Leading the three-person team, consisting of two men, plus a woman who had a stare that could stop others in their tracks, he got them into position on top of the Rimrock.
“You all will be supported with food, shelter, weapons, and contact radios for the coming days,” he told his new crew. “There are only two rules from Mac: don’t light a fire and don’t be seen.”
* * * *
“It won’t be long,” I told Mac and his crew of would-be soldiers in the crusade. “The forward observers are here, and that means the rest will be along soon.”
Everyone, old and new, stepped up, vowing to give the fight of a lifetime.
“It’s time,” said Sergio to Mike, pulling him aside.
“What time?” he asked.
“Time to start the countdown to victory. We have a day, maybe two or three, to take out their first line of communication. We both heard about the occupiers in the next valley, am I right?”
“Sure,” replied Mike, “with more to come.”
“Exactly,” continued Sergio. “They are the front line, and we need to take them out.”
“I remember,” continued Mike, “hearing Lance and his buddies followed the river down to fish and were only spotted after securing their catch. We should be able to do the same. If a few kids tromping around farmers’ fields with fishing rods and tackle can do it, we should have no problem with the forward guys; I dealt with some of them already, back on Raton Pass. There is no alcohol allowed at the Baker camp, but send a few guys ahead and they can’t stop drinking.”
“This should be fun,” said Sergio.
“Should we ask Mac if it’s okay?” Mike said, joking.
“I never do!” replied Sergio.
They made a plan and wouldn’t have to wait long. Mike told Vlad and me that he would be gone for a few days with Sergio but didn’t elaborate, and I knew better than to ask. Nobody else did either, and somehow, in the uncertainty of it all, even Mac lost track of them.
* * * * * * *
Chapter Fourteen
Saddle Ranch
Loveland, Colorado
“The Rimrock Three,” as they were now called, led by Drake, camped inside a small cave near the top of the Rimrock, with the opening pointing back towards Saddle Ranch. Even with the protected vantage point, they didn’t dare make a fire. The top of the cave was covered in red dirt and tightly woven branches of native bushes. Using knives and a hatchet, they carved out the inside with enough room for three adults to sit, lay down, or move about comfortably while still having an open view and protection from being spotted from the next valley over.
Drake was reminded of all the times he sat atop the cliff at the MacDonalds’ place, waiting for Whitney to return by some miracle or happenstance.
* * * *
Mike and Sergio followed the paved road up towards Masonville, stopping less than a mile before the General Store that had been there for more than one hundred years and was a staple for Saddle Ranch kids to trek over to on bicycles and unlicensed dirt bikes.
There they cut south, following the river downstream through dense trees and brush.
“Now I know why the kids here liked this river so much,” said Mike to Sergio as they passed one pool after another, so clear one could see ten feet down to the bottom and count the Cutthroat, Brown, and Rainbow Trout.
“That’s about good right there, fellas,” came the voice just before the shotgun sound every burglar and kid caught on this side of the fence feared. It wasn’t a shot, but the chamber was loaded, and that was as good as the real deal.
Mike and Sergio paused, with Mike taking the lead.
“I hear you guys around here shoot rock salt out of your shotguns.”
“Nope, that’s only for the kids. Those boys have been up to it for…I don’t know…thirty, maybe forty years now. It seems like the idea gets passed down with each generation, like a fraternity stunt. Before you boys go thinking this is going to go your way—I may be retired but I’m not some old farmer you can roll over on. I’ve done my tours, three in all.”
“Me too,” replied Sergio, “and I still am.”
“This guy here is just a cop, though,” he said, laughing.
“Hey, now,” replied Mike, joking back like they were watching a ball game and there wasn’t a man pointing a shotgun at them both.
“You boys know I can end this right now, don’t you? Why are you joking around?”
“Because,” said Sergio, “we are the least of your concerns right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, in about a week or less, there will be more than a thousand pseudo soldiers camped out about two miles south of your property, led by a crazy fanatic called Baker. You ever heard of him?” asked Sergio.
“Nope.”
“Well, you’re about to. We have even spent some time spying in their camp. They have a thing for the ladies, like your wife and daughter.”
“Wait a minute! How did you know about…?”
Sergio glanced past him at a woman in her mid- to late 40s and a girl of maybe 20, both peering around the side of the main house.
The farmer took a quick look back, telling them to get back inside the house.
“How do I know I can trust you two?”
“You don’t,” said Mike in what had now become his classic line. “But we’re from the next valley over; you know the folks from Saddle Ranch and The West, right?”
“Who runs them?” he asked skeptically.
“John and Samuel, respectively,” replied Mike, putting the man at ease and even lowering his rifle just a bit.
“Okay, I know them both. They’re good men. But that doesn’t tell me why you’re on my property.”
“We need to follow the river down for a couple of miles to take out their forward observers. We can’t just cut across open fields in the daytime,” replied Mike.
“Well, that makes sense. But then what? and why would they come here in the first place?”
“Then we wait,” replied Sergio. “At least we will have cut off communication for now, and they want the next valley over—the Ranch and West properties—for their headquarters. It’s one of the few places that can feed that many people.”
“And you’re going to take on a thousand ‘pseudo soldiers,’ as you call them?”
“Plus their air support,” replied Mike, getting a look from Sergio.
“Now I’m wondering what you’re really up to,” stated the man as he glanced back towards the house.
“You heard some shots north of here yesterday, right?” asked Sergio.
“A few—probably my neighbors hunting is all.”
“Close,” replied Sergio. “They were not hunting but hunted. Mac from the Ranch confirmed it this morning. I’ll tell you what. We’ll go ahead, and you follow right behind. I’m guessing you can still travel hostile territory without being spotted,” getting a nod from the man. “We’ll show you the camp, and if you’re game, you can help us interrogate them.”
There was a long pause, as the farmer thought it over.
“The name’s Hanson, and if you know John, Samuel and Mac, then you must be okay,” he said, lowering his rifle and reaching out his hand.
“Just Hanson?” asked Sergio.
“For now, that’s correct.”
“Like the boy band?” asked Mike before he could take it back. “My sister, Lily—it was her favorite band back in the day,” he tried to argue, getting a look from both men.
“If it ain’t Cash, Daniels, Jennings, or Nelson, then I don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied Hanson with a smile.
“It’s not,” said Mike, laughing at himself for bringing it up.
“Okay, I’m Sergio, and this here is Mike. I’m stationed all over now, but in Colorado at the moment, and he’s up from Texas since everything happened.”
“Since? Do you mean to tell me you came here from Texas after the lights went out?” asked Hanson.
“Yes, sir,” he
replied.
“How is it—the roads, I mean?”
“Like this,” Mike replied, raising his shirt to show his bandaged stomach, catching Hanson’s look towards the women as they quickly looked the other way.
“All right. All right. Put your shirt down; there are women present. Give me five minutes and I’ll take a walk down the river with you two. Better let me lead, though. I’m not the only landowner we’ll be passing by today.”
* * * *
Hanson—likely his last name, thought Mike—led the way.
Mike was reminded of the old rancher called Jessup that they had met in Plano, Texas, on the way to Vlad’s gun shop—what seemed like years ago now. He liked these rancher types; there was no BS, only facts, and actions based on them. A good crop year and they saved for a rainy day; a bad one the next, and they made up the difference.
Hanson waved his hat, one of those big black ones like Johnny Cash used to wear, at the next neighbor down river, getting an “Ayup” out of him—and his wife, Mike guessed—without a single question.
“I guess you were right about leading,” Mike commented.
Two more properties crossed without spotting anyone.
“Are any of these properties vacant?” asked Sergio.
“Nope, not yet,” replied Hanson. “They’re up there on the hill, and I guarantee we’re in their sights, so let’s keep moving. I got one more neighbor up ahead about a half mile. He owns the rest of the valley, all the way down to the first cookie-cutter neighborhood, and he’s not too particular about loud music.”
The music he was referring to grew from faint to obnoxious as they rounded a bend in the river, seeing five people in the distance dancing like wild animals around a mid-day campfire.
“Hole up here,” said Hanson, looking through his binoculars. “That’s him,” he pointed, keeping low behind a log. “The landowner—that’s him tied up, sitting on the ground!”
“Anyone else living here?” asked Sergio.
“I doubt it. He’s always kept to himself. And no one, including me, ever saw him have a visitor that didn’t work for the City... Those bastards,” he said, watching closely.
One of the men had the farmer putting a revolver to his own head with the one arm untied and pulling the trigger while covered by another. After every second pull, the cylinder was spun again, presumably giving him another 2 in 6 or possibly 2 in 7 chance of catching a live one.
“Hold on, neighbor,” said Hanson in a near whisper. Click.
“We’re coming for you, old frie...”
Bam! echoed across the large valley, bouncing off cliff walls, and his body slumped to the side. The dancing men hooted and hollered, with a few trading money on what was surely a bet on this poor man’s life.
Hanson quickly stood up and was nearly dragged back down.
“Not yet,” said Sergio. “When it’s time, you can take your pound of flesh, but we need information from them first.”
Two men headed up the small hill towards what might be their new home for maybe a week.
“When those two go inside, let’s get the others locked down. We’ll have some time,” said Sergio.
“How would you know that?” asked Hanson.
“Their gear’s all down by the river; it would be up at the house if they had already been inside. Since they haven’t, the two men up there now will take their time looking for anything valuable. None of them will trust each other, so they will likely stay up there for a while. We’ll catch them on their way out,” added Sergio.
The three around the campfire were halfway to skunk drunk, cranking up the music and more stumbling than dancing around the fire now.
Another five minutes and Mike was in position, as was Sergio, covered by Hanson and all within twenty feet of the fire. Sergio gave the signal by hand, as he didn’t dare speak. Mike grabbed one of the three by the neck, squeezing him until he slowly lowered to the ground, with Sergio taking the second quietly with a quick blade across the throat.
Hanson jumped out from behind a large oak tree, throwing the third to the ground and telling him to be silent and lay facedown on the dirt. All moved another twenty yards away and into thick brush, with the two not so lucky having to be dragged lifeless.
Hanson’s man was tied and gagged, posing no threat. “Now we wait,” said Sergio.
It was 20 more minutes before the two tomb raiders headed down with their loot stuffed into pillowcases, slung over each shoulder.
“Guys…hey guys,” they called out over the music, still blaring out a Guns N’ Roses tune called “Welcome to the Jungle.”
Mike remembered reading an article somewhere about an interview with the front man called Rose, or something he couldn’t quite remember, but he said he spent the night in an LA park before his big break, and a man told him he was in a jungle. A place offering fame and money, but also poverty and addiction and, above all, an appetite for destruction, as their album was titled. Sounds like this place, he thought.
Mike fired his AR just as the men reached the bottom of the riverbank, shattering the noisemaker and restoring the valley sounds to that of the running river and moaning captive.
“You’re in the Jungle!” shouted Mike, timing their response and adding, “now it’s your time to...”
The thieves made it easy for Sergio, shooting first but missing the mark by some distance, being caught by surprise.
The skirmish was over in seconds, with Hanson proceeding to dump out the contents of each pillowcase onto the ground. Watches, cash, old coins presumedly from a vintage collection neatly displayed in coin books, cans of food, and several pistols rounded out the typical raid these men were used to now.
“All right. You’re the last one,” said Sergio, yanking him to his feet. “Now sing!”
“What…what do you mean?” asked the man once his gag was pulled out.
“I mean, tell us the story.”
“Hey, I know you,” he said to Sergio, “and I’ve seen you too,” he added, looking at Mike.
“Last chance,” announced Sergio without responding to the accusations.
“Last chance,” he said again, adding, “I want to know how long you have been here, how you got here, and when the rest are arriving. I won’t even ask you about Baker’s plans after that because I know he wouldn’t tell a bumbling drunk anything about what he is planning. So, let’s hear it.”
“If I tell you, can I go free?”
“Maybe.”
“Okay. We were dropped off about ten miles back towards town by one of his choppers, so nobody around here would see us land. They gave us a map and some packs to hike in. We just got here this morning, and the homeowner or ranch guy shot himself. I guess he just got scared or something. I tried to stop him but it was too late,” he added, lowering his head, shaking it back and forth, and conjuring up a few tears.
“I’ll bet you did some acting back in the day,” said Mike. “Maybe some school plays or even off-Broadway.”
The man didn’t respond, only looked off into space.
“The thousand-yard stare…I knew it!” exclaimed Mike, as if he had just solved the puzzle on Wheel of Fortune.
“Please continue,” Mike added.
“Uh, that’s it, I guess,” the man replied, “except they are headed here now and as of this morning they...” He trailed off as if just realizing this last piece of information was his final bargaining chip, and once he said it he would be of no more use.
“There are a few things I would like to negotiate,” he continued, regaining some composure.
Hanson was ready to take his head off after the “suicide” of his longtime neighbor comment but held off, realizing the man sitting in front of him was the only thing standing between his family and the thousand crazies headed this way.
“You’re not in a great negotiation spot,” said Sergio, “but let’s hear it anyway. This may be your final audition, so make it count.”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll tell you
when they will be here, what route they are taking and what they told us would happen when they got here. In return, I want to walk out of here, a free man. Not left here to be executed by Baker’s men for treason, but let go to leave another direction with my pack, what I can get off of these other guys you sent to an early grave, and a head start before they arrive.”
“Hmm,” said Sergio, “it sounds like an interesting proposition. But this one is up to my new friend Hanson here,” he added, pointing to him. “You see, we watched you and your coward friends force an innocent farmer and landowner of more than 50 years play a game of Russian Roulette with this here pistol,” he said, picking it up. “It looks like you have a Colt Single Action Army here, so six rounds. Now I believe the game was two rounds out of six in the cylinder. How many rounds did he make it?”
Next World Series | Vol. 6 | Families First [Battle Grounds] Page 11