by Bradley West
“The Silverado and Telluride will comprise our hunter team and search to the south, west and east. Muller knows we’ll be coming hard for him. He and his group can either hide or run. If we're lucky, Greg and Steph’s plane will spot them from the air and relay their location. The men we killed were outlaw bikers and disabled their motorcycles when they fled. If we’re able to repair one or two, we’ll use them to extend our reach. We still have four walkie-talkies for our hunters. When Greg and Steph land, we’ll have two shortwave radios, one for each group. Travis and I will set up a comms schedule.
“There’s an unfortunate wrinkle in all this. Maps showing our planned route, master codewords, the name and address of our border guide into Canada and the exact location of Thunderdome are in the glove compartment of the Horizon. We assume that they have this information. Instead of fleeing south, they could look to ambush us along our route. To the extent possible, we’ll mix up the roads, but there aren't many options between here and the Canada border. That means both parts of our group must be ready for battle. Travis, what do you think?”
What did I think? That if we’d stopped talking ten minutes ago, we’d be on the road by now. Travis took a deep breath to control his anxiety. “Let’s not forget that our Spice Land hosts aren’t happy with us, and we should get out of here before they try something clever. Everyone not in the Silverado with me should leave now, and we’ll meet you at the airport.”
“What will you do?” Sal asked.
“Shorty knows where the solar-powered CCTV transmission box is for the western end of the property, and we’ll disable it on our way to look at the bikes. If they work, we’ll take one or two and destroy the rest. Then we’ll ride like hell to catch up before you reach the airport. Arkar, can you set up the SAW in the back of the Telluride? Just in case.”
* * * * *
Muller’s mob stopped for the day to the southwest of Bonners Ferry, hidden under the foliage of the Kootenai National Forest. They’d driven almost three hundred miles from Grangeville, and the mathematics of πr2 suggested that a search grid that included their location had to exceed seventy thousand square miles (one hundred eighty thousand square kilometers). They were also within shouting distance of the border guide’s base and would put eyes on Jeff Neal tomorrow.
The captors stretched their legs and ate MREs while Burns, an improving Norris, Katerina and Muller conferred in low tones. Carla had one arm free to feed herself and the other tie-tied to the Winnebago’s metal steps. Muller got the ball rolling. “Enough people saw us on the road that they’ll track us north. If we want to stay out of sight until we have a bigger team, we drive across the border tonight and lay up in Canada. When they come across, we’ll ambush them from close range . . . if someone else doesn’t tip or rip them off first.”
“Plan B?” Norris asked.
“That was Plan B. Plan A is to finish the Dark Cure tonight. Barter half of it for men, weapons and supplies. Surveil their coyote; they’ll be in touch soon enough. Stake a goat in the clearing and entice the tiger in—we can kill or cripple another kid for that purpose. We’ll use Carla and the blue bus as our primary lures once we know they’re close, and hurt the children to force them to attack on our terms. With an M320 grenade launcher, I’m good inside a Hula Hoop out to two hundred meters. Add M-4s and IEDs, and it will be a slaughter.”
“That sounds a lot better,” Norris said. “Those fuckers killed my men, and I ain’t too patient about revenge.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The Searchers
Sunday, July 19–Monday, July 20, 2020: Spice Land, Idaho; Flight N168TT from NLVA to Idaho County Airport; outside Bonners Ferry, Idaho
Marsh and Andrew sat in the trailer hosting the compound’s CCTV monitors. They lacked the courage to participate in the ambush, but they didn’t want to miss any of the action either. At Andrew’s direction, Spice Land’s ranch hands had scattered more than three thousand two-inch galvanized roofing nails on a stretch of boundary road chosen for its proximity to the cameras and adjacency to high ground. Eight shooters—six of them with AR-15s—hid among the rocks and scrub vegetation along the ridgeline. It would be a turkey shoot even for men who’d never fired a tactical rifle. “This is gonna be great!” Andrew exclaimed.
Half the monitors went dark, including the ones covering the ambush site. “What the fuck?” Marsh shouted as he pounded the countertop. Their AV tech checked the power supply and cables but found nothing amiss. Marsh confirmed via walkie-talkie that the men hadn’t seen approaching vehicles or even dust clouds. After a long silence, the cruel truth dawned when the first functioning monitors on the north perimeter road revealed an SUV and an RV barreling eastward four miles north of where they were expected.
“Send the men to the front gate now!” Andrew said. “We can shoot them point-blank when they drive past. Stupid bastards.”
Marsh gave the command and the two men waited for an update. “There’s another one!” The AV tech shouted. Sure enough, the twenty-two-foot white supply truck lumbered along on its own, maybe doing thirty mph.
“Marsh, change of plans!” Andrew said. “Let the first two pass and open up on the white truck. Shoot the driver and take out the tires. All the good shit will be in that box.”
* * * * *
Travis, Shorty, Tien and Johnny had found two roadworthy Harleys: Zax’s Fat Boy, most recently ridden by Bailey, and Worm’s classic XR-750. Both had traditional ignitions and accepted ordinary fuses and plugs. Johnny slashed the tires of the other three, opened their gas caps and dangled gas-soaked rags out of each fuel tank. Quick work with his Zippo, a sprint to the XR-750 and a rapid departure spared him blast damage. Tien was already following the Silverado at speed. Johnny adjusted his sling so he could ride with his right hand on the throttle and shoot his M-4 with the other.
Shorty helmed the Silverado with Travis in the suicide seat cradling an M-4. Travis’ left shoulder was still stiff, but earlier that morning had held up well to the .270 Win Mag’s recoil, an encouraging sign.
As they took the right turn at the northwest corner of the compound, Shorty said, “I’d bet a month’s pay that our move took ’em by surprise. “Marsh and Andrew will group the men along the front road to unload when we drive by. That’s the disadvantage of this here route—there’s no other way to the highway than past the main gate.”
“What do you suggest?” Travis asked, sensing a solution from Shorty’s calm delivery.
“I have the key to the padlock on the north gate. You shoot out the next signal box up ahead about a mile, and they’ll be blind when we drive right up the middle through the fields and pastures, and hit them from the rear.”
“Do I take out every armed man?”
“No, the hands are just young bucks trying to stay alive and get some pussy during a bad time. But I’d bet my boots that Marsh and Andrew will be in the CCTV trailer or the command center. How many rounds does your rifle hold?”
“It’s a thirty-round mag and I typically load green tip ammo,” Travis said. “They’ll punch that aluminum skin like a hot spoon through a fudge sundae.”
“I’ll slow down when we’re close and you put a full mag into each trailer. Those two have had it in for your crew from the start. Yesterday, Andrew talked about poisoning your well.”
Travis shook his head in disbelief. Some free love commune this was. He took out his disgust on the CCTV signal booster, blinding the remaining feeds from the eastern end of the property. Less than two minutes later, Shorty parked and searched his overloaded keyring for the one stamped “Yale.”
“Ride like hell for the front,” Travis said to Johnny and Tien, who idled their bikes next to the pickup. “Don’t shoot unless fired upon or they aim a weapon at you. Open the gate and watch your backs. We’ll be right behind you after some unfinished business with our hosts.”
* * * * *
Kyle drove the green Forza flat-out along the eastern perimeter road. “In two miles, we’ll
pass close to the compound’s main gate,” Sal said. “I want everyone to lie flat on the floor on the left-hand side. I think we’ll be okay, though you can never tell.”
Jaime kept the Telluride on Kyle’s tail. If anyone shot at them before they reached the gate, he’d pull over and swing the SUV around to point the ass-end at their adversaries. Yonten would flip up the hatchback and Arkar would give them hell with the squad machinegun. Jaime and Yonten would add fire from their M-4s while Zarni and Rosa sheltered below the dashboard. As it transpired, the weapons stayed quiet. Jaime stopped once the RV was safely down the road, positioned the SUV and made ready to cover the white whale for its turn in the kill zone.
Twin Harley exhausts don’t sneak up on anyone, particularly at full throttle. Johnny fit the outlaw biker image with dreadlocks trailing behind his headband, mirrored sunglasses and a sleeveless vest displaying wiry arms. Unlike most bikers, he was a former Marine Spec Ops veteran who raced motorcycles when he wasn’t stealing them. He fired over the parked pickups to draw the attention of the armed men who had spread out along the east-facing fence near the main gate. At one hundred meters, he honored Shorty’s wish not to shoot people needlessly, while also providing second thoughts to anyone thinking about blasting the supply truck limping up the road.
Travis figured that the brain trust would be in the CCTV trailer and let it rip from right to left along the length. For the next pass, he lowered his aim by three feet and skewed the firing angle downward to account for anyone on the floor. He swapped out mags and gave the command trailer the same floor-level magic fingers massage treatment. “That should do it,” he declared as he slapped in a third magazine.
“I’d say you’ve done that before,” Shorty said. He saw that Tien had opened the front gate while Johnny provided cover. The two bikers followed the Silverado out in silence. Travis noted that the back of the SUV lacked empty shell casings—Arkar had saved his ammo for a more deserving quarry.
The Harleys soon overtook the white whale and headed up the road to escort the green ’Bago to the airfield. The Silverado led the supply truck and Jaime tucked the Telluride in behind, hatchback still open and SAW covering their six. The 3M convoy was fewer than ten miles from the airport and on schedule.
* * * * *
Idaho County Airport had been abandoned, and its locked gate posed no challenge. Everyone told their version of the convoy’s exodus. Travis’s deadpan account of “launching suppressive fire into the command trailers” evoked a chorus of support. Drive-by shootings weren’t Travis’ thing, but the world operated on an Old Testament basis these days: it just as easily could have been the 3Mers dead inside Winnebagos rather than vice versa.
Erinn administered a PCR test for Shorty. Zarni and Rosa bonded over their stolen children. Barb demanded more wine; Pat told her she was an embarrassment. Travis and Jaime took Tien, Derek and Tom through more small-arms drills. Kyle and Jeanie worked from memory to write down all they recalled from Carla’s Dark Cure batching session in Gardnerville. Arkar worked with Yonten on the younger man’s hand-to-hand fighting skills in the shade of the corrugated steel waiting room. Yonten was quicker than his father but not as wily or strong.
Sal silently worked through their next steps. Where were Carla and the children? They’d need to stop to finish the Cure before the plasma went bad. After they finished, what next? Run to a population center to sell their Covid treatments, or stay close and trade doses for gunmen? He’d seen enough of Muller to recognize a psychopath with a major need to impress Katerina. Sending out all the hunters on the assumption that Muller was fleeing might be a big mistake. Sal walked over to Travis and waited to have a word.
Three o’clock came and went, as did three-thirty. Cumulus clouds built up, half-filling a rich blue sky. Yonten was the first to spot a glint on the horizon, followed by the throb of an approaching engine.
Five minutes later, Alf feathered his engine and pulled to a halt. Pat and Barb tearfully welcomed back Steph and Tyson; Greg stood awkwardly to the side until Sal walked up and clapped him on the back. “Did you see the blue RV?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Greg said. “The new fellow Matt sat up front on the right and I was on the left in the back. We scoured both sides of Route 95. There’re a thousand places they could be under cover. There weren’t many vehicles moving on the roads at all—eight or nine hundred miles and maybe three dozen in total. Anyone alive is hunkered down or out of gas, or both.”
“Can the pilot search to the north of us a while before he heads back?”
“No, he burned everything but his reserve fuel on the way up to maximize our reconnaissance time. He’ll have to fly straight back. When I asked if he had any leeway, he said something peculiar: ‘Aviation is a self-cleaning oven.’ I took that as a no.”
Sal cracked a smile. “That’s very useful. How’s my grandson doing?”
Greg filled him in as many hands helped unload the lab equipment. Erinn ushered Mona and Matt into the green RV to administer quick antigen tests, the more thorough and time-consuming PCR test kits being in the stolen medical RV. Yonten and Johnny took the Harleys and relieved Tom and Tien on sentry duty.
After ten minutes on the ground, Alf gave them a salute and took off into the freshening breeze. The Caravan was barely airborne before Travis assumed center stage. The Texan preferred joining al-Qaeda to public speaking, but with Sal worn out, he said he’d do his best. “We welcome back Stephanie, Greg and Tyson. Against the odds, you made it to Vegas, arranged for Tyson to see a specialist and were so convincing that Dr. Mona Almeida has decided to join the 3M. I understand Tyson needs an operation, and Steph and Greg postponed it to help find the hostages. We owe them our deepest thanks.”
Stephanie was too distraught to speak. “Tyson’s on an improving trend,” Greg managed. “Dr. Almeida will monitor his condition and operate if necessary. We didn’t do anything special.” The crowd knew otherwise and applauded the couple.
Travis continued in the excruciatingly uncomfortable role of emcee. “Next, we also welcome Matt Tofanelli, a computer systems engineer, software programmer and, he tells me, a professional online poker player. Matt secured the lab equipment we need to make more Dark Cure treatments with other recent joiner Shorty Hall being the intended first recipient.”
“On to 3M business. Unfortunately, on the flight up there was no sign of the Horizon. We had five sets of eyes giving it a thorough low-level look. As we learned in the military, knowing where something isn’t has great value, too. Jaime, Sal and I discussed our revised next steps. Our enemies are ruthless, they realize we’re coming after them and they know our planned route. Instead of fleeing south, we think they’ll try to outsmart us by heading north, probably up into the panhandle. They already have our border guide’s name and address, and maps showing the two unguarded roads into Canada large enough for RVs. We have to increase our security, and Jaime and Arkar will guard the Forza and white whale. The Telluride with Zarni, Rosa and Yonten will also have our machinegun, providing maximum protection for the ‘Wolves.’ ” Travis offered a small smile to his audience. “We decided you’re the Wolves because you’re more dangerous when you’re together in a pack.
“I’ll lead the ‘Hunters’ in the Silverado. Along with two motorcycles, we’ll search only as far south as Boise. We’ll focus on bikers because that’s where Muller recruited last time, probably in a trade for Dark Cure doses. The longer we wait before hitting them, the more men they’ll have. We’ll visit Boise to speak with gang members and law enforcement types to learn the locations of every clubhouse between there and Canada for one hundred miles on either side of Highway 95. We’ll also spread the word about the missing kids and their murdering abductors. We won’t talk about the Dark Cure because we have none to offer. We figure the Hunters’ sweep north will take three days.
“During this time, the Wolves will travel by night and stop near a small town up the Idaho panhandle thirty miles from Canada. Our coyote lives there
and we’ll set up surveillance on his home. Basically, we’ll be looking for Muller because he’ll also put a lookout on the same house if he does what we expect him to.
“I’ll speak with Sal twice a day on the shortwave. We’ve set a new frequency because the old one’s compromised. If the Hunters don’t find our people, we’ll drive up to join the Wolves and decide what to do next. To be clear, we are not abandoning our people until they’re free or confirmed dead. There can be no forgiveness and no rest for the murderers. They are no different than ISIS fanatics, offering no quarter and deserving none. This will be a battle for survival. I urge every non-military person in the 3M to undergo arms training and continue drilling daily until you are proficient. We have enough weapons for everyone. In the last four days, we’ve witnessed terrible events. Let’s not let the sacrifices of our friends and families go to waste. Learn to defend yourselves. Questions?”
Zarni burst into silent tears, and Rosa comforted her as Arkar looked on, lost in his own pain.
Sal and Travis fielded housekeeping questions, but no objections surfaced regarding strategy or goals. Jaime had been quiet. He’d already had quite a day and the last hour’s pistol instruction session had drained him. He stepped to the front and surprised them all by quoting Shakespeare from memory in a loud, clear voice:
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers
For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother!
Those unfamiliar with Henry V’s speech to his troops before the upset victory over the French at Agincourt remained silent. Former soldiers and English Lit majors shouted in agreement. Arkar stood between Jaime and Travis, raising his arms above his head. “My brothers!” he cried out. “We save the children!” Jaime and Travis raised their good arms high in a sign of unity. “We will! We will!” everyone shouted with genuine zeal. Arkar blinked back tears while Yonten’s obsidian eyes burned.