroll, Bishop casually perusing the locals captured on film. A young girl skipped alongside her dachshund as his short legs whirred in an effort to keep up, a gaggle of teens engaged in a game of touch football, and an assortment of business people hurried down the sidewalk during the days following the event.

  Sleep evaded him, so he continued scrolling, his mind now drifting to questions of who the robbers were and where they got their intel. More importantly, how would they be stopped short of calling out the Army?

  Bishop yawned, but his body was not yet ready for rest. Glancing at the camera’s view screen, he mumbled, “Criminals always return to the scene of the crime. Maybe I got a snapshot of an unmasked face?”

  Just then, an image popped up that caught his eye. There, on the street directly below the lenses, was a white van that looked almost identical to the one that had rammed Pug. For a second, Bishop thought he was now somehow cycling through the same pictures he had already seen.

  The next frame showed two men exiting the van, and from the background of the snapshot, they were clearly visiting the park at night. A moment later, the men were opening the cargo doors on the back of the vehicle. From the camera’s perspective, they looked very nervous. “This didn’t happen the night of the attack,” Bishop whispered, suddenly awake. “This is fresh.”

  Another vehicle’s lights
appeared off the frame, the infrared camera indicating the heat of the engine. Another individual then came into the picture, carrying a large, metal box. Bishop nearly jumped out of his seat. It was Captain K of SAINT Six. “What the hell are you doing in here, Kilmore?”

  “Wichita Falls Precinct 14,” was stenciled on the side.

  Checking the time and date stamp at the bottom of the image, Bishop realized he was watching photographs taken the night of the election.

  Bishop pushed the scroll button, forcing the next image to appear on the viewer. Now, there were two identical boxes in the frame, both marked Precinct 14.

  “What the hell?” Bishop barked, “They’re switching boxes. Holy shit!”

  He replayed the sequence three times, then doubled-checked the other camera. It was clear as a bell. The man in the images wasn’t transporting the ballots, he was replacing them.