Fall of Houston Series | Book 5 | No Man's Land

by Payne, T. L.

  Will spotted Isabella at the back of the convoy, using a road sign she’d obviously found along the roadside to fan one of the horses through the window of the trailer. “Are they all right?” he called to her.

  “It’s over a hundred degrees in there. We can’t sit here much longer without unloading them.”

  Will agreed. Traveling with the horses in the middle of summer complicated things. He understood they needed to proceed with caution, especially with the report of Dempsey’s goons running around up there, but the horses were an integral part of the mission and they’d be of no use to them dead.

  Thirty minutes later, the order to pull out was given. “Did the recon team finally check in? What was up with the delay?” Will asked as he loaded back into the vehicle.

  “We haven’t heard from them yet. Lieutenant Burns said we can’t wait any longer for them.”

  “We’re proceeding then—and without intel?” Will asked. He was concerned. After Stephens’ warning, he would sure feel more confident if he knew the recon team had given the all-clear.

  “They likely just had radio issues. We’ll probably hear from them the closer we get to their location.”

  Will’s mind went through all the likely scenarios trying to find a plausible—not life-threatening—reason for their lack of communication. He imagined if they encountered someone, they would observe, maybe even follow them for a bit to assess the threat. Not hearing from them didn’t necessarily mean they’d met with trouble. But it couldn’t be ruled out either. They were proceeding forward on the planned route. They’d likely know sooner rather than later whether danger awaited them ahead.

  The convoy came to an abrupt stop again just before the bridge going into Pocahontas, Arkansas. There was shouting and cursing coming through the radio and then the order to back up. Back up? What the hell was happening? The driver reversed the vehicle and then slammed on the brakes. “What’s going on? Will shouted.

  “One of the idiots back there jackknifed their horse trailer,” one of the privates said.

  When the order to dismount came through the radio, Will knew things were about to get real. He threw open his door with his rifle ready for the action he anticipated. Walker and Jason were right behind him. Will scanned from right to left but perceived no threat. He took the opportunity to glance back and sure enough, the middle horse trailer had taken out the guard rail and was in the ditch. Isabella was running toward it, her rifle at the low ready position. Her attention was on the horses, not whatever had caused the convoy to stop abruptly.

  Jason ran back along the shoulder of the highway and took a covering position at the front of the vehicle. Will turned and moved toward the front of the convoy and whatever trouble awaited them.

  A burning Humvee sat sideways in the middle of the bridge that crossed Black River—the recon team’s vehicle. It appeared the driver had attempted to stop before running into an electrical cable that crossed both northbound lanes, blocking the roadway.

  An order was given to fan out and look for whoever might have set up this ambush—and for survivors. The fire and smoke inside the vehicle were too intense to determine whether anyone was still inside. Will doubted they’d find the recon team alive now. If they had somehow managed to survive, they were likely in enemy hands and being interrogated by now.

  A thorough search turned up nothing except evidence of someone entering and exiting the riverbank in a boat below the bridge.

  “That took planning. This was no spur of the moment attack,” Burns said looking down at Smith. The tall officer paced back and forth rubbing the top of his head. A moment later, the radio operator appeared at his side. “I have General Waltrip for you, sir.”

  From what Will could glean from the lieutenant’s side of the conversation, it appeared the mission had been compromised. Someone had talked. The enemy knew their route and now they had the recon team.

  Smith took a seat on the guardrail. His head hung low. Gone was the confident, sarcastic ladies' man. Smith looked more like he’d been kicked in the balls.

  “The recon team won’t talk,” Walker said, walking up beside Will.

  “I know.” Will couldn’t even think about what the special forces soldiers must be going through at that moment, if they’d survived.

  Smith glanced up and then looked away. Did he know something? All Will knew was that something was not right with the man.

  Twenty

  Isabella

  Highway 67

  Walnut Ridge, Arkansas

  July 10th

  Event + Ten Months

  After the incident on the bridge with the reconnaissance team's Humvee, they’d performed a thorough search and found nothing to give them any indication of who had attacked them or where the team had been taken.

  Isabella had checked and rechecked her weapons and all her gear. She took deep breaths as the convoy turned around and got ready to head back the way they had come. They had to take an alternate route—they couldn’t take the chance that the enemy knew where they were heading. It would mean the trip would be longer—maybe a lot longer. They had to take roads the recon team hadn’t planned to use.

  “I ain’t looking forward to those bumpy-ass dirt roads,” Specialist Fisher said as she shifted in her seat attempting to find a more comfortable position. Fisher rarely complained. She had trained harder and longer than any trooper in the platoon. She appeared to be on a mission to be the best at everything she did. Isabella was honored to serve with her. No one treated her like a fragile doll.

  “I’m concerned about the horses. This is hard on them,” Isabella said.

  “They’ll be fine. They’re tough-ass fighting machines like us.” She made a fist and flexed her bicep. She was a tough-ass fighting machine. Isabella wanted to be, but after months of inadequate food and the stress of surviving, she lacked the physical strength. She was a good mounted markswoman—put her on a horse and she could do some damage. Somehow, though, she had the feeling they’d never get close enough to the enemy to do any damage.

  After backtracking to Walnut Ridge, the convoy headed farther east along Highway 412 to Paragould, Arkansas, before connecting to Highway 62. As they grew closer to the Missouri border, Isabella grew increasingly anxious. Their risk of encountering trouble only became greater. They hadn’t patrolled that far north. Other units had traveled north, but Isabella didn’t know which routes they’d taken.

  “It’s gonna feel nice to be inside a cave. It’s damn hot and I could use some relief. How long do you think it might take to load that much gold?” Fisher asked.

  “I don’t know. Quite a while, I’d imagine.” Isabella pictured the disabled truck loaded with crates of gold coins. The team that had hidden it had come up against perhaps the same forces that had hit their recon team. It had to have been some fight for them to abandon the gold in a cave. She’d heard they’d eventually died from the injuries they’d received that day. Too bad they’d had to destroy the truck. The truck would make getting the gold back to Fort Leonard Wood so much easier. She understood why General Waltrip had chosen the Horse Detachment to go in after the gold. The enemy wouldn’t be expecting it, and people dressed in civilian clothes riding horses wouldn’t attract as much attention as a military convoy. Dempsey’s men weren’t the only ones they’d need to guard the gold against.

  “The next time we stop to water the horses, I’m getting in the water. I don’t care if I have to strip down naked. I hate feeling nasty sweaty,” Fisher said.

  The guys seated around them raised their eyebrows but none said a word. They knew better than to make a comment. Fisher would kick their butts.

  “A dip in a pond would be nice,” Isabella said. She glanced out the side window. A nice cool stream would be better than a muddy, mucky pond.

  They passed a sign indicating they were entering Pollard, Arkansas. Isabella had no idea where that was in relation to the destination in Missouri. The convoy came to a stop, but Isabella wasn’t very alarme
d. She thought they were preparing to turn and make a course change again. A second later, she discovered how wrong she was.

  The driver put the vehicle in reverse and sped backward as rifle rounds struck the truck. Isabella held on as it veered right and left trying to evade the shooters. The driver somehow managed to steer around the vehicles hauling the horse trailers and got turned around down a side road. He stopped abruptly and the occupants jumped out, rifles raised and ready to return fire.

  “What the hell was that?” Fisher said. What part of “always drive through an ambush don’t we understand? Never stop—remember that one?”

  It seemed they were being fired upon from every direction. The rest of Team Razorback were out of their vehicles and diving for cover. As Isabella ducked down beside Fisher behind a road grader parked along the side of the street, she scanned the vehicles ahead looking for Will. Had he made it out and to cover? Her heart raced. Her mind raced. All she wanted was to get to her husband and know that he was okay. A three-round burst slammed into the heavy steel of the machine just inches above her head. This was real. These shooters weren’t locals with slingshots and arrows. This had to be the army Stephens had warned them about. Fisher moved to her left and inched her head up above the front tire. A round barely missed her as she dropped to the ground face first. “You okay?” Isabella asked, crawling over to her.

  “It’s days like this that I regret having big-ass boobs.”

  Isabella didn’t share that attribute, but she could see where it could be a problem in this instance.

  “Did you see anything?” Isabella asked. She was hoping for a sighting of Will and the rest of his squad. Her squad was spread out on both sides of the street. She caught glimpses of them as they’d pop up to return fire and received the order from the squad leader to hold their position.

  “I saw two at our ten o’clock,” Fisher said, pulling and releasing the charging handle of her M4 rifle. She used the top of the road grader’s blade for a steady firing position.

  Isabella craned her neck to see. “Where? I don’t see them?”

  “Just wait a second. They’ll reveal themselves. There—behind that white SUV.” Fisher rose slightly, popped off a three-round burst into the Toyota, and dropped back down.

  A man dressed in black and green fatigues stepped around the rear bumper of the vehicle and returned fire. Isabella squeezed the trigger of her rifle and the man dropped to the ground. A second man appeared and stepped around the front bumper. Fisher dropped him with one shot and then put three more in him. He didn’t move.

  As Isabella turned to scan to her right for more threats, an automatic weapon hammered the road grader right in front of them. The shooter had to have unloaded an entire magazine as if they could waste ammunition like they had an endless supply.

  Conserve ammo—one shot, one kill. That had been drilled into her by her drill sergeant since day one of training. Make every shot count. They would not be getting resupplied on this mission. What they carried was all there would be. Once they ran out of ammunition and grenades, they were done.

  Isabella had vowed she wouldn’t allow the enemy to take her alive. She’d placed one 9mm round in the bottom of an ammo pouch to make sure she had one bullet left if she was in imminent danger of being captured. They wouldn’t get information from her that would endanger her unit—her country. Isabella thought of Cayden, back in Texarkana. The enemy was too close to the shelter where he and the rest of her family and friends were. That was too damn close. How had they amassed in such numbers without being spotted by the patrols? How many more were out there? Were they attacking the base at Little Rock right now?

  “Watch out!” Fisher yelled as she swung her rifle in Isabella’s direction. Gravel cut into her knees as Isabella dropped to the ground and pivoted to defend herself. Fisher squeezed the trigger and nothing happened.

  Isabella didn’t have time to bring her rifle around to fire before the man was upon her. He grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head back. Fisher cursed, let the rifle dangle on its sling, and pulled her tactical knife from its sheath on her right thigh. With a guttural scream, she lunged for the man, knocking him backward. A second later, Fisher stood, blood dripping from her knife. She kicked the man in the balls before wiping the blade on his pants and sliding it back into its sheath.

  “You okay?” she asked, helping Isabella to her feet.

  Isabella rubbed the back of her head. Her scalp burned where the man had pulled her hair. She tightened the elastic band holding her hair tight to her head and looked down at the man. Sunlight glinted off the blade of a knife the man had in his hand that now lay two feet from his body. Her hand went to her neck. He’d intended to slit her throat. Tears welled in her eyes. “Thanks, Fisher.”

  More rounds came from behind them and hit to their right. Fisher moved to the back of the road grader. Placing her rifle on the machine again to steady her shot, Fisher took aim, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger. One shot—one kill. The gunman dropped to the ground. Another shooter ran from one vehicle to another.

  Isabella took up a supported position like Fisher, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger, and the second man fell to the ground. As he did, an image of Will falling flashed into her mind. She pushed it away. She couldn’t go there. She had to stay focused on the enemy in front of her and protect herself and her battle buddy. Will would be doing the same.

  Isabella was concerned the enemy could work their way around the building behind them in a flanking maneuver. She felt exposed. and she’d never see them until it was too late. They needed to move closer to the rest of the squad. They needed better cover. They needed someone to cover their rear. She scanned the parking lot of a nearby building. It was filled with cars and trucks. If they could make it there, they could move from vehicle to vehicle and go around the back of the building to rejoin the bulk of their squad fighting from the cover of a concrete block building.

  “We need to move,” Isabella said. She pointed to a jacked-up pickup truck with oversized tires. “There—and then to the red SUV.”

  Fisher nodded as she dropped her rifle’s empty magazine and replaced it with a fresh one. “I’ll cover you,” Fisher said, stuffing the nearly empty mag into a pouch on her tactical belt.

  Isabella pressed her cheek to the stock of her rifle, tapped Fisher’s shoulder, and said, “Moving.”

  Twenty-One

  Will

  Pollard, Arkansas

  July 10th

  Event + Ten Months

  Rounds hammered the side of the Humvee Will was riding in. They were under attack. The driver swung the vehicle violently to the left and the vehicle stopped abruptly. Will and the others quickly exited and began returning fire.

  “Get the horses,” Will shouted. “They’re shooting at the horse trailer.” The horses were a vital tool in their mission. They couldn’t afford to lose even one. The way the enemy was targeting them, they had to have known that too.

  The Humvee gunner was rocking the world from above them in the turret with the Browning.

  “Lay down suppressive fire,” Jason yelled to a soldier taking cover but not returning fire. The soldier was white as a ghost and shaking in fear.

  “Get to that door and be ready to get the horses out. Move them behind that white building,” Will shouted. He moved up beside Jason, dropped to one knee, and began sending rounds across the street and to his right. Walker took up a position five feet from them behind a mid-sized sedan.

  “How many?” Will shouted.

  “I see six shooters at our two o’clock. There are at least four farther down just before that bridge. They’ve got Charlie Team pinned down tight,” Walker replied.

  “Do you have a shot?” Will asked.

  Walker placed his rifle on the roof of the sedan, sent a round downrange, and worked the bolt. An enemy shooter at their two o’clock fired a three-round burst back at them into the car they had taken cover behind, sending Walker scrambling back to the rear bu
mper. “I got one. Three to go.”

  As Walker moved into position to take a second shot, Will and Jason laid down suppressive fire on the enemy shooter’s position. “Two more down. Charlie Team is on the move,” Walker said.

  Will glanced behind him and saw that Alpha Team had been able to open the horse trailer and were unloading the horses. But one horse reared up and knocked a soldier to the ground before it bolted. Will cursed and hoped it wouldn’t run far.

  He took the opportunity to look for Isabella’s squad. He spotted Fisher and noticed soldiers spread out on the south side of the road, but he couldn’t see his wife. Rounds whizzed by him as the enemy began returning fire again.

  “Will!” Jason shouted. “We need to move.” Crouching low, Jason moved back behind the Humvee as it was being peppered with incoming rounds.

  “There—that building,” Will said, nodding to the adjacent concrete block structure.

  Will covered Walker as he ran toward it. When Walker reached it, he dropped down behind it and laid down cover fire with his M9, allowing Will and Jason to reach the building.

  “We need to get inside,” Will said.

  “On the roof,” Walker said. They needed to be able to see enemy movement and assess the situation to find out how many they were really up against—and Walker needed somewhere to pick them off with his Remington.

  Jason nodded over his shoulder. “Back door?”

  “I’ll check,” Will said, moving along the back of the building. He thought of Isabella. He should be able to locate her from up there. He hated being so close to her, yet so far away. He couldn’t lose her. This had to work. They had to somehow get the advantage and end this.

  Will turned the knob and it squeaked open revealing a musky-smelling dark space. He flicked on his weapon light and scanned from left to right. He saw no one and stepped inside, scanning the room in search of a set of stairs leading to the second floor or better yet, the roof. He found nothing. He looked up and searched the ceiling for a rope that might be attached to a pull-down ladder. “Yes!” he said as he ran around the boxes and other junk littering the floor of the space. He yanked on the dangling rope and down came a set of fold-up stairs. Will wasted no time climbing them to the second level as Walker and Jason entered and followed Will up the ladder.