Copperheads - 12 (31 page)

Like a mallet striking the head of the nail, the blows hammered her, driving April’s mind into the depths of anguish. She wanted to grab May and shake some sense into her, slap her across the face until sanity returned.

Harsh words formed in April’s throat, the older girl ready to scream and shout at the stubborn woman with her in the darkness.

But the torrent of awareness bombarding her mind stopped her.

A single, unavoidable truth compelled the older sister to re-examine everything about her existence. While April had chosen to come to the plantation … had chosen this lifestyle … May had not. April understood the rules, agreed to them at some level and bought into this social code. But the unfairness of her little sister’s sentence, the reprehensible treatment of her by the guards … these things could not be justified.

April found that as her mind opened, she found herself feeling again – not due to any realization of the gross injustice done to her, but a desire to protect May, a sensation she had denied for so long, an awareness finally strong enough to override the numbness that had enslaved her very soul. Yet, April knew May was right. The realization came slowly, only a dim flicker at first, eventually building into a blinding, white-hot illumination of truth. Her sister was brave and honest. April was a coward and had been lying to herself since arriving at the plantation.

Once acknowledged, those feelings welled up inside the school marm. Castro’s abuse. The floggings and hangings. The horrible working conditions and quarters. No due process. No rights. No liberties. And the worst part … the most egregious act of all – beating the plantation’s plowshares into swords, converting their pruning hooks into spears. Could it be possible that Bella Dona was raising a mighty army to rule all of Mexico?

It took all of April’s self-discipline not to storm out of the cell and go for Castro’s throat. She wanted to help her sister and hurt her abuser in the process, to claw his eyes into bloody holes. She wanted to make him understand the pain he so easily inflicted on others.

With labored breathing and a new resolve, April turned to the door and rapped lightly. It opened a moment later, the same guard tilting his head at her quick exit and still full basket of food.

It was probably fortunate for April that Castro was no longer at his desk when she exited through the front office.

As she plodded back toward building #11, the world around her took on a completely new perspective. Taking special notice of the laborers she passed, she observed a population devoid of joy and laughter, evidence of a crushed, submissive society that no longer seemed alive. Her senses now on high alert, she realized an unusual stench that hung in the air, the sickening odor lodging in the back of her throat. It was the reek of death, the gradual wasting away of human souls.

Her quarters were just as shocking.
How had she lived like this?
April thought, throwing the basket of food on her cot.
May had been right – she had been suffering from Stockholm syndrome. She was truly a slave.
    

Tears of helplessness rolled down April’s cheeks as she laid on her cot. Eventually sleep came, but not before the hours of torment and regret had changed her forever.

Grim lowered the binoculars and turned to Kevin, “I told you they would come back.”

“I never had any doubt,” the younger man replied.

After multiple searches, Bishop’s truck was allowed inside the truckers’ compound. Grim didn’t waste any time, “What’s the plan, boss?”

For the next hour, Bishop outlined the trials and tribulations that occurred during the eight days he and Terri had been absent.

“That’s it? That’s all you guys could come up with?” Grim responded, clearly disappointed.

Bishop shrugged, “Every other option played out to a dead end. We’ve got no choice unless you’ve cooked up something since we’ve been gone.”

Grim took his turn, explaining to Bishop what had been accomplished and learned since the Texan had headed north.

Bishop nodded, patting his buddy on the shoulder. “Excellent work, my friend. Better than I expected. I’m glad at least one of us made some progress.”

For another 30 minutes, Terri and the SAINT team huddled, reviewing their options. When every possibility had been hashed and exhausted, Bishop stood and said, “It’s time. Let’s see if we can get as many of these guys home as possible.”

“That same pickup is on the way into camp,” called the lookout. “One driver, the same guy with the ponytail.”

“That would be Castro,” Bishop informed his wife. “Right on time.”

The couple chose to ride in the back, and after Castro had frisked Bishop and scanned Terri, they were again on their way to Bella Dona’s lair.

The planation’s matriarch met them on the porch as before, this time dressed completely in black. Terri wondered if it was an omen.

After being escorted into the sitting room, the lady of the house got right down to business. “Our people in Del Rio tell us that the Quakers have been detained but are still alive. The deadline is midnight. Why are you here?”

“We are not going to execute the Quakers, Bella Dona,” Terri replied. “You weren’t honest with us, and now we know the other side of the story.”

“And what would that be? What lies have those terrorists been spouting now?” the estate’s queen hissed.

“You led us to believe that all of your workforce came to you begging for food. We now know that isn’t true. In fact, there are dozens and dozens of Alliance citizens that were abducted from their homes and businesses, and we believe they are here.”

“That is preposterous!” Bella Dona snapped. “We have never forced anyone to come to the plantation. Lies! Nothing but lies from the mouths of those who want nothing more than to see us fail.”

Bishop swiveled in his chair and faced Castro. “Do you deny that your men have been raiding along the Rio Grande and rounding up people to work here?”

The henchman just stared at Bishop. “It is none of your business, Gringo. I don’t answer to you.”

Slowly and deliberately, Bishop reached into his jacket, removing a thin stack of papers and offering them to Bella Dona. “This is photographic evidence we have that proves otherwise.”

Snatching the pictures from the Texan’s hand, Bella Dona peered at the first image with a scowl. It showed Castro in his pickup, along with three armed men. In the bed of the truck was a large cage. Between the bars was clearly visible the bloodied face of a very frightened, young man. “His name isn’t important,” Bishop began. “That picture was taken two miles north of Del Rio just seven months ago. A group of hunters had found a supply of batteries and were using them to power a game camera. The boy in the bed of the pickup was out checking the machines when he disappeared. The family initially blamed raiders or vagabonds until they found this image was captured.”

“This proves nothing!” Bella countered. “For all I know, Castro was helping that young man find his way home. I should’ve known you would side with the terrorists. Besides, we have no need to kidnap anyone. We have thousands and thousands of desperados arriving on our doorstep each month.”

“The next photo,” Terri continued, “was taken from an Alliance surveillance drone.”

Clearly angry now, Bella Dona flipped to the second image and found herself staring at a cluster of people working in a field. All of them were staring skyward, as if they had just seen a UFO or other strange aircraft.

“The third man from the right was identified by his wife. He has been missing and presumed dead for several months. She stated that kidnappers broke into the home and pulled her husband out at gunpoint. That picture was taken here, less than 1 kilometer from where we sit,” Bishop said coldly. “You can keep flipping through the photos if you want, but the story remains the same. You have been abducting Alliance citizens, dragging them from their homes in the middle of the night.”

Bella Dona tossed the papers back at Bishop, “This proves nothing. I would never endorse such criminal acts. These are nothing more than wild, unfounded accusations. That man could have been unhappy with his wife and left home intentionally for all I know.”

Terri shook her head, “Either you’re deceiving yourself, or someone is doing it for you. The Quakers merely want their loved ones back and want the abductions to stop. The Alliance government is in agreement with their cause. We can end this peacefully.”

“They murdered your own truck drivers!” Bella growled with fury. “You would harbor homicidal maniacs? Grant protection to confessed killers? Castro was right. I should have eliminated you all when I had the chance the first time.”

“Can you hear yourself? Don’t you see how your words sound like just like a murdering megalomaniac?” Bishop snorted.

Coming in to support the cause, Castro finally spoke. “We do have Alliance citizens here,” he chuckled. “They were exiled by your own law enforcement, kicked out of their homes for minor offenses or unproven accusations. We have rescued dozens of them, dying of thirst or hunger in the desert. Yet, you accuse us of being barbarians. You gringos haven’t learned anything from the downfall. You’re still a bunch of racist bastards, convinced that you hold the moral high ground. It is sickening.”

Ignoring Castro’s words, Terri was clearly done with the debate. “Release Butter and May … and any Alliance citizen that wishes to go home. In exchange, we will guarantee that the Quakers will no longer cross the Rio Grande and that the Alliance will not invade Mexico.”

Bella Dona grew ice cold in less than a second, her voice like a winter wind, “This conversation is over. Your people will be executed immediately. Castro will order his men to seize the trucks and all the personnel accompanying them. Both of you are under arrest.”

Terri laughed, “If you do that, Bella Dona, the Alliance will invade your lands with armor, helicopter gunships, and thousands of crack troops. Jet fighter-bombers will fill the skies over your beloved plantation, and this house will be nothing more than a smoldering pile of rubble. Your security forces will be crushed in less than 48 hours and thousands of people will die.”

“I don’t think so,” the lady smugly replied. “I don’t think the people in Alpha will do that if we have both of you and dozens of truckers here as our guests. I also don’t believe the President of the United States will be too happy if his food supply is suddenly destroyed by the Alliance’s military. No, that was a worthy bluff, but it is not going to work.”

Bishop looked at his wife, a glass of water halfway to his lips. Terri shrugged and then fixed her gaze on Bella. “I was afraid you would say that.”

With a swift, smooth motion, Terri reached into her boot and withdrew a small automatic pistol. When Castro spied the weapon, he immediately reached for his waistband.

Bishop reared back and threw the heavy crystal tumbler. Just as Castro’s hand was bringing his pistol up, the whizzing, glass missile smashed against his head with enough force that the bodyguard stumbled backward while grunting with pain.

The plantation strongman shook his head to recover but not fast enough.

In a flash, Bishop was on him, three rabbit punches landing in a drum-like cadence. Reeling backward, trying to get away from the stinging blows, Castro stumbled and dropped his weapon.

The near-fall gave the security chief some much-needed space between himself and the charging Texan, Castro putting it to good use. Recovering from the speed and surprise of Bishop’s assault, Castro now set himself, ready to meet the attack on more even terms. Rolling his weight to a back foot, the Mexican’s left leg sailed through the air in a perfect roundhouse kick, the arch of his boot on a perfect trajectory for Bishop’s chin.

The Texan, however, wasn’t there, and Castro’s powerful strike found nothing but empty air.

Bishop was already moving again, sidestepping the incoming kick and moving closer to Castro as the enforcer tried to regain his balance.

A brutal punch landed against Castro’s ear, and then the heel of the Texan’s boot struck the larger man in the side of his knee with bone shattering force. Howling in agony, Bella Dona’s bodyguard dropped down, withering in pain as he collapsed to the floor.

Like a wolf smelling blood, Bishop bounded in for the kill. Stepping on Castro’s wrist, the Texan raised his other foot, clearly taking aim at the downed man’s throat and preparing to unleash a vicious coup de grace.

“You’re not very good,” Bishop stated with emotionless eyes. “But then again, your kind never are.”

“Stop! Please!” Bella Dona whimpered, ignoring Terri’s pistol pushing against her head.

“How tender,” Bishop grunted, never taking his eyes off the prone man under his boot. “Honor among the evil. How many of your slaves begged for mercy? How many souls pleaded for their lives right before this piece of shit killed them?”

Not waiting for an answer, Bishop reached down and grabbed a handful of Castro’s ponytail, dragging the groaning man across the floor. The enforcer’s pistol was in Bishop’s hand a moment later.

No sooner had the guard backed out of the door than Castro found his voice, “You’ll never get off this plantation. You are already dead. Even if you kill us, my men will tear you apart.”

“Perhaps,” Terri shrugged. “If that’s true, then we have nothing to lose – right?”

Bella Dona said, “Stop this, please. If you let Castro and me go, I will free the prisoners and allow all of you safe passage from the plantation.”

“It’s too late for that,” Terri replied. “You had your chance. I can’t trust you, and I’m the one holding the gun.”

“So what happens now?” Bella Dona asked.

“We wait,” Bishop replied, pulling up a chair where he could keep an eye on Castro. “I hope you didn’t have big plans for this evening because we’re not going anywhere.”

“It’s time,” Grim stated, peering at his watch.

“Now or never,” Kevin nodded, turning to hustle away for his assigned position.

“Good luck, men,” Grim said to the gathered truckers.

The sleepy encampment suddenly came alive, hustling shadows moving in every direction at the edge of the campfires.

For the past week, Grim had ordered the truckers to start their engines every night at dusk, pretending to charge the rig’s batteries and keep the engines lubricated. To the plantation’s militia in the surrounding hills, the cranking motors were nothing new.

Kevin found his sniper rifle right where he left it 30 minutes ago. Slinging the long-range weapon, he began climbing to the top of a trailer.

Reaching the roof, he crawled to the low ring of sandbags that had been his station during the drive south from Texas. It was a well-constructed nest, with good cover and excellent bracing. His motions were smooth and confident, practiced every night since Grim had hatched their escape plan.

As he chambered a round into the rifle’s breech, the audible whoosh of a huge fireball rolled across the camp. Men were scurrying along the perimeter with torches, setting gasoline-soaked brush and gathered firewood ablaze. Grim had called them blocking fires and smoke screens.

A wall of flames rose between the Diesel Rivera and the surrounding forces. In moments, the blaze began to die down, but that was by design. A thick, grey smoke began to rise, blocking the plantation men’s view of the encampment on the north side.

With even, measured motions, Kevin adjusted his aim, bringing the armored unit to the south into the crosshairs of his optic. The high outcropping was an anthill of activity now, the images of men darting here and there indicating that the alarm had been sounded.