by Tom Abrahams
He trained the rifle in that area, southwest of his position, and he waited. He knew the lightning would flash again, providing him a target. Battle held still, the rain pouring down his neck and back. It dripped from his head down his face. It was worsening.
Then there was a momentary flicker and a bright, ear-ripping bolt of lightning overhead. He saw two men in that instant. One was in the mud. The other was armed. He was large and was crouched with his rifle leveled. His head turned and Battle thought, maybe, the man saw him.
Battle deemed him the more immediate threat. He closed his eyes, the burned image of the man imprinted in his mind. He moved his aim incrementally to the left and fired a single shot. He then moved his aim downward and fired again. Twice.
Pop! Pop!
A distant strobe of lightning revealed he’d hit the gunman once, in the shoulder. He’d dropped his weapon and was holding the wound. The dude on the ground wasn’t rolling around anymore. He was still. But in that flicker, Battle saw a third armed man joining the injured and dead.
Battle knew he had a split second to make a decision. He could stay in the tree, a position they’d likely identified, or he could jump down and assault them. The question he asked himself was how many more men were coming.
“There can’t only be three,” he mumbled to himself, tasting the cold rain. A shiver ran down his spine. He flexed his hands one at a time. They were stiffening in the cold, damp air.
He was about to leave his perch when a shotgun popped. The flash, however, didn’t come from the trio near the tripwire. It was farther away, from the treehouse.
Lola!
A gust of wind blew the rain directly into Battle’s face. He blinked past the water and raised the scope toward the treehouse. The infrared was still mostly useless.
Pop! Pop!
Lola again. Battle realized she was doing what he’d instructed, holding his place while she thought he was reloading. He’d need to act or she could be in trouble.
Rather than staying in the tree, he made the call to rush the trio and eliminate them before another wave of men attacked. He needed to move fast.
He grabbed his rain-soaked canvas bag, zipped it, and tossed it to the ground. Against another flash of lightning he slid out onto a branch and slipped. He tried to steady himself but couldn’t and fell. But he caught himself with the crook of his right arm, Inspector slung over his back, and he held onto a thick branch twelve feet off the ground.
He was dangling from the branch by his forearm. He managed to reach up with his left hand and, despite the slickness of the oak branch, maintain his grip. His back was to the trio of men. Another flash of lightning lit up the sky, illuminating the milky clouds hung low and moving fast in the central Texas sky. Battle knew he was exposed.
Pop!
Another shotgun blast. But this one whizzed by Battle’s head. He heard its whistle as it zipped past him. His hands were slipping.
Pop! Pop!
Two more shots whirred past him. One of them slugged the thick branch from which he was hanging. The wood splintered and shards exploded around him. A piece pierced the back of his arm, drilling deep. The jolt surprised Battle and he flinched, losing his grip.
He dropped to the ground below, splashing into the mud with both feet before falling onto his back and the rifle. His head slammed into the ground, disorienting him for a moment. But Battle struggled onto his stomach and swung around Inspector. His lower back was tight. His fingers were stiff. The back of his right bicep was thick with a searing pain.
He pitched himself onto his elbows, spread his legs behind him, and flipped open the bipod on the bottom of the rifle. He planted it in the mud and lay in wait.
Pop! Zip! Pop! Zip!
The shots were a good three or four feet above his head. They were coming from his ten o’clock. Battle shifted his weight and spun the rifle to the left. He slipped his hand onto the trigger and pressed, holding it there as Inspector did its job.
Rat tat tat tat tat tat tat! Rat tat tat tat tat tat tat!
Despite the steady, loud percussion of the rain, he could hear a man’s sharp squeal followed by a grunt and the sound of a body splashing into the mud. A second threat was neutralized.
There was at least one more.
***
Pico could hear what sounded like a firefight, but the rain obscured his vision. He directed both of the grunts to follow him closer to the bursts of light.
The three of them moved cautiously but with purpose through the deepening puddles of mud. Pico felt his boots stick and worked hard to pick up his feet past the suction with each successive step.
The sky lit up for a moment and went dark again. One of the grunts caught Pico’s attention and pointed off to the right. Pico nodded, giving him permission to move in that direction. The grunt stepped ahead, moving more quickly than Pico, and he slipped into the darkness.
The sheets of rain might as well have been a brick wall between Pico and whatever he was trying to see. He moved to the left with the other grunt. Together they forged a path toward the spot of the first explosion.
Pico kept his eyes up, despite the downpour, hoping for another fork of lightning to help him see his surroundings. A couple of shots sparked the blackness ahead of him. They came from maybe twenty feet off the ground. Somebody was there.
Rat tat tat tat tat tat tat! Rat tat tat tat tat tat tat!
The barrage of gunfire to his left threatened to draw his attention, but he kept his focus. Even as he heard a squeal and unearthly wail, he kept moving ahead. He crouched low, his weapon aimed upward. His eyes were set at the spot where he could best tell the shots emanated.
An explosion of thunder rocked the ground as the night turned to day with another prolonged concussion of lightning. He could barely see a treehouse set in the thick cradle of a large tree. He didn’t see anyone. But he knew someone had to be there.
Pico worked his way west, making a ninety-degree turn to the left, and moved quickly, crouching as he ran parallel to the interior fence line. He knew better than to approach the treehouse from the front. He’d be an easy target. He thought it better to approach from the side. He gripped the Browning with one hand, holding it vertically, and he maneuvered his way to a fence that ran perpendicular to the highway. He climbed over it, into the neighboring property, and followed it north, past the treehouse. In another snap of lightning he saw a large barn on the other side of the fence. From this position, he could approach the treehouse undetected. He moved to the fence and grabbed the top rail to climb over. The instant his hand reached for the wood, he felt a wire tighten against his palm.
Boom! Pop!
A loud crack exploded to his left, knocking him to the ground. It sounded like a gunshot followed by a shotgun blast.
The successive blasts looked more like firecrackers to Pico. He immediately rolled onto his side and tried to push himself back to his feet when he sucked in a poisonous gulp of air. He stopped short and coughed out the burn. His eyes stung and he closed them. Pico dropped back onto his knees and tried covering his face with his shirt. He crawled in the mud, splashing like a hog as he moved on all fours away from the burn. His ears were ringing. He was disoriented. In the midst of the rain and lightning, mud and gas, Pico thought he might be dying. In that moment, he actually wished for death. The thought of it was strangely comforting.
***
Rudabaugh’s arm hung uselessly from his ruined shoulder. His good hand was no better than the one with the bullet hole through it.
He was on one knee between two dead grunts. He bit down hard on his cheek, trying to mitigate the searing pain in his shoulder. He grabbed at it with his wounded hand and then planted the gauze-wrapped fist into the slop. He willed himself to his feet and stumbled forward toward a wrought-iron gate.
The rain poured off his head into his eyes as he staggered, his hat lost somewhere in the mud and blood. His heart pounded in his neck, his temples, and at the wound on both sides of his shou
lder.
His breathing ragged and shallow, he somehow managed to flip himself over the fence where it met the gate. On his back, he blinked against the heavy drops slapping against his face. He’d lost track of Mad Max, or whoever it was who’d unloaded the barrage of semiautomatic gunfire.
Rud couldn’t believe this was where he would die—in the mud belonging to some vigilante hermit. He’d survived the Scourge; he’d helped to build the Cartel’s influence and risen through the ranks; he’d killed countless men, women, and even children to earn that brown hat. Damned if he was gonna go out like this.
He rolled over and again found his footing. The sky strobed white and he saw the treehouse straight ahead. Rudabaugh reasoned that was his best option. If he could make it to the treehouse, he could find cover and regroup. He still had his sidearm. It wasn’t over yet.
Rudabaugh looked over his shoulder, but didn’t see anyone. Still, he could sense Mad Max was there. He started walking, hobbling really, toward the treehouse. One step. Then another. Right. Left. Right. Left. His arm dangled limply, bouncing against his side. Another step closer. Straight ahead, beyond the treehouse, he saw an explosion of light and a smaller orange burst.
Then Rudabaugh, without any concept of what was happening, lost his footing in the mud, his boot slipping through the ground, into a hole, and onto something sharp.
His ankle twisted and snapped at the same moment he heard a gunshot and felt an instantaneous burning heat tear through the meat of his foot. He fell forward, his broken ankle and shattered foot still stuck at the bottom of the hole.
Without the use of one arm, his face slammed to the mud. Rudabaugh swallowed some of it when he gasped in shock and pain. He sucked in the mud, gagging on it as he grabbed at the wet earth. He coughed out the bilge water and cried out defiantly.
He was on his side, struggling like a beetle, when a pair of boots planted themselves in front of his face. Rudabaugh craned his neck, trying to look upward toward the owner of the boots. Before he could catch even the slightest glimpse of the hermit he knew as Mad Max, the man put the barrel of a Prairie Panther to the back of his head and tapped the trigger once.
***
Battle stared at the pitiful heap of a man in front of him. He knelt down and fished the six-shooter from the man’s leg holster, flipping it over in his hands. It was a Cimarron Rooster Shooter, a single-action revolver that was essentially a rip-off of John Wayne’s Colt single action. He opened the cylinder. It was fully loaded.
Battle stood and stuffed it into his waistband. He’d come up with a name for it later. “As far as the east is from the west,” he whispered to himself, “so far has he removed our transgressions from us.” He took a deep breath. There were more people to kill.
Just before he’d ended the lard in front of him, he’d seen the tripwire explode on the western edge of the property. Somebody was over there. He made a mental tally: three dead and at least one more alive.
He carefully walked back to the fence, hopped over it, and traveled along its edge toward the tripwire. The rain was lessening. At least the drops didn’t sting as much as the wind blew them into his face. He was trying to get a good look at the treehouse and strained his eyes in the dark. He couldn’t see much more than the rough shape of the fort lodged in the branches. He stopped and tried to focus when he felt something poking him in the back, right between his shoulders above where the canvas bag was hanging.
“Drop the rifle.” The voice was jittery and sounded young. “I’m gonna shoot you if you don’t drop it.”
“Okay then.” Battle raised his hands above his head, holding Inspector in one of them. “I’ll put it down, but I’m not gonna drop it. It could fire and kill us both.”
“Then put it down.”
Battle felt a jab at his back. He imagined it was the same Browning shotgun all the intruders were carrying. He slowly bent at his knees and then his waist. He set Inspector into the mud.
Another man emerged from the darkness in front of him. He was marching with confidence, his Browning trained at Battle, who stood back up and kept his hands above his head.
“Where’s the woman?” the new intruder asked. “What’d you do with her?”
Battle counted in his head. There were three dead, a fourth was likely rolling around in the mud, fighting the effects of the tear gas, and then there were these two. Six total.
“You guys only bring six people to this party?” Battle asked, clasping his hands behind his head. He was trying to buy himself time to think.
“We brought what we needed.” Scarface stepped up to Battle and held the barrel inches from his face. The man, with a shaved head and long red scar down his cheek, looked past Battle. “You seen the woman?”
“No.”
Intruder number five poked Battle again from behind. “Where is she?”
“Who are you talking about?” Battle shrugged and twisted his right boot heel deep into the mud. “What woman?”
Scarface inched a step closer, the shotgun pointed between Battle’s eyes. “Don’t be a—”
Using the mud to his advantage, Battle slid his left heel forward while keeping his right in place. Dropping into a quasi-split, he drove the heel of his left hand upward into Scarface’s chest.
At the same time, he reached into his waistband with his right hand and pulled out the Cimarron Rooster, fanned back the hammer and plucked the trigger three times at the man behind him. He then emptied the other three forty-five-caliber slugs into Scarface as he tumbled backward and dropped the Browning into the mud. The series of moves took a little more than two seconds.
Certain the two men were dead, Battle rolled onto his side. His groin hurt. And when he stood, it tightened. Battle worried he’d pulled a muscle or, worse yet, tore something. He tested his gait and limped toward the treehouse, staying on the outside of the fence. There was one man left, by his count.
He doubted there was another team. In fact, he worried there wasn’t another team.
He hopped the fence, without his bag or weapon, and gingerly climbed the planks of pine toward the treehouse trapdoor. He banged on it, rattling the locking board on the other side.
“Lola!” he yelled. “It’s Battle. Let me in.”
He heard scurrying above his head and then the pounding of footsteps. “Coming!” Within a few seconds she had the trapdoor open, and Battle climbed through.
“Are they gone?” Lola asked. “Did you kill them? Did I kill them?”
“Let me see the goggles. I think there’s still one out there.” He hobbled to the right and slid the thermal goggles over his head. He leaned against the wall and peeked through, looking toward the fence on the western perimeter. He scanned along the fence line to the left and then back to the right.
Lola joined him at the wall. “Why do you—?”
“Shhh! Wait.” Battle saw him. A heat signature glowed on the other side of the fence. At first, he couldn’t tell if was an animal or a human. Then the figure stood and moved back and forth along the fence in a tight pattern. He was dazed or injured. Either way, he was vulnerable. “Stay here, I’ll be right back.” He ripped the goggles from his eyes and handed them back to Lola, stepping past her to the trapdoor opening.
She grabbed his shoulder. “Where are you going? How many were there? You’re leaving me here?”
Battle put his hands on the sides of her face. “Chill. I will be back. You wait here.”
“You’re going to kill the last one?”
“No. I need to talk with him.”
***
Battle’s limp lessened the more he walked. The rain was shrinking to a drizzle and the flashes of lightning were moving north and west. He walked straight back toward the barn with McDunnough, the Sig Sauer, in his hand. He edged along the front of the barn toward the western fence line, crouching low. He barely picked up his feet as he slid along the mud, trying to be silent. When he approached, he realized the man was gone. He wasn’t anywhere near the spot wh
ere Battle had spotted him a couple of minutes earlier. When he reached the fence line, he caught a glimpse of the man running south. He was headed for the highway.
Battle wasn’t about to let another man escape. He hopped the fence and started running. His gait was like a wounded horse, but he kept running. The figure ahead of him was getting larger as he closed in on the man.
The rain was softening to a mist by the time they reached the cattle fence that ran parallel to the highway. Battle could hear the man huffing and wheezing as he leapt at him. He wrapped his arms around the man’s spindly body, driving his shoulder into the man’s back and plowing him to the ground.
The air was forced from the man’s lungs as they landed and slid to a stop inches from the fence. Battle threw a battery of punches at the man’s kidneys, pushing his head sideways into the mud. He grabbed at the man’s waist and searched for his hands. The intruder was unarmed.
“Don’t move,” Battle spat into the man’s ear and then shoved his back to push himself free. “Move at all and you’re dead like all of your buddies.”
The intruder groaned but didn’t speak. His hand was twitching.
Battle rolled onto his knees and got a better look at the man’s face. His face was long and narrow, and his mud-caked mustache seemed too big for it. The man’s eyes were cracked open. Battle snapped his fingers and the intruder blinked.
“I’m not killing you,” he said. “Not yet, anyway. We’ve got business to discuss.” Battle stood, wincing against the pain in his groin, and ordered the intruder to stand. He got no response. A second order didn’t yield different results.
“Okay then,” he said. “Have it your way.” Battle walked around to the man’s feet, turned his back, and reached down to grab an ankle with each hand. “Watch your head,” he said, and started pulling the intruder through the mud, belly first. The clouds were beginning to thin and the sliver of a new moon was fighting to shine through the milky blanket in the sky.