Renegade - 13

by Joe Nobody

  Taking a couple of steps closer, Cyrus spread his hands wide. “Be reasonable, Bishop. I have over 300 armed men with me, and we are going to Alpha. While I have no doubt you and those deputies back there are brave men, I’m reasonably sure you can’t stop us.”

  Bishop had to admit, the governor was a smooth-tongued devil if nothing else. “Okay, since we’re being reasonable, I will reverse that argument. I have over 300 armed men as well, and I’ll say the same thing back to you – I’m reasonably sure you won’t make it across.”

  With his brow knotting, Cyrus’s eyes scanned the roadway behind the Texan, seeing nothing but a few men working on the bridge and the two deputies. Bishop decided it was time.

  “To all SAINT teams, show yourselves,” Bishop transmitted.

  Almost in unison, a hundred rifle barrels popped over Horsehead’s bank, the sun glinting off of optics, scopes, and eyeglasses.

  Cyrus was already taking a step backward when Captain K and another SAINT Six member rushed in front of the retreating politician to act as a shield.

  As they took up protective positions, the strangest thing happened. Bishop heard Kilmore’s man utter a one-word question, “Captain?”

  Something about it struck Bishop as odd.

  Worried Meraton’s Army was about to open fire, Kilmore turned away for a moment, motioning several of the mulling onlookers to come forward. It was then that Bishop noticed a purple bruise on the back of the captain’s head. That’s right where Terri said she had pistol whipped the Dallas imposter, he thought. SAINT Six has been behind this the entire time, he realized in a flash. It all makes sense now. No wonder we haven’t been able to catch them.

  Forcing his mind back to the current situation, Bishop said, “Mr. Young … Governor … turn around and go home. If you try to cross that bridge, a lot of good men on both sides are going to die. It’s not worth it. Please, sir. Please go back to San Antonio.”

  For a moment, Bishop thought his words were working. Cyrus nodded and smiled, then turned around to face his army of followers. “Did you hear that, men? He said our freedom isn’t worth it. He said our liberty isn’t worth our lives. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’d rather be dead than enslaved. What say you?”

  Bishop was running now, racing back for friendly lines as fast as his legs could pump. Cyrus’s little speech made it clear that the governor wasn’t going to back down, and the Texan had no wish to die in the middle of Texas 90.

  The windscreen of the closest police car exploded just as Bishop passed the unit, a volley of gunfire chasing him over Horsehead’s bank.

  Recovering from his hasty dive for cover, Bishop saw Captain K and SAINT Six trying to organize a skirmish line while another group of men was marshaled behind a large delivery truck. Cyrus was nowhere to be seen.

  “Hold your fire,” Bishop radioed between deep breaths. “Wait on my order.”

  The command caused several nearby men to throw questioning glances at Bishop, but he ignored them. Well past any hope of avoiding a fight, Bishop’s mind had switched from diplomatic to tactical. He knew that his line of defenders was dug in and possessed the benefit of excellent cover. Despite being outnumbered 3 to 1, the attacking force would have to cross over 100 meters of open ground. There was no need to hurry.

  Evidently, Cyrus hadn’t expected any organized resistance and thus hadn’t bothered to set up any sort of command structure. The governor now found his troops in complete disarray.

  It seemed to Bishop like it was taking his foe forever to get his shit together, half of them fighting amongst themselves about what to do next and half of them running around like chickens with their heads cut off.

  In fact, the scene was so pathetic that the Texan almost laughed out loud. It then dawned on him, he was missing another opportunity to keep the death toll to a minimum.

  “Everybody, listen up,” he transmitted. “Aim well and send one round. Let them know we mean business. One round only. Fire!”

  A cloud of West Texas dust rose from the edge of Horsehead, the fog kicked up as the muzzle blast of almost a hundred Meraton rifles roared from the gulch.

  No sooner had the thunderous report begun echoing across the desert, did the cacophony of bellowing, desperate voices sound from the east. Wounded men were shouting for assistance, others screaming wildly from pain. More desperate orders were now being issued, trying to rally the confused swarm.

  There was a spattering of return fire, Bishop assessing it to be sporadic and unorganized at best. “Run,” he whispered to the adversaries, peering over the bank and cringing at the number of unmoving bodies lying in the desert. “Just turn around and go home. Please. Before we have to put more of you down.”

  Movement at the far end of the enemy formation drew Bishop’s eye. One of the SAINT Six members appeared to be having more luck organizing a small group of the vigilante. Not only were they moving as a unit, but they were apparently trying to flank the Meraton line.

  Grim spotted it, too, the veteran contractor’s voice driving his men to move slightly south and engage.

  Again, the cover provided by the gulch gave the defenders the edge. Grim’s people opened up, a blizzard of lead slamming into the opponent with perilous accuracy. Within seconds, the threat was eliminated, a dozen more bodies lying on the desert floor.

  For the first time in his life, Bishop felt sick over the carnage. The scores of dead and wounded weren’t criminals, or a military force, or even bad people. They were common men, fellow Texans, whose only sin was being misled by a crooked, power-hungry politician. Now, they were paying the ultimate price.

  “Cease fire,” Bishop ordered, even though none of his forces were shooting. He wanted it all to stop … to end … before things got really, really ugly.

  If this had been a military operation, Bishop would have ordered his forces up and at them, urging his men into a brutal counter-attack. It was a reasonable assumption that the other side, bunched out of sight in the long line of vehicles facing the gulch, was having a desperate meeting of the minds. Cyrus and his lieutenants would be frantic, half of the leadership wanting to turn tail and run, the other half trying to gain control of the situation before their entire “Army” broke and fled into the desert. Captain K would be there, trying to bully those around him into charging the roadblock.

  A full-fledged, two-prong assault from the Meraton irregulars would have won the day, cutting through the disorganized adversaries like a knife through hot butter. Such a ploy would probably result in dozens more enemy dead and wounded than the local doctor could handle in a year.

  But this wasn’t a military operation. This was a small community defending itself against a bunch of frustrated voters who thought they were being threatened. The violence needed to stop, Bishop wanting nothing more than for the San Antonio citizens to turn around and go home.

  “Boss, I don’t like this. Awful quiet there,” Grim warned over the airwaves.

  “They’re trying to figure out their next move,” Bishop replied. “Let’s hope they make the right decision.”

  A moment later, the sound of a revving truck engine rumbled across the West Texas landscape, almost immediately followed by another, and then another.

  “Either they’re leaving, or they’re going to try and ram the roadblock,” Bishop announced to one of the nearby deputies. “God, I pray this is over.”

  Sure enough, the men began climbing aboard the trucks and buses that had brought them into the desert. Another few minutes passed before the convoy facing the gulch turned around to head back east. “What an asshole! So much for leadership. Left his wounded on the battlefield,” Bishop grumbled.

  A huge roar of excitement rose from the Meraton ranks, the celebration of victory rising from nearly a hundred throats. “Silence!” Bishop snapped into his microphone. “Everybody pipe down, now!”

  The pride Bishop had felt just a few minutes ago had vanished, replaced by embarrassment and mortification. Why were his people c
elebrating the death of their neighbors? He knew there was no reason to rejoice.

  It took the column from San Antonio several minutes to move out, the faces peering back toward the gulch full of fear and hatred. “They’ll be back,” Bishop whispered. “They won’t be so gullible the next time.”

  And then the desert was quiet, only the moans of the wounded drifting over the sand.

  As he watched the last truck fading into the distance, Bishop ordered his men into action. “Get those people medical care! Immediately. Somebody get in a truck and go back to Meraton. Find the doc. Tell him what we’re bringing back.”

  For an hour, SAINT One and the Meraton militia worked on the 18 wounded men left behind. Bishop and his guys established a triage area, using every last inch of bandages from their medical kits as they organized ambulances back to town.

  On Bishop’s command, the deputies prepared a detail to collect the dead, sort through their belongings, and identify as many as possible.

  When the last wounded man was on his way back to Meraton, one of the lawmen approached, his sweat-soaked shirt and gloomy face saying it all. “How many dead?” Bishop asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

  “Twenty-six,” replied the despondent officer.

  “Shit!” Bishop barked, kicking a nearby stone as hard as his boot would fly.

  After he’d managed to get his anger back in check, the Texan turned around and said, “Load them up on a truck. Find a preacher or priest to take them back to San Antonio – their loved ones will want them back. And somebody give me a ride back into town. I’ve seen enough for one day.”

  Chapter 19

  Bishop returned to their room at The Manor, the lingering scent of perfume reminding him of Terri. The fragrant aroma caused him to pause and smile for an instant before the incidents of the afternoon caught up with him. He wanted a shower, and he desperately needed to wash the day from his body.

  Throwing his bloody, rank clothes in the corner, Bishop didn’t even wait for the water to get warm. Over and over again he soaped and rinsed, hoping to cleanse more than just the soil and grit from his skin … and more importantly his soul.

  The Texan had no more pulled on a fresh pair of pants when a ruckus outside caused his heart to stop.

  Thinking Cyrus Young had changed his mind and somehow made it back into Meraton, Bishop threw on his vest and boots in a rush, darted toward the street, and made ready to do battle.

  Dozens of vehicles of every imaginable type were rolling down Main Street, all of them filled to the brim with armed men. It took Bishop only a second to realize they were streaming from the west, not San Antonio. Nick had arrived from Alpha, complete with a serious contingency of reinforcements.

  A shout brought Bishop’s attention back to the front door of The Manor, his wife and child waving energetically. They met in the middle, Terri scanning her husband up one side and down the other after a quick hug.

  After verifying he was unharmed, she then studied his eyes for a nanosecond. Instantly, she recognized the powerful ache inside her mate. “How bad was it?” she asked in a voice just loud enough to be heard over the passing traffic.

  “Awful. I … I didn’t have any choice, Terri. I tried everything I could think of to stop it.”

  She hugged him again, bringing Hunter into the family embrace. Bishop didn’t want to let them go.

  Sergeant Capela appeared beside them, clearing his throat to interrupt their reunion. “My apologies, sir, but Nick would like to see you. He’s setting up a field command in the old grocery store.”

  Nodding, Bishop mumbled, “Tell him I’ll be right there.”

  Realizing he was being dismissed, Capela pivoted smartly and strolled away on another errand.

  Returning to his wife, Bishop said, “There is something else. I think I have figured out who the Dallas police impersonators are. I need you to come with me.”

  “Of course, I will come with you,” Terri responded, clearly surprised by Bishop’s disclosure. “But are you saying you know who shot Cade?”

  “Yes. I’m hoping someone on Nick’s staff has a computer and some personnel files. I think you’ll be able to pick the imposters out of a lineup.”

  Shrugging, Terri said, “Well, I’m all yours. Everything is up in the air anyway. Right this moment, Diana is meeting with the military, and Alpha is going crazy with all the preparations to defend the town.”

  The family strolled toward the abandoned, grocery store, Bishop noting several of the militia members hovering outside Pete’s with what appeared to be cold glasses of beer.

  Hooking arms with her husband, Terri steered him away from the pub, teasing, “Business before pleasure.”

  “But … Terri, I don’t work for Nick anymore. I work for Pete, and I should go make sure everything is okay at the bar,” he protested, gesturing toward his place of employment.

  “Oh, that’s not exactly true, my love. You see, everyone now works for Nick. Diana just declared martial law.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  They passed up the free drinks and entered the former retail unit, finding the interior in a state of barely controlled chaos. Already, a bank of radios adorned a card table with two of Sheriff Watts’s men working the dials. Bishop and Terri discovered Nick near the back, a group of law enforcement and civilians hanging on the big man’s every word.

  It took Bishop a moment to realize something about the scene before him was off. Then, his brain’s mental light bulb switched on; not a single military uniform was in sight.

  Seeing his confidant, Nick dismissed those around him with a firm, “We’ll finish this discussion later.”

  After exchanging a quick handshake, Nick wanted to hear Bishop’s account of the events at Horsehead Gulch firsthand. It took the Texan nearly 10 minutes to replay the afternoon’s encounter.

  After the boss had clarified a handful of issues, it was Bishop’s turn to gather information. “Where is the Army?” he inquired.

  A deep frown creased Nick’s face. “They’re sitting this one out. Diana was on the radio with General Owens when we left Alpha, but we can’t count on the military getting involved.”

  “What? What the hell is going on?” Bishop spat.

  “The generals aren’t sure who really won the election, and they don’t want to take sides. Just like everyone else, they are firm believers in civilian control of the armed forces. The problem is, as of right now, nobody really knows which civilian is in charge.”

  Both Terri and Bishop responded, “Diana is!” at the same moment.

  Nick shook his head, “We might think that, but clearly, Cyrus has a different point of view. And from what I’m hearing, so do several hundred thousand of his supporters.”

  Terri understood the meaning of Nick’s words first. “Unrest is spreading, isn’t it?”

  Nodding, Nick motioned them over to a small map lying on a dusty table. “We just received a report that Cyrus is all over the radio broadcasts in San Antonio and the other cities, claiming that Diana refuses to step down and transfer power, despite the results of the election. This bomb going off is just adding to the confusion and fueling conspiracy theorists. Governor Young has claimed that Diana knew she lost and destroyed the ballots just to hold onto her office.”

  “And the people are buying this line of shit?” Bishop asked.

  “Oh, yes, my friend. Sheriff Watts has deputies watching a similar rally ginning up a substantial crowd in Houston even as we speak. We are also hearing of a militia being formed in Dallas, complete with a previously unknown cache of arms from an old National Guard unit in Plano.”

  “But we proved the election was bogus. That’s why they were doing a recount,” Bishop protested. “That means Diana is still in office until the results are finalized – right?”

  “When the council created our new constitution, no one foresaw a situation like this. They basically took the original Texas state document and modified it here and there. To be hone
st, the rules aren’t nearly as clear as they should be. General Owens says he has people studying the whole situation, but he didn’t come across as very reassuring.”

  “So, we have Watts and civilians on our side?” Terri asked.

  “Yes, and five of the six SAINT teams. SAINT Six is no longer responding to my orders … and now that I know they just tried to storm Meraton with Cyrus’s mob, I understand why.”

  The comment reminded Bishop of the reason he’d brought Terri along. “Did you bring any personnel files for the SAINT teams with you?”

  Nick motioned Capela over to get an answer to the question. “No sir, I didn’t think they would be necessary given the situation,” the assistant responded.