by Joe Nobody
He managed his feet, spinning to see Kevin rising from his hide. The kid had saved his life, making that one in a million shot that couldn’t have passed less than three inches from Bishop’s own ear. He wanted to hug his sniper. He wanted to kick the little shit’s ass for taking such a risk. He wanted to buy his man as much beer as he could ever possibly drink.
Bishop’s world was still moving frame by frame, like a slow-motion replay. Kevin was sprinting for the still-struggling, jerking Abe. Bishop could see a blade in the sharpshooter’s hand. His muddled brain barely registered that the kid was going to cut the choking man free.
Grim and Bailey now had the guards down, the last sentry clutching his chest as a string of lead pills stitched across his torso. “Grab their weapons,” one of the prisoners shouted to rally his neighbors. “Fight for your lives!” another commanded.
Kilmore and Cyrus were almost to the Humvees. Somehow, an awareness penetrated Bishop’s cloudy mind, realizing that if the two escapees made it inside, the window of opportunity would slam shut. SAINT One didn’t have the firepower to penetrate the up-armored veteran vehicles of the Iraq war. Those units had been designed to defeat powerful explosive devices and belt-fed weapons. The Alliance defenders’ light rifles might as well be pellet guns.
Evidently, Butter had arrived at the same conclusion. A bright series of flashes gushed from the junk heap, the dirt around the darting duo’s feet erupting in geysers of incoming fire.
Kilmore might have been a turncoat, but the man knew his way around a gunfight. Sensing he was rushing right into Butter’s field of fire, the captain again zigged to a new course. He realized there was no way he was going to get his protectorate to the safety of the Humvees.
The wall of the burning store chose that moment to collapse. With a crackling groan, the upper story began to shift, bricks and flaming timbers plummeting away from the rest of the structure as it crashed down.
Bishop’s heart stopped as he watched in horror, the inferno of rubble avalanching on top of Butter and Pug’s junk pile. Thinking his men were being cooked alive, Bishop forgot about Kilmore and Cyrus, changing direction and pumping his legs as hard as he could to rescue his friends.
The flames were too hot, forcing Bishop to pull up short. He circled, the sweltering heat searing his lungs and face. Halfway around, the Texan exhaled in relief, his heart once more daring to beat. From this vantage, he could see that only the front of the scrap heap had been buried. The rear, where Butter and Pug should be hiding, was still intact. His guys were entombed and probably thought hell’s fire was encroaching on their position, but they were likely still alive.
Freed prisoners scurried in every conceivable direction, some having scavenged the guards’ blasters, others darting to escape the firefight that seemed to have erupted all around them.
Captain K and Cyrus were still sprinting toward freedom, now racing toward the distant chapel.
Grim and Bailey, momentarily freed from the skirmish, approached Bishop. “Help dig out Butter and Pug, and then meet me at the church,” the Texan shouted as his men continued past. “I’m going after Kilmore.”
One last glance showed Kevin performing CPR on Abe. Bishop was on his own but didn’t care.
He could barely discern the outline of the two escapees, first thinking the mass to be a single, large, oddly shaped, human blob. Given Cyrus’s physical conditioning … or lack thereof … Bishop realized the governor did not possess the stamina for a full out run without considerable assistance. Bishop could sense Kilmore urging his boss to move faster or die.
Slapping in a fresh magazine, Bishop inhaled deeply and then took off at a fast jog. Captain K was now a cornered beast and would surely fight like one. Charging full speed at such a man probably wouldn’t extend his life expectancy.
Still, Bishop wanted to keep his quarry in sight. A manhunt through the rural countryside … under a pitch black, starless sky … was the last challenge SAINT One wanted to take on.
As he skirted past the Humvees, Bishop decided to stop and remove the keys from the military units. Captain K was clever, and circling back to his only safe mode of transport wasn’t an unreasonable scheme. The guy had outsmarted the Texan on more than one occasion.
With the backlight of the fire, Bishop detected their outlines ahead. They were making a beeline for the sanctuary, Kilmore on his radio, probably screaming for help as they bolted. The thought of truckloads of reinforcements arriving to rescue Governor Young increased the Texan’s pace.
The modest house of worship was a quarter mile away from where the firefight between the two SAINT teams had just occurred. A single fluorescent security light, mounted high atop a utility pole, illuminated the parking lot.
As he closed the gap, Bishop’s mind automatically catapulted to the next phase of the battle. If Captain K managed to get inside the structure, there was the potential that he could hold off SAINT One until help arrived.
He was 200 meters away when the pursued men cut off the road toward the chapel’s parking lot. A thought flashed through Bishop’s mind.
He pulled up, quickly taking a knee to steady his aim. It was a doable shot.
Bishop centered his dot just a few inches high of Kilmore’s scurrying head. He fired, then again, then again.
The captain tumbled, hitting the parking lot’s gravel with a skin-tearing crush. Bishop was sprinting again as he saw Kilmore try and rise, struggling to regain his feet.
Cyrus stopped, turning to help his wounded bodyguard. Somehow the governor managed to get Kilmore up, but the captain could manage only a slow, stumbling jog.
They had just climbed the church’s steps when Bishop’s boots crunched on the gravel lot. “Freeze!” Bishop screamed. “Don’t move!”
Kilmore was bleeding from at least one leg, the captain panting from exertion and pain. Bishop could see K’s rifle lying in the gravel where he’d fallen.
Cyrus had a handgun, probably Kilmore’s secondary. The governor was also breathing rapidly, trying to re-oxygenate from the exertion.
“Shoot him!” Kilmore barked as Bishop stepped into the light. “Kill that bastard right now!”
Bishop’s carbine was at his shoulder, the barrel unmoving and pointed at Cyrus’s head. “I wouldn’t try it, Governor. You won’t make it, I promise.”
Cyrus obviously didn’t know what to do, his eyes darting between Kilmore and the stranger who was holding them at gunpoint. It then dawned on the politician. “I know you. You were at Meraton. You were on the other side … the man in the road … inspecting the bridge.”
Bishop laughed, “Yes, that was me. Now drop the pistol and raise your hands in the air.”
“What do you want?” Cyrus asked, evidently thinking he could strike a bargain.
“I want that weapon on the ground and your hands in the air,” Bishop replied, moving a step closer.
“He wants me,” Kilmore grunted. “Nick has sent him and his boys to bring me back in. He’s the dog catcher, out to corral those that strayed from their precious SAINT program.”
Cyrus blinked, his face showing Kilmore’s logic seemed reasonable. “Is that true, young man?”
Bishop could see where this was going, his instinct screaming for him to just cut both of them in half and get on with his day. He’d be doing the people of Texas a grand favor, probably saving tens of thousands of lives and untold amounts of suffering.
Yet, some ghostly voice of honor wouldn’t allow him to do it. He didn’t know why, but some code just wouldn’t allow his finger to squeeze the trigger and end the entire affair.
Bishop found himself praying Cyrus would become bold and chance a shot. Then he could end it. He would have a valid reason to cut them down.
“Is that true?” Cyrus asked again, interpreting Bishop’s lack of a response as an opening for negotiations. What he said next stunned both Kilmore and the Texan. “Because if the captain is really what you’re after, I will turn him over to you. You can take him
and go. I have help on the way.”
Kilmore’s livid gaze bore into the man he and his team had been protecting for all these weeks, Bishop detecting the fury of betrayal in the captain’s eyes. “Why you son of a bitch,” Kilmore hissed. “I should….”
Cyrus’s boot lashed out, landing a solid kick at Kilmore’s jaw, jerking the rogue SAINT leader’s head back with a shocking jolt. “Shut the fuck up!”
Then, turning back to Bishop, the governor said, “I’m going inside the church and closing the door to wait on my reinforcements. You do as you wish with this man.”
Bishop spotted Kilmore’s hand move at the same instant that Cyrus reached for the chapel’s doorknob. In a flash, Captain K was clutching a grenade. Hatred filled the wounded man’s eyes as he watched his boss step toward the threshold. He was being sacrificed, left to the wolves, abandoned.
The Texan could have shot either or both. In that fraction of time, his mind entertained a mental game he used to play. Alternate history had been one of Bishop’s favorite pastimes as a bored teenager living on a lonely ranch. He’d always daydreamed about what the world would be like if one of the many attempts to assassinate Adolf Hitler had been successful. What if Hinckley’s bullet had been an inch closer to President Reagan’s heart? What if Joe Stalin’s childhood diseases had ended his life before he could lead the Soviet Union?
During those boyhood fantasies, Bishop always arrived at the same place. If he were a sniper with the historical figure in his sights, would he pull the trigger and alter civilization’s course?
Now, in the hundredth of a second, Bishop faced the same question. Cyrus was stepping inside. The Texan’s finger was on the trigger. Kilmore was pulling the grenade’s pin.
Cyrus noticed the movement, spotted the pain birthed by bitter betrayal on Kilmore’s face. In a flash, the governor raised his pistol and began pumping rounds into the captain’s frame.
Kilmore’s body twisted in the throes of death, flopping on the concrete step. The grenade he had cradled in his palm now spun off his fingers as the lifeless man’s muscles relaxed in death. Gathering momentum, the petite, bomb-ball landed on the porch and rolled through the sanctuary’s door. Bishop caught a final glimpse of terror on Cyrus’s face as he tried to back away from the approaching ordnance.
A thunderclap rattled the church, the stained-glass windows flashing a brilliant rainbow of color as a bolt of white light filled the sanctuary.
Bishop lowered his rifle, turning away from the scene. The sound of pounding boots brought the Texan back to reality, Grim and his team rushing to lend assistance.
“It’s over,” Bishop announced, turning away from the blast and taking the first step back toward Mineral Wells.
Epilogue
Bishop sat with Terri, bouncing Hunter on his knee.
They were inside the Alpha courthouse, just two of the hundreds of people crammed into the overflowing venue.
In front of them, Bishop noted the first two rows were jam-packed with reporters. At the back sat the television crews, their bulky cameras mounted on tripods in order to peer over the rows of anxious citizens. Diana was putting on quite a show, and the Texan didn’t blame her.
Word of Cyrus’s death had spread quickly. His militia had stopped its advance on Abilene just twenty miles before engaging the forces gathered there to defend the city.
The larger Young Army, mustering in San Antonio, had remained garrisoned in the Alamo City.
Still, there was a movement afoot to make Cyrus a martyr. The other regional governors seemed divided, those loyal to the dead candidate unwilling to put down their weapons. No one was quite sure what role Diana had really played in the entire affair. Many citizens still believed Alpha had been behind the bombing that had stopped the recount.
Tempers were also running high on both sides, the result of two, bloody battles and scores of the departed on both sides. Texas was still divided, but at least the shooting had stopped for now.
Diana, for her part, had been pleading with anyone who would listen. She wanted a new election, a cease-fire, and a fresh start as soon as possible. The Alliance military still wasn’t sure where its allegiance was owed, internally as split as the rest of Texas.
SAINT Six was out of action – with one exception. The man Bishop had cut down, the guy who had somersaulted next to Cyrus’s Humvee, had somehow managed to live. While he would never have use of his legs again, Bishop’s team had applied sufficient first aid to save his life.
Now, with battle bandages covering half his face and IV tubes snaking from his arms, he took the witness stand in front of the press, a judge, and the entire Lone Star Nation.
The prosecutor Diana had selected hailed from Houston. It had been a political bone, thrown to skeptical governors in an effort to lend credibility to the upcoming proceedings. “I don’t want a puppet trial. I want everyone in the Alliance to know the truth.”
The questions were mundane in the beginning. What is your name? What is your occupation?
It was nearly ten minutes before the most telling testimony began to flow.
The lawyer was detailed, articulate, and seemingly in no hurry. Bit by bit, question by question, the truth started to emerge.
Over and again, the gathered crowd gasped at the wounded man’s testimony. He explained the robberies as fundraisers for Cyrus’s organization, told how the governor himself had ordered the felonies, including the theft of Alliance funds from Moss Ridge.
The carjacking of Terri and her bodyguard was a lengthy topic, the witness stating that Diana’s campaign manager wasn’t to be harmed, just delayed.
But the facts surrounding Otis’s kidnapping really sent shockwaves through the onlookers. Bishop noted the reporters to his front were scratching on their notepads like crazy.
“We needed a government worker from here in Alpha,” the former SAINT Six member stated with little emotion. “Captain Kilmore and Governor Young wanted someone who wouldn’t be missed, yet would be traced back to Diana Brown. Otis just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
The totality of the testimony was surreal … listening to the witness describe how the explosives had been configured, smuggled into the Central High School gym, and then detonated. “Cyrus knew he had lost,” the monotone voice continued. “He didn’t want those votes counted … was willing to do anything to stop the recount.”
“Why did you follow this man?” the prosecutor asked.
“I believed Miss Brown had forsaken the cities. I was born in Dallas, had served on the police force for 8 years before the collapse. All of SAINT Six felt the same way. The council’s decisions seemed biased toward the small towns, almost as if they hated the cities.”
“And you believed Cyrus would change that?”
“Yes. He played hardball, didn’t hesitate to cross the line. Somehow, at the time, we managed to justify his means as an end. We honestly believed he would give priority back to the metropolitan areas, and we were willing to break the law in order to assure he achieved his goals and won the election. My family in Dallas suffered badly while I kept hearing stories of Alpha having electrical power and running water. I lost my sister to looters and my mother to disease. All of the men on the team had similar stories and were suspect to Cyrus’s appealing promises and persuasive nature.”
By the time two hours had passed, several members of the audience were overcome with emotion, many of the men pale with shock. Pictures of the aftermath were entered as evidence for the court, followed by the stark images of countless pine coffins being prepared for burial.
The judge, sensing the witness was growing weak from his injuries, called a recess until the next morning.
As Bishop and Terri waited in line at the packed exit doors, they could hear the reporters talking among themselves.
“Do you think this will stop the civil war?” questioned one newshound.
“It has to,” responded another man. “Apparently, Diana didn’t start thi
s. Sounds like to me she’s been the victim all along.”
“Still, we’re only hearing one side. Do you really think Cyrus was as bad as they’re making him out to be?”
“Only time will tell,” responded another reporter.
Finally outside, Bishop and Terri made for their cottage. “Do you think the ceasefire will hold?” she asked.
“Yes, at least for a while.”
Frowning, Terri prodded, “You don’t seem convinced?”
“We are divided,” he answered, stopping to focus on his wife’s eyes. “I saw it at the riot in San Antonio and in the hearts of the people at Mineral Wells. It’s no longer correct to define it as right versus left, conservative against liberal. It’s more than that, and what troubles me the most is that I don’t know what the answer is.”