by Chris Pike
“What’s wrong, boy?” Kate asked. Her eyes tracked in the direction Reload had zeroed in on, a dark thicket of brush and large trees where the light was low and shadows long. She searched the woods for movement where none should be, and a sensation she was being watched gripped her again.
Nico folded the map and stuffed it in the pilot seat. Stepping out of the chopper he yelled, “Hello! Anybody here?”
There was no answer.
“We need to go,” Kate said. “Now.” She whistled for Reload, who loped over to her in several long strides. Kneeling next to Reload, she held him by the collar. The big dog hadn’t taken his eyes off the woods. “Something’s wrong, Nico. Reload is acting odd. I think people are hiding behind the trees over there.”
“Stay here. I’ll investigate.” Nico unholstered his Glock and took a few strides toward the trees then stopped. “Is anybody there?” When there was no answer, he motioned for Kate to stay behind.
As he took another step toward the trees, a voice called out. “That’s far enough. Drop your weapon.”
Nico froze then slowly backed up a few steps to put distance between him and the threat. While he knew the person who had ordered him to drop his weapon was a woman, he needed to be careful. He had seen plenty of proficient female shooters.
Firearms were the big equalizer.
Taking a chance, he yelled, “Holly, is that you?”
No answer.
“I’m Nico Bell and I have Kate Chandler with me. We are looking for Holly Hudson’s ranch and we were told Kate’s brother Chandler might be here. Or perhaps you know where he is. Is he here?”
The female answered. “I’m coming out. I’ve got an AK aimed square at your chest, so if you’re lying, you’ll be a goner.” Earlier, Cassie had handed the AK to Holly.
With growing curiosity, Nico watched a form emerge from the woods. She was carrying an AK, and as promised, it was aimed directly at him. He noted her finger was resting on the trigger. While she’d have to make a concerted decision to shoot the weapon, it made him quite nervous knowing it wasn’t all that difficult to pull a five pound trigger.
“I am Holly Hudson.”
“I’m Nico Bell. I’m former Border Patrol, and I’d appreciate it if you would lower your weapon.”
Holly eyed the big man for a moment, and several long seconds later, she lowered the AK. She approached Nico and extended a hand to shake. “Who did you say was with you?”
“Kate,” Nico called. “Come on out.”
Tentatively, Kate peeked around the helicopter and eyed Holly. She stepped over to Nico and stood next to him. “I’m Kate Chandler, and I’m trying to find my brother.”
“Chris Chandler is your brother?”
“Yes.”
Holly’s shoulders shrunk.
“Is something wrong?” Kate asked.
“I don’t know how to tell you this.”
“Tell me what?” Kate cast a perplexed and worried look at Holly. “Is he…” Kate trailed off, unable to say the obvious. “Is he okay?”
“I don’t know.” Holly said. “I hope so. He was captured yesterday.”
“Captured?” Kate glanced at Nico, who was as bewildered as she was. “By whom?”
“Russians. We were attacked yesterday.”
Kate’s eyes flicked to Nico then back to Holly.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s been a long morning. Let’s all go in and I’ll explain what I do know.” Holly put the tips of her index finger and thumb to the corners of her mouth, and blew a sharp whistle in the direction from where she had emerged. “Come on out!” she yelled.
Slowly, emerging shadows in the woods took shape in the form of three women and one child, and Kate briefly wondered why the survivors had been reduced to hiding in the woods. Whatever had happened to cause them to act the way they did, had to have been profoundly disturbing, and she fought her response to run away. Then she saw the graves and the charred porch wood. Whatever happened had to have been bad.
“Amanda,” Holly said, “this is Chandler’s sister, Kate.”
“I’ve heard a lot of good things about you, Amanda,” Kate said. “My mom and dad were so happy Chandler found you. Don’t worry about him. He can take care of himself.”
“I hope so,” Amanda said. “Is that your dog?”
Kate nodded. “His name is Reload.”
“He looks protective.” She eyed Reload warily, wondering if he was friendly or not.
“He is.”
“I have a dog. His name is Nipper. He’s at my grandpa’s…I mean my house. He has plenty of food and water, and a doggie door, so he’s alright.”
Dorothy hung back from the conversation. Her eyes bounced around, and she rarely made eye contact with anyone except for the girl, which Kate figured was her daughter. The tenseness of the situation must have affected her, making her a loose cannon in all this. Considering Kate had fought alongside men at the Alamo siege, she wasn’t prepared for Dorothy’s modest demeanor.
Call it women’s intuition or female radar, but whatever it was Kate sensed all was not right with this group of women. She sized up people quickly, a trait she learned and nurtured while bartending.
First impressions were rarely wrong.
Reload approached Kate, leaned into her, and nudged her hand with his muzzle until she responded. The big dog sensed she was experiencing rapid heartbeats, shallow breathing, and damp palms.
Reload observed body posture and voice intonation, allowing him to gather all the information he needed about the humans interacting. The unknown woman was experiencing distress along with the others who were cautiously staying close to the woodland edge. Nico’s stance and unwavering eye contact with the woman indicated he was on high alert and preoccupied with her, and unable to help Kate. Reload acted according to how he had been taught. He stayed close to Kate and nudged her until she stroked him on the flat part of his head.
Kate’s hand absentmindedly fell to Reload. She scratched his head, then his neck where she took in a handful of fur and loose skin, massaging her dog, letting her fingers thread through his rough fur. The simple contact with her dog, one who accepted her on all terms, gave her the strength she needed at the moment. She resisted the urge to run away and hide; to go where she was safe. She was a survivor, and she’d be damned if she would shrink away again from anybody or any situation.
To hide and live to fight another day was one thing, but to hide for the sake of hiding like a coward, well, Kate wouldn’t do that.
If needed, she’d fight alongside these brave women. Descending from a WWII woman sniper made Kate stand taller. It was in her blood. Her genes.
If the Russians were behind this attack on her homeland, she would fight to help reclaim it. Several generations removed from her ancestral homeland was enough for Kate to be fiercely loyal to America. It was the land that shaped her and her brothers, and it was the land of the free and the home of the brave. If they were called upon to protect their land, where good people had lived and died for the right of their descendants to live free, then Kate vowed to do the same. She was an American through and through.
For the time being, however, she decided to keep that bit of intel about her family history to herself, and the fact Nico had deep ties to Russia. She needed to be sure everyone was on the same page.
Spies could be anywhere.
Chapter 16
Dillon, Chandler, Ryan, and the other men attending the wedding had been trucked to the local high school, which had been commandeered by the Russians and transformed into a prisoner camp.
Dillon and several others, including Larry Monroe, were ordered out of the truck. Ryan and Chandler were told to remain seated, while armed guards had weapons trained on them. A guard barked orders in Russian, and when the meaning was not understood, he aimed an AK at Dillon, Larry, and three other men, and motioned for them to walk single file into the compound.
From the moment Dillon had been c
aptured, escape was foremost on his mind. Walking into the compound, he reminded himself to memorize the number of steps from the gate to the closest building. Twenty steps.
There were several noisy generators thrumming, which accounted for the lights at the compound. He gauged the height of the guard tower, and the estimated trajectory of a shot, in the dire circumstance he’d be on the receiving end of one of their shots should he decide to make a run for it.
Dillon’s low center of gravity and powerful legs were built for short bursts of speed. If long distance running was required, he’d be out of luck.
The guards carried the Russian AK 74 rifles with a folding stock and a sling looped over their necks, allowing them to effortlessly fire the weapon by sweeping down on the safety. If a long shot was needed, pressing the button on the rear of the receiver then swinging the stock to the locked position, were the only two motions needed. The sleek automatic was an impressive firearm by any standard, and the guards handled them like they knew what they were doing.
The perimeter was cordoned off with a ten foot tall electrified chain link fence topped with four strings of razor wire.
Though the prisoners were forbidden to talk, Dillon’s mind whirled as he took in the compound layout and number of guards. He was especially interested in how they interacted. Were they alert and cautious, or bored and careless? Guard duty was a never-ending fight against boredom, requiring hours of repetitive monotony that would easily dull even the sharpest of minds, leading to carelessness and perhaps an opportunity for escape.
Dillon’s mind, on the other hand, was ever active and he constantly searched for subtle meanings found in a laugh or in body posture. Silent communication told a lot about who was the Alpha or the Beta dog, or the ones who would fold at the first sign of trouble.
One guard, if he could be called that, was standing on the sidewalk and leaning casually on the building as he watched the men walk by, zeroing in on Dillon. Contempt spread across his face at the Americans who had been captured so easily. They hadn’t even put up a fight.
Dillon pegged him immediately as an Alpha dog.
The man outweighed Dillon by fifty pounds and had several inches on him. He stared at Dillon with cold, black eyes. His arms were massive, and he had the power of a bull elephant, uncaring about who or what had to be trampled if needed. The man was older than the fresh-faced soldiers full of boyish charm, barely old enough to be called men. The guard was not an officer either. What was he? What was his purpose? He would be the one to watch. Dillon pegged him as one who could kill without remorse.
Dillon recognized him as one of the Russians involved in the attack the previous day. He obviously reported to the Colonel, yet Dillon wasn’t sure about the man’s purpose other than added muscle for the Colonel.
Dillon challenged the man with unwavering resolve until a guard stuck a barrel between his shoulder blades, shuffling him along.
The group was roughly shoved inside one of the classrooms containing twenty bare cots in four rows set side by side. Several men had already claimed their spots. Some were ranchers, others shopkeepers, and all were husbands or fathers, brothers or uncles.
The classroom had a thin strip of windows near the ceiling running along the outside wall, left open to allow air circulation and light to filter into the cramped space. Escape through the windows was out of the question. Perhaps a child could wiggle out, but not a grown man.
Larry Monroe followed behind Dillon the way a clumsy Labrador puppy would follow an owner, tripping over feet, waiting for attention.
Dillon selected a cot near a wall, which afforded some protection and a view of the door. Whenever he was in a restaurant or other public place, he made sure to choose a seat where he could see the front door. If there was a threat, he wanted to be the first to see it.
Larry claimed a nearby cot. Dillon recognized the local game warden, Jeremy Brown, a big man who had been a running back during his college days. His nickname had been “Lawn Mower” which, over the course of his athletic days was shortened to “Mower” for his ability to mow down his opponents. While time and age had softened the man, he was still a warrior, and one who Dillon surmised could be counted on when the going got tough. Unsure if he should acknowledge the former game warden, Dillon decided to let Jeremy take the lead.
Once the guards closed the door and bolted it, Jeremy was the first to greet the new detainees. “Dillon Stockdale? Is that you?” He extended a hand for Dillon to shake.
“Jeremy? God, it’s good to see a familiar face.” Dillon slapped him on the shoulder.
“What’dya do with the mountain lion you killed?”
“Made it into a rug.”
“You’re a legend ‘round these parts now.”
“Didn’t know that.”
“What’s happening on the outside?” Jeremy asked. “And what’s up with your Sunday clothes?”
Dillon’s formerly pressed jeans and white shirt he had saved for the special day were dirty and wrinkled. Sometime during the scuffle his bolo tie had disappeared. “My daughter was about to get married. We were setting up outside when they,” Dillon jerked his head to the outside, “got us.”
“How many?”
“About ten of us.”
“Where are the others?” Jeremy asked.
“Not sure. Larry and I were marched in first, probably to separate us from the others.”
“And your daughter? Is she…?”
Dillon wasn’t quite sure to answer. He surveyed the room, searching for a hidden camera or mic possibly hidden in an air vent or light fixture. He didn’t trust anyone other than Chandler and Ryan, and they had been taken elsewhere. While Jeremy was probably on the up and up, it was better not to take any chances. Larry? What to say, other than the guy was a nervous wreck. Dillon’s eyes flicked to Larry, who had taken a seat on a cot near Dillon’s. Sweat beaded his brow and his right hand quivered compulsively whenever it was at his side. His eyes darted around the room, yet never made eye contact with anyone. Dillon wondered if the Russians had somehow persuaded him to be a snitch on the Americans. Before the grid went down, he heard the bank was about to foreclose on Larry’s hardware store. The man was swimming in debt, so it was a possibility, lending to the likelihood he might have been bought.
Jeremy repeated his question about Dillon’s daughter.
“Not sure,” Dillon said. “I didn’t see her get captured, so I don’t know what happened to her.”
“Were there many women?”
“A few.”
Jeremy ran a hand over his beard, showing a week’s worth of growth. He lowered his voice and leaned in closer to Dillon. “Be careful what you tell people.”
“Gotcha.” Dillon’s eyes flicked to Larry. He raised his voice. “I wonder how the Russians knew the exact time a gathering of able-bodied men would take place at the ranch?” Dillon paused. “Huh, Larry?”
“Why are you looking at me? I got captured along with everybody else.” Larry was beginning to feel the pressure of the room, and of ten sets of eyes trained on him, watching his every move. He hadn’t bargained for this, and he should have cut his losses on the hardware store and started over somewhere else where he wasn’t known, where he could reinvent himself. Then the grid went down and his escape plan went the way of the dodo bird.
“Yeah, and you just happened to have excused yourself at the exact time the Russians attacked us.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Larry searched the room hoping to find some backup or a pair of sympathetic eyes. No luck on either count. He was on his own and didn’t much like it.
“Coincidence? Or something else?”
Dillon’s frustration mounted. His cool demeanor under fire was being put to the test by the false imprisonment in the cramped quarters and lack of information on what had happened to Cassie and Holly. Chandler and Ryan could take care of themselves, prisoners or not, but the women? If the Russians got ahold of them, Dillon wouldn’t be able to pr
otect them. He balled a fist and pounded his palm of his other hand like a baseball player pounding a mitt.
By now the other men in the room were listening intently to the conversation. Several had risen off their cots, arms folded, glaring at Larry.
“I don’t like what you’re insinuating,” Larry said. His voice shook and he wiped his damp palms on his pants. “I got captured too. Remember?”
“Someone snitched on us, and from my experiences with snitches in the courtroom, you’d fit in well by the way you’re acting. If I find out you’re collaborating with the Russians, you’re a dead man. I can guarantee it,” Dillon said. He took a step toward Larry and challenged his space.
Larry leaned away from Dillon and looked for help. Crossed arms and glaring eyes indicated he wouldn’t find any.
“Wait a minute,” Jeremy said. “Let’s all cool off and take a breather before things get out of hand. Remember, we’re all in the same boat and we don’t need to fight among ourselves. We need to present a united front against the Russians. If they divide us, then they win. Are we all on the same page?”
“I guess so,” Dillon muttered. “I’m sorry, Larry.” Dillon ran his fingers through his hair and down the back of his head. “I’m worried out of my mind about Cassie and Holly and Amanda. I guess I took my frustrations out on you.”
“Don’t you think I’m worried about my wife?” Larry asked. “She was upstairs with your girls and Amanda, so let’s all hope they are okay.” Larry made a conciliatory gesture to Dillon. “No hard feelings, alright?”
“Yeah. No hard feelings.”
The men shook hands. Dillon’s handshake was firm, while Larry offered a handshake as limp as a wet noodle. Dillon made a mental note of that. No way Larry could shoot straight with that kind of handshake. Holding a gun firmly was a prerequisite to good shooting.