by Chris Pike
For a while they travelled in silence, Holly by Dillon’s side, the horses stepping in rhythm, man and woman keeping private thoughts. They were equal partners now, each having their own tasks to do, and most of all they had each other’s backs. The way a man and woman should be; one complements the other’s shortcomings.
The ride gave Holly more time to think. It was easier to figure out Dillon when he talked, and this silent treatment was befuddling to her. She knew he was a man of meaningful words, eloquent in his speaking, having personally witnessed his persuasive and oratory abilities in the courtroom.
Either he needed an audience or he was suffering immensely. She suspected the latter.
They rode in silence along the lonely blacktop road. Holly had suggested this route because it was rarely used during normal times. After several hours, they rounded a bend, nearing the bridge over the languid and murky Sabine River, which was the eastern boundary line between Louisiana and Texas. On the other side was Sabine County where Holly’s ranch was located.
Dillon pulled up Cowboy’s reins, stopping the horse, motioning for Holly to do the same. He put an index finger to his mouth for her to be quiet. He pointed to the direction of the bridge where several armed men were patrolling, and by their appearance, they weren’t going to let anyone in.
“This is bad,” Dillon whispered.
“Maybe we should go downstream and try to find a place to cross,” Holly suggested.
“That only works in the movies. This river is deceptively peaceful. In reality it’s a death trap. It’s deep and has a strong flow. See those ripples?” He pointed to the other side. “That’s the equivalent of a riptide. You get caught in that and you’ll drown.”
“Then let’s go up there and talk to them.”
“Not both of us. You stay back here, out of sight, and if anything happens to me you ride out of here as fast as you can.”
“Dillon, I—”
“No.” Dillon gave her a pointed look that was all business. “Stay out of sight. I mean it.”
“Okay,” Holly said reluctantly.
Dillon rode out into the open, away from the trees, away from cover. One of the men hollered to the other two, and all three coalesced in front of the bridge.
“Whoa, that’s far enough,” one of the men said.
Dillon brought Cowboy to a halt. He glanced at the men, gauging their character by the way they carried themselves. If they had been horses, the phrase, “rode hard and put up wet” would have done justice to their appearance. Scraggly beards, sweat-stained shirts, pants hadn’t seen the inside of a washing machine in a long while.
The one who spoke was obviously the leader. He carried a pump action 12 gauge shotgun, and stood in front of the other two, who nervously glanced at the guy as if they needed to be told what to do.
“I don’t want any trouble,” Dillon said. “I only want to cross. May I?”
“That depends,” the man said. His two cohorts backed him up by nodding and showing their scratched Winchester 30-30s that had probably been carelessly thrown into the bed of a truck countless times.
Dillon could discern what a man was like by the way he treated his weapons. Firearms took time to clean. A dirty gun that jammed or misfired was useless. These bozos probably didn’t even know what a chamber brush was. They didn’t impress him at all, and were obviously lazy.
“On what?” Dillon asked.
“Well, you see…” the man hocked a wad of tobacco into the grass, “we’re not lettin’ strangers or riffraff into our county. Only residents are gettin’ to cross. So unless you can prove you live here, go back to wherever you came from.”
Dillon shifted in the saddle, not exactly sure what to say.
“And you can tell your lady friend to come out from behind the trees. My spotter—”
“Spotter?”
“Sittin’ in a tree yonder,” the man said, motioning with his head.
Dillon swiveled his gaze, checking the trees. A towering pine caught his attention. Squinting, his eyes followed the tree until he found the man. He was sitting on a makeshift ledge made out of two by fours nailed into a high branch. Dillon cursed silently at having been so careless to have missed the spotter. He’d have to be careful to have all his wits about him from now on.
“You’ve been in the crosshairs of a LaRue OBR sniper rifle for some time.”
“An AR-15 on steroids,” Dillon remarked.
“You know your weapons. My spotter let us know two riders were coming this way.” The man cupped his hand to his mouth and shouted in the direction of his spotter, “Chandler, come on down!” Turning back to Dillon, he said, “So if you got nothin’ to hide, then why did your lady friend stay behind?”
“Maybe you’re the riffraff, not us,” Dillon said. He made a motion to position his AK for firing.
“Hey! Keep your hands where we can see them.”
Dillon mulled over his chances of getting off a shot and whether or not Holly would be next. He was outnumbered and outgunned. Reluctantly, he moved his hands away from his AK.
“Pardon my manners. I totally forgot to introduce us. That’s Cyrus and Don, and I’m Frank. There now,” Frank said, hitching up his britches. “We aren’t riffraff, are we boys? And looky here, there’s the rest of my quad. This here is Chandler.”
Dillon quickly sized up the man walking toward them. He wasn’t as backwoods as the rest of his cohorts, and had a certain edge to him that Dillon recognized. He was tall and athletic, unlike the rest of the quad he was associated with who were nearly as wide as they were tall.
Dillon’s eyes immediately went to the rifle. An OBR—the Texas answer to the search for the perfect semi-automatic sniper rifle. Topped with a Nightforce scope and loaded with 20 rounds of 308 Winchester 175 grain Hollow Point Boat Tail match ammo, anyone within 800 meters was in serious danger. Made in Leander, Texas, the OBR had the classical AR-10 profile with the kind of custom tweaks that perfectly mated precision with reliability.
“We have jobs,” Cyrus said. “Riffraff don’t.”
Dillon thought about that a second. Maybe it wasn’t a bad idea to close up the county until things settled down. Since they hadn’t asked for any tolls, maybe these guys were on the up and up. He called, “Holly, you can come on out.”
Holly coaxed her horse onto the blacktop, calling for Buster to follow. Coming alongside Cowboy, she stopped.
“They need proof that we live in the county,” Dillon said, “before they let us cross.”
“Like what?” Holly asked. “A driver’s license?”
“That’ll do,” Frank said.
“Didn’t bring it with me,” Holly said. “Cars aren’t exactly working. Last I checked a horse license isn’t necessary.”
“A horse license!” Frank bellowed. He slapped a knee and doubled over, letting out a belly laugh. “Now that’s an idea. I think I’ll start my own business of collecting fees for horse licenses.”
“I own a ranch in the western part of the county,” Holly said tersely.
“So?” Frank said. “Any yahoo can claim that. Got proof?”
“No. Forgot the deed too.”
Frank smirked. “You sure do have a smart mouth on you for such a pretty lady. I like my women, how should I say …subservient.”
“Big word for a small man,” Holly shot back.
Frank smiled, but without humor. “Besides, we’re not letting anyone in who is contagious…” He eyed Dillon suspiciously. “You look peaked, like you got the fever or somethin’.”
“I’m not sick,” Dillon said. “I got attacked by an alligator and almost died. I’m still recovering.”
“You expect me to believe that?” Frank asked. “There aren’t any gators this far inland.”
“He did get attacked,” Holly confirmed. “It happened in the Atchafalaya Basin. He has the bruises to prove it, and,” she said, digging around in her knapsack, “here are the alligator teeth in case you don’t believe me.” She held
up a string of large teeth.
Dillon was surprised Holly kept them.
“A souvenir, courtesy of our trip,” Holly said.
“Lemme see those,” Frank said. He sidled up to Holly’s horse and inspected the teeth.
Buster growled low in his throat, showing his teeth when Frank approached Holly.
“You can tell your old cur to back off,” Frank said.
“Buster!” Dillon made direct eye contact with his dog. “No!”
The dog eyed the man suspiciously. A good judge of character, Buster had picked up the smells of testosterone-laced sweat mixed with cheap alcohol. It was different than the kind of drink Dillon consumed at home, the kind that chilled him out after a hard day. The type of liquor the man had consumed was foul-smelling and bitter, and the man acted like he was a male alpha, stronger and braver than Buster’s pack leader.
Buster had been on the road long enough to gauge the quality of humans he came in contact with. This man had an evil way about him, by the sounds he made and his taunting laugh, and Buster especially noticed the way the man had eyed Holly, like she was a piece of meat he wanted to eat. Holly was Dillon’s mate, and though Buster had no concept of a marriage, Buster knew the two were a pack, and Buster was now part of that pack.
The dog kept back as he was instructed but if prodded, he’d jump on that man like a mongoose on a cobra and tear his throat out.
Frank inspected the teeth. “I believe you’re telling me the truth. Seen those kind of teeth for sale at the tackle shop in town. What exactly were you doing in the Atchafalaya Basin?”
“Trying to find my daughter,” Dillon said.
“In the swamp? That doesn’t make any sense.” Frank cast a dubious look at his group.
“She was on a plane when the EMP struck,” Dillon said. It would have lost power and crash landed.”
Frank made eye contact with Chandler.
Chandler asked, “What do you know about the EMP?”
Dillon briefly explained that the electrical grid went down and that anything powered by a computer would be toast.
“I already know all that,” Chandler said. “Do you know who was responsible?”
“No.”
“I’m guessing it was Iran or Iraq.”
“Possibly,” Dillon said. “I’m thinking the Russians might be behind this, but it hasn’t been my top priority to try to figure out who is behind the attack. I’ve been concentrating on finding my daughter.”
“Did you?”
Dillon glanced at the ground. He couldn’t bring himself to say she was dead, especially to strangers who were butting into his private life. “We didn’t find her, and from what we learned, she probably didn’t survive the airplane crash.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Chandler said.
Dillon shifted in the saddle. “Nice rifle you got there. You military?”
Chandler nodded. “Saw action in Kandahar. When my tour was up last year, I came home to find my girlfriend shacked up with my best friend. I beat the shit out of him, then when she tried to make up with me I told her she could go to Hell.” Chandler paused, waiting for Dillon’s reaction.
Dillon shrugged. “Don’t blame you. I probably would have done the same thing. Sorry to hear about your girlfriend and your best friend.”
“Don’t be. I got out of jail last week and had made plans to go back to Central Texas where my family lives when the EMP hit. I’m stuck here for a while. Are you military?”
“Ex-military. Medic in the Gulf War.”
Chandler ran a hand through his hair. “Then I consider you family. I’m Chris Chandler.” He extended a hand. “Call me Chandler, everybody else does.”
“Dillon Stockdale,” he said, shaking hands. He jerked his head to Holly. “Holly Hudson.”
Holly nodded a greeting.
Half listening to the conversation, when Frank heard Dillon introduce himself and Holly, he just about shit in his pants. “What did you say your names were?”
Holly and Dillon exchanged wary glances. Either this was going to go really good, or really bad.
Chapter 10
Dillon repeated their names.
“That’s what I thought you said,” Frank replied. “You’re those fancy lawyers involved in the Cole Cassel case.”
Dillon swiveled his eyes from Frank to the rest of the goons who had brought up their rifles. From the tone of Frank’s voice and the rifles pointing at him, this was going to go badly. “Cassel was on trial for murder.”
“I know that,” Frank said. “So he did the world a favor and got rid of a lowlife, who cares?”
“The justice system does,” Dillon said.
“And you were a champion for that, right? The one prosecuting him. Your lady friend over there was the one defending him, and from what I’ve heard, she wasn’t doing that good of a job.”
Holly threw a sneer in Frank’s direction.
“You sound like you have inside information,” Dillon said.
Holly sat stoically on her horse as the conversation went downhill. She had saved Dillon’s hide once before under much different circumstances, but wasn’t sure about taking on three guys who had the edge, not to mention Chandler, who had been their sniper lookout. She briefly considered going for her 45, ultimately deciding against it. Her eyes dropped to Dillon’s AK, knowing if he made any fast moves for the rifle, he’d be shot dead. She had the 45 in a holster on her hip. It would take too long to reach for it and sight in on one of the goons, so she sat still and let Dillon do the talking.
“Actually, I do have inside information.” Frank spat another mouthful of tobacco into the grass. “The boss said there’s a large reward in it for whoever brings you in. Dead or alive.”
Dillon’s eyes darted to the two goons flanking Frank. A shotgun blast at this range could kill both him and Cowboy, and while Dillon would sacrifice a horse for his life, he wasn’t willing to gamble at the moment. Holly had certainly been unprepared for the ambush, and Dillon cursed his stupidity at letting his emotions getting the best of him. He’d have to use his wits to get out of this dilemma, especially the wanted dead or alive part.
“Who’s the boss?” Dillon asked. He needed to stall for time and formulate a plan. He suspected he already knew who the boss was, but it would be better if he kept that bit of knowledge to himself. If he could keep Frank engaged long enough, it might give him an advantage. Talking and shooting required the use of both brain hemispheres, and multi-tasking didn’t appear to be one of Frank’s better qualities. Dillon doubted he could talk and shoot at the same time.
“That’s for me to know and for you to find out,” Frank said haughtily. He idly scratched his beard and gazed wantonly at Holly sitting high and mighty on her horse. He licked his lips, his gaze dropping down to Holly’s thighs and to the V of her womanliness warming the hard saddle.
Holly shifted uncomfortably in the saddle then sat taller, challenging his leering stare.
A corner of Frank’s mouth lifted in a knowing smirk and something stirred in him. He winked, and Holly gave him a defiant glare, then turned away in disgust.
“Come on,” Dillon said, “you’ve already got us, might as well tell me who you are working for.”
Frank mulled that over in his caveman brain. “Yeah, I guess it won’t do no harm. You’ll know soon enough. The boss is Cole Cassel, and—”
The rifle shot caught everyone off guard, and it took a long second for the group to comprehend what had happened.
The force of the bullet knocked Frank off his horse. His shotgun went flying and he fell facedown onto the dirt, where a crimson stain soaked the dirt from his motionless chest. The bullet had entered his chest, tearing through it and slicing his spine. A ragged, gaping hole was left where the bullet exited. Frank’s right hand twitched and his upper body stiffened before going slack and falling still.
Two more rifle cracks caught the second and third guy of Frank’s quad off guard, sending them to an early
grave.
Dillon leapt off his horse and scrambled through high grass then behind a tree. “Take cover!” he screamed at Holly. Cowboy bolted down the road and Holly’s horse followed quickly behind him.
Buster took off running.
Dillon scanned the thick woods teeming with evergreen pines lining the banks of the river. He searched for Chandler, cursing he had figured the guy wrong.
The sniper was nowhere in sight, and for the moment, Dillon was pinned. He lay still, stretched out along a natural contour of the land, his ears tuned for any sound. A dragonfly flitted by and landed on a blooming weed, its wings fluttering in the sunlight. In the river, a turtle that had earlier slid off the log it was sunning on floated to the surface and poked its head above the water.
Dillon mopped a bead of sweat that had trickled down the side of his face and wiped his damp palm on the side of his pants. He tossed a stick into the bushes hoping to draw out the shooter.
It was hot and Dillon’s mouth was dry. He picked up a smooth pebble, brushed off the dirt, and put it under his tongue to wet his mouth.
“I’m sorry that had to happen.”
Dillon catapulted up and leaned into the tree for cover, swinging his AK in the direction of the voice.
“Whoa,” Chandler said, walking up to the tree concealing Dillon. “I’m on your side. I’m not going to shoot. If I had planned to kill you I already would have. You’re wanted dead or alive and dead would be much easier.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Dillon asked.
“I don’t lie.” Chandler’s face showed no emotion.
Dillon held Chandler’s piercing stare and studied his body for any indication he was lying. Standing close, he watched for fast blinking, nervous scratching, hands covering the face, or even uneven breathing, all signs he had seen in the courtroom when a defendant lied.
“That’s honest enough,” Dillon said. Rising from his crouched position, he emerged from around the tree, still holding the AK in a firing position. “If you go for that rifle, I’ll put a slug right through your heart. And nobody is taking me or Holly in.”