Taking ruthless advantage of this unexpected assault, Luke worked methodically, killing from right to left, since he was already aiming that way. He fired fast, and as soon as his front sight came to the next target, he killed each man as he rapidly emptied the magazine in his pistol. No longer taking the time for a double-tap, the deadly teen moved like an automaton.
Luke operated from muscle memory at this point, his body dealing with the sudden adrenaline dump with an ease borne of hard practice. He worked the Glock smoothly, the custom grip like an old friend in his hand as he killed. At this range, if he missed, he died, even with the heavy body armor hidden under his sweatshirt. None of these men would give him a second chance. So he didn’t miss, even when the last man brought his own pistol to bear. Amy would be so pissed if he came home with an extra hole in him, Luke thought with a terrifying grin, and he dispatched the last man on this side of the leader’s horse.
Luke’s hastily formulated plan wasn’t some berserker stunt, like what he might have pulled in the past. He took the few seconds the raiders gave him when he ambled up to study the terrain and the positions of each man, in relation to his own place in the scenario. Simple geometry.
Studying the angles, he’d gunned down the five men he knew could actually get a shot off at him. Fortunately, the leader’s horse danced fearfully, but did not bolt like some of the other horses seemed to be contemplating. This saved Luke, since the big bay gelding served as an equine meat shield. None of the other six raiders could get a bead on Luke before they also fell to the concentrated rifle fire of his concealed friends. He heard the whip crack of the rifles and knew Scott and Alex had his back.
While his attention was diverted, he still maintained a solid grasp on the downed leader’s wrist, so when he felt the man’s body jerk into motion, he dropped, driving his knees into the left side of the man’s chest with all his weight. He felt rather than saw the man’s body spasm, and then he had the smoking barrel of the Glock pressed against the struggling raider’s temple. He saw the doomed man had a pistol in his other hand, and he waited to see which way this would go.
“Drop it and live a little longer,” Luke crooned softly, like he was speaking to a naughty child. His eyes bore into the other man’s, and the chubby man dropped the Beretta 92 like it was a striking snake.
“You can’t get away with this,” the frightened man cried. “The sheriff will hunt you down…”
Luke laughed, a hard and jagged sound that seemed to echo in the sudden silence.
“You must not be from around here, mister. Rusk is in Cherokee County, not Rusk County. County seat for Rusk County is Henderson. Confusing, ain’t it?”
When Luke finished speaking, his earpiece sounded with a familiar voice.
“Fuck, Luke, I didn’t figure you were going to leave any for us,” Alex scolded, his voice tense. “I thought you were just going to distract them while we did the heavy lifting.”
“Nope. One of them was wearing a fancy pistolero rig like Buchanan. I wanted to take him out first. The rest, well, that was just instinct. Kill or be killed.”
“Looks like you got a prisoner. You sure we didn’t just gun down a bunch of reserve deputies?” Alex replied.
“Yeah, pretty sure,” Luke said, his voice still loud from the ringing in his ears. Directing his full attention back to his prisoner, Luke directed the man to roll over onto his belly and place his hands on the back of his head.
“You’re just going to shoot me!” the chubby raider protested, his once gray, shocked features now turning a deep scarlet as anger replaced stark fear.
“Probably,” Luke admitted. “But if you make me tell you again, you’re gonna be hurting a lot more before I pull the trigger.”
Again, the man looked into Luke’s eyes and seemed to wilt under what he saw there. No bluff, just a hard fact, and he complied with some speed. Seeing the man assume the position, Luke dug into the survival kit on his belt and withdrew a length of wire used for making snares and fashioned the loop into what he needed. Getting that tie loose would require wire cutters, Luke realized, after he’d secured the prisoner’s wrists.
When Scott limped out of the brush, M-249 slung over his shoulder, Luke asked that he keep an eye on the prisoner while he took care of business. Scott, familiar now with the way Luke operated, gave him a thumbs up and stood watch.
Once the captured raider was tied up, Luke made a quick magazine change and after a press check, he slowly made his way around the rest of the scene. He counted eleven men down, and Luke made sure, by putting one round into each of their heads. Well, the nine men who still had complete skulls, since two had been pulped by what he thought were 30 caliber bullets. Sadly, he saw two of the mounts had taken rounds as well. One, a grazing wound down one flank, looked painful but not fatal. But for the lung shot taken by the big roan gelding, there was nothing Luke could do, except ease its suffering. Already laying on its side, Luke offered a few soft words before the last pistol shot sounded on the road.
While Luke took care of his grisly task, he saw Tim walk up and stand to one side, waiting.
“You shooting 180 grain bullets?” Luke asked casually as he walked over to Tim, once again recharging his pistol with a fresh magazine.
“Ah, yeah,” Tim replied. “How’d you know?”
“The way they tore up those two guys at this range,” Luke answered. “I know your boys were shooting lever action, so I figured Shane had the 30-30, right?”
“That’s right. Could you tell if Shane…” he started, then paused. “We’ve had to run off thieves before, but I don’t think he’s ever actually had to kill anybody.”
Luke shook his head in the negative before responding, “I’m sorry we brought trouble to your door, Mr. Feely. A group that size, though. I’d imagine you’d have to deal with them sooner or later.”
“I know, and I appreciate the chance to clean up the neighborhood a bit. But, are you sure they were lying?” Tim asked, still a bit apprehensive.
“First, I know they aren’t local,” Luke began, and explained how the men hadn’t even known where the county seat was located. That elicited a bit of a chuckle from the older man.
“Second,” Luke continued, “I know where those horses came from. The Hillebrandt ranch, just north of Mount Enterprise. I can’t imagine Alton selling that mare,” Luke nodded to a magnificent red dun mare.
“Uh, how can you tell? I mean, that’s just a horse, right?” Tim asked, confused.
“No, her name is Brightstar Country Rose, and she’s a six-year-old registered American Quarter Horse. Her grandsire was a stakes winner, but she was trained as a barrel racer, and she sold for over twenty thousand dollars.”
“Holy cow!” Tim exclaimed. “How do you know that?”
“Because my father trained her,” Alex answered, his voice laden with sadness as he approached the group. “For Luke’s grandfather, Gus.”
“We going to check on the Hillebrandts, Luke?” Alex asked, eyeing the field of dead men like a farmer examining his crop.
“I guess so,” Luke replied, his voice sounding tired. He absently pulled at his heavy sweatshirt and exposed the body armor he wore under the now-sweaty garment. “First, I need to call this in, so Dad can send some trucks to pick up these horses. And our prisoner, once I get done with him.”
Turning, Luke continued, “Mr. Feely, I’d be glad to leave you with a few of them, but with winter coming, I doubt you’ll be able to get the whole group through. You can get started on that one,” he gestured to the downed gelding.
“What am I going to do with that, exactly?” Tim asked, bewildered by this sudden turn of events.
“Butcher it,” Luke replied simply, then added, “horse is considered a delicacy in France, you know. You know how it is, sir. Around here, we eat what we kill. We, except for him, and him, and, well, you get the picture. Say no to the long pork.”
With that, Luke walked away, heading for the truck. He waved at Scott, sti
ll standing, well, actually leaning against an old sweetgum tree, while Alex and Tim Feely stood looking at each other.
“Is he always that…”
“Bossy?” Alex supplied, a small grin playing at the corners of his mouth, despite the serious nature of the conversation.
“Lethal was what I was going to say,” Tim continued as he shook his head, then his manners kicked in and he stuck out his hand.
“Tim Feely, and it’s nice to meet you. Call me Tim.”
“Alex Stanton, sir, and you can call me Alex,” the tall teen replied as they shook work-hardened hands.
“Well, sir,” Alex continued, trying to answer the man’s question. “I’ve only seen him up close in a fight once. He killed five men then, too. They were farmers who’d gotten a taste for murder and slavery. Ringleader was a guy named Buchanan. Considered himself something of a gunslinger. Now, at the ranch, I didn’t see it happen because I had some guys trying to kill me, but word was, he personally killed something like twenty of the DHS thugs trying to wipe us out. I think I managed to take out four from my shooting position, but that day is still something of a blur.”
“Twenty men? Seriously?” Tim asked, looking over his shoulder at the slender young man while he crawled into the cab of his truck. “How’d he pull that off?”
“Killed a crooked deputy sent to murder him, then attacked the troops from behind. You’ll likely hear at some point, how he gunned down all their wounded too, but any of us would have done the same,” Alex said, his voice going hard. “We still lost some damned fine people that day, including Luke’s uncle.”
After a beat, Alex continued.
“The rest of it, well, you were probably too busy today to see it, but it’s like Luke has an extra gear when it comes to fighting. Scott, there, probably knows better, since he was with him on some of his trip home from Chicago,” Alex continued, and then he gestured to the eleven dead men scattered on the asphalt.
“Come from Chicago? After? How’d he do that?” Tim asked, again, feeling like he’d walked into a movie about halfway through the second act. He was still trying to decide if it was an action flick or a horror show.
“Way I heard it, and believe me, I’ve heard a lot of stories,” Alex supplied, “is that he walked most of it. Made some friends along the way, like Scott there. And Scott’s two sisters, and Scott’s wife. And of course, his fiancé your niece met. Amy. She’s the reason we are even here, by the way.”
“How’s that? He mentioned this Amy, but I didn’t really understand why he was concerned enough to come back. No offense, but he doesn’t exactly strike me as being easily persuaded.”
Alex looked away, his lips sealed in a thin line before he replied.
“Luke tell you he was here because of Amy? To help your niece and her daughter?”
When Mr. Feely nodded, Alex picked back up with his explanation. “Luke was a nice kid back before the lights went out. Like I said, my dad worked for his grandpa, and when things got bad, Gus invited us out to stay. Things weren’t always easy, and we lost Luke’s grandpa to one of those raider groups awhile back.
“Anyway, I knew Luke pretty good from before. A little quiet, but crazy smart and a good athlete, but that walk back took Luke better than three months. However bad we had it out at the ranch, Luke’s seen worse. And done worse, I suspect. Scott has said Amy is Luke’s conscience, and I’m beginning to think he might be right. If Amy tells that boy she wants the Mona Lisa from the Louvre in Paris, then I promise you, Luke’s going to start planning on how he can get his hands on a boat to make the trip.”
“Well, that’s some story, Alex,” Tim responded. “I think I’d like to learn more about this collection of farmers and ranchers Luke’s father is putting together. I got a small spread here, but maybe I can help with more than just working as a road spotter for him.”
“And how’s that, Mr. Feely?”
“Well, he’s going to need to get fuel production going at some point, and I happen to know some things we can do to help speed up that process.”
Alex quirked an eyebrow but refused to rise to the bait, forcing Mr. Feely to continue.
“Before all this mess happened, I worked over at the refinery in Tyler. What used to be known as La Gloria. I was a shift supervisor there and worked in the refinery for over twenty years. Even after all the upgrades that are now toast, I bet if we get some folks in there, we can start producing fuel in just a few weeks.”
Tim was showing his confusion when Alex started chuckling, and then he started getting pissed as the chuckles gave way to full-blown laughter. Seeing the man’s face turning red, Alex forced himself to stop and held up a placating hand.
“Mr. Feely, please. I promise, I’m not laughing at you. It’s just, see, Luke has the darnedest luck. But I’ll make him explain,” Alex temporized. “As for right now, well, them corpses ain’t going to strip themselves.”
“Wait, shouldn’t we wait for someone…” Tim started, then stopped to shake his head with a laugh of his own. “And here I was less than twenty minutes ago, explaining to Luke what self-help meant in the way of law enforcement. How you want to split this up?”
Alex looked over to Scott, then spared a glance at Luke, only able to make out the top of his head since he was bent over the radio mounted in the truck.
“Screw it,” Alex muttered. “Since we are taking most of the horses for pasturing, I guess you can have all their weapons and ammunition. Not like we need it.”
“Seriously?” Tim Feely replied, feeling his pulse quicken. By rights, he thought he would only be entitled to arms from two of the raiders, or maybe three, if Shane had managed to hit his man. He’d stockpiled quite a bit of ammo for his rifles, and 30-30 rounds were fairly cheap compared to what the black rifles typically used. Still after six months, their stock was getting a might bit thin.
“Yes, sir. Just, if you run across any firearms we can trace back to the Hillebrandts, I’d appreciate it if we could set those aside. Maybe some of them got away. I know Luke will do the same with the horses.”
“So, they were more than customers? Friends?”
“Yes, sir,” Alex said, and again, his lips were compressed into a harsh line. “They were more than just customers.”
CHAPTER 11
By the time the horse trailers from the ranch showed up, the day was half gone, but much had been accomplished in that time. Luke and Alex, sweating in their body armor despite the cool late fall breeze, had transferred the bags of corn and cornmeal to the Feely household while Scott sat on the porch and instructed Mrs. Feely and Libby on the operation of the radio. Scott wanted Luke to do the training, but Luke caught his friend limping and he’d been unceremoniously benched in favor of his still-healing wounds.
With help from Mr. Feely and Shane, they’d also gathered up all the firearms and ammunition from the scene of the one-sided gunfight. Luke, with an uncharacteristically cheerful grin, had ratified Alex’s decision to donate the firearms to the Feely family arsenal. In all, the raiders yielded four AR rifles, three AK pattern rifles, and a variety of other long arms, including an old 1903A3 and an M1 Garand that looked like it had last been cleaned in the weeks following Iwo Jima.
“None of these look like that rifle you’re carrying, Luke,” Tim had commented.
“There’s a lot of them around, got imported some years back. This is an HK-91,” Luke replied, unslinging the rifle. Ejecting the magazine, Luke worked the left side cocking handle to remove the chambered round, then held the long rifle out for examination.
“It’s the civilian version of the German G3 military rifle, chambered in 7.62 NATO. Fires .308 Winchester just fine too and uses twenty round magazines. Weirdest thing for most American shooters is the placement of the cocking or charging handle here,” Luke gestured, “on the left side of the barrel. The advantages are the greater range and stopping power of the round. Only disadvantages are the smaller magazine capacity in a fight, and the thing is awkward in C
QB.”
“CQB?” Tim asked.
“Close quarter battle,” Luke replied in full lecture mode. “Harder to clear rooms with a barrel that long. That’s where something like the M4 or a shotgun really comes in handy. And grenades. Definitely grenades. I’ve only used them a few times, but they sure come in handy.”
“Okay,” Tim said. He had a gut feeling the kid knew from personal experience what he was talking about. Jeez, Tim wondered, just how bad is it out there? And where did a teenager get grenades anyway?
As for the handguns, Luke was surprised when he had a chance to see the revolver resting in the holster of the man he’d pegged as the would-be gunfighter.
“Holy crap,” he whispered, and he withdrew the revolver almost reverently, examining the fine printing and serial number on the old and obviously well-cared for weapon. Alex had presented him with the hand-tooled leather belt and Luke had absently noted the rounds in the bullet loops were for a 44-40 caliber revolver.
“What is it?” Alex asked, his curiosity piqued.
“This is an old First Generation Colt Army Single Action revolver. I don’t remember what year this is from based on the serial number, but it’s clearly pre-1900 manufacture.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“Some of these Colts in this condition go for as much as $10,000 at auction. Or they did, before. Makes me glad I shot him first,” Luke explained, and he heard Tim Feely inhale at that announcement.
“What? Han fired first too, you know?” Luke said with a bit of attitude before he went on to explain. “If that guy was heavily into Cowboy Action Shooting, he might have been fast on the draw. Very fast. He could’ve shot me three or four times before I could’ve cleared my holster. He was certainly carrying the weapon for it.”
“So that’s why you went for him first?” Tim asked, finally seeing the logic to Luke’s actions.
“Of course. Look, I’m fast with this rig, and the Glock is slicked up for competition shooting. You can’t tell without looking for it, but the holster is, too. But some of these guys, members of the Single Action Shooting Society, they are so fast, it is phenomenal. They run a chronograph and have to slow down the video to even see what they do.”
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