The Devil's Highway (16 page)

The helicopter was circling rapidly, and Garrett was walking around the big unit like a squirrel dodging around a tree; he was trying to stay on the opposite side of the unit from the helicopter, and with good reason. There was a man in the side door of the helicopter with a rifle much like Garrett’s, trying to draw a bead on the sheriff. The men in the helicopter were also keeping Garrett occupied, preventing him from shooting, letting the guys in the streets close in on the warehouse.

I sighted in on the helicopter and let go a three-round burst. I don’t know if any of the rounds found the mark, but the chopper jerked up suddenly and veered off again. The pilot, at least, had seen my muzzle flare and gotten spooked. This was all the opening that Garrett needed. He stepped from cover and coolly sighted in on the helicopter as it turned back in towards the roof of the warehouse. Ignoring the man who was sighting in on him with a hunting rifle, Garrett carefully and steadily drew his aim. He and the sharpshooter in the helicopter door fired at almost the same instant.

Garret jerked and fell to the roof, and the windshield of the helicopter crazed and split where the pilot sat. Inside, there was a spray of red. The helicopter immediately started to wobble, out of control, and went on its side and headed nose first at full speed towards the street, taking out power lines as it went; it landed upside down, and vanished into a tremendous fireball of orange flame, taking out several parked cars along the street. The heat from the blast rushed past us, many yards away.

I ran to Garret. He was hurt, but Old Betsy had saved him. The round from the shooter’s rifle had passed through the wooden stock of the Sheriff’s gun, basically breaking the rifle in half. The bullet had then lodged in his shoulder. There was a lot of blood, already.
 

“Leave me, Longville. Go check on Andrea and the kid.”

“Nothing doing, You’re shot.”

“Longville. We both know you can’t carry me down that ladder. I can tend to myself, but you’ve got to protect them. Consider that an order, Deputy.”

I looked at this brave man, who knew he very likely would die on this dirty rooftop today, and all I could do for him was nod and follow his order, because he was right.

“Will do, Sheriff.”

I went to the door and went quickly back down the ladder.
 

Andrea and Brad were hidden somewhere in the depths of the warehouse now, and I thought that maybe that was for the best. When I hit the floor, I ran to the front of the warehouse, where the office area was. There would be a front window, and I needed to see what was going on out there. I hoped and prayed that the Redemption Army people had retreated after losing the chopper.

I opened double doors that were marked “Management only” and looked over a cubicle wall out into the daylight. I could plainly see four men in camouflage across the street. One was talking into a radio, and the others were hunkered down behind an SUV.

One thing was clear. Cushman wasn’t going to give up, today. He wasn’t going home without Brad, dead or alive. I was amazed at the loyalty of these men, who I’d thought of as little more than weekend warriors. Such is the power of belief.

I wondered why they weren’t attacking. They were just squatting there, weapons not even at the ready. Then I felt it. A rumbling, and for a second I wondered was there a weak earthquake happening right here in Delgado in the middle of a firefight, and then I realized what it was, even as it pulled into view. It was something that I hadn’t seen up close since I was in the Army.

Cushman had himself an Armored Personnel Carrier, and it was right out front. It was a Vietnam-era machine, but was still in wide use in the world’s militaries. I’d seen a lot of them in the Army; the USA had deployed thousands of them over the years, and they were a pretty common sight in what we Americans call the First Gulf War these days. I’d been a young MP back then. The machine out front was an M113 APC, a small armored infantry support vehicle. They were fast, maneuverable, and tough.

This was why Cushman’s people had advanced so slowly. They had come into Delgado in their SUVs and vans, but the M113 had a top speed of a little over 40 mph. They had known we’d hole up, and all they had to do was wait, and then send in the armor to punch a hole in our defenses, and follow it in. Cushman had sacrificed a lot of his people to get us right where he wanted us. And now, here we were.

Chapter 23

The APC rammed right in through the front. Glass shattered, the front wall was smashed effortlessly aside, and cubicle walls, printers, fax machines, and all the other accoutrements of office life were smashed to junk in seconds as the M113 tore through the wall and passed on through the office, into the interior of the warehouse.

I ran to the other end of the room. The vehicle passed by, the operators having not seen me; they had the hatches closed and were probably ducking their heads until they were clear of the debris. Inside, there was the loud burst of gunfire. This was followed by a terrific grinding as the APC ran over crates filled with merchandise; then, the vehicle turned around and came back, passed me again, lurching over the broken office equipment, back to the outside.

The vehicle turned again in the street, and sat idling. The driver had just punched a hole for the main assault. I slammed the last clip into the M-16 and waited on the men across the street to work up the nerve to come in. I hoped that Andrea and Brad had good hiding places. One thing was for sure, between the helicopter crash and the armored vehicle tearing out the front walls, they had to know some pretty heavy things were going down.

Dust, insulation, and sparking electrical wires fell into the ruined area in the wake of the armored car. The men across the street started to advance. I ran out into the center of the room, which was choked with dust, and fired at the approaching men. A couple fell and the other two ran back to take cover behind the SUV. Behind me, in the guts of the warehouse, the APC was tearing the hell out of the place, knocking down racks fifty feet high, loaded with tons of commerce. This was indiscriminate destruction. The object was clear. They were here to kill us all, and consequences be damned.

I looked around for cover. An overturned office table was the only shelter that afforded itself. It wasn’t much, but I crouched behind it. Outside, I heard a radio crackle, and someone giving instructions.

“Get Longville, then make a sweep.”

They were coming for me. They had taken a few minutes to reload and regroup after the firefight, and they were coming in now to close the deal. Sheriff Garrett, Andrea, Brad were either wounded, dead, or squatting, like me, hiding somewhere in the dark interior of the warehouse. Cushman’s men would find them, and kill them, one after the other, if they hadn’t already.
 

First, though, they wanted me. I checked the magazine in my .45 Colt. I had three shots left. Giving up wasn’t an option. The sun hung still in the glassless window. The day was long past its prime, out here in this barest dot of a town in the West Texas desert. I wondered if I would see the sun set, let alone rise again. The sedate parlor in Atlanta where this journey had started seemed impossibly far away, a part of some other universe and time.
 

Somewhere nearby, I heard the crunch of a boot in broken glass. Someone was walking past the burnt out SUV out front. I rose quickly and fired, then ran for the interior of the warehouse. A burst of machine gun fire gnawed at the table I’d just vacated. I ran back, towards the center of the place, and stopped. Two bullets left. I knew I had to make them count.

I rounded the corner of a rack and almost ran into Brad and Andrea. “Do you have a gun?” I asked in a heated whisper.

“Empty,” Andrea said. “Brad, too. They tried getting in the rear, and we used up our ammo on that tank that came through the front.”

So the gunfire that I’d heard had been Brad and Andrea firing at the APC, and that’s why Kiker had brought in the APC, so we’d waste ammunition firing at it. It would be back, of course, with however many men waited outside.

My heart was thudding in my chest. Through the settling dust at the ruined front of the warehouse, I could see four silhouetted figures, rifles in hand, coming slowly toward us in a crouch. Doubtlessly, they had discovered the empty M-16, and knew that I was in here, somewhere, with only a handgun. So this was the endgame. But suddenly they paused. After a second I heard why.

“Longville, come on out, let’s get this over with.” It was Kiker, out there, speaking through the bullhorn.
How’s your shoulder,
I wondered. But that was the last of my bravado. My mouth was dry and I knew that I was fresh out of options.
 

“All right then,” Kiker spoke his order into the horn for maximum effect. “Go in and get him.”

Out in the street, I could see his men start to walk forward again, toward the ruined front office, when suddenly there was the
crack
of a rifle, and then a
crash
followed by an orange fireball. The glow flared suddenly from outside, visible through the hole the APC had made. Men screamed and cried out for help. There were bursts of gunfire, and the men out front turned and ran out of the building, seeking safety back the way they had come.

“What the hell?” Andrea gasped.

“Molotov cocktail,” I answered in a whisper, still not understanding myself.

“But who?” Asked Brad.
 

I shrugged and moved forward.
Crack, crack crack,
came the steady reports of a large-caliber rifle. Not the Sheriff. If he was still alive, his .30-06, Old Betsy, lay in pieces on the roof of the warehouse. Other Law Enforcement? Also unlikely. In my experience, they didn’t use Molotov Cocktails. I crept forward through the rubble and debris and peaked out of the front of the building again.

The APC was on fire; three men lay in the street, unmoving. They had all been shot neatly center mass, and the size of their wounds was disturbingly large. Clearly, someone had thrown a Molotov down onto the vehicle from the top of the building across the street, and the crew had been picked off as they exited the burning vehicle. Then the fight had moved away down the street. There gunfire was at the street level now. I picked up one of the dead men’s submachine guns, and ran towards the sound of the firing.

Kiker and one other man in camouflage were up ahead, firing into an alley. They had our mystery helper hemmed in up there. I shouldered the submachine gun and rattled off a long burst. Kiker’s confederate spun and went down. Kiker ducked into the alley; he was caught, and his only hope was to rush whoever waited on the other end of the alley.

There was an exchange of gunfire and a cry, and I ran to the alley and took the turn fast, not knowing what to expect. What I got was Kiker, standing over Ira Greywolf, who lay on the ground with a deep wound in his side.

Kiker came toward me, a long blade in his hand. I stepped backward. I smacked the knife hand with the submachine gun. Still, he held on, and leapt backwards, fumbling in his belt for his Glock. A fully automatic burst caught him in the chest; he went down to his knees, and grinned at me. Then he went forward on his face, and was still.

I looked back. Andrea had picked up one of the automatic weapons, which was still smoking in her hands. She threw it down, now, and ran forward to Ira. I knelt beside her.

“Why did you leave the mining camp, Ira?”

“Once the shooting started here, the Redemption Army boys at the roadblock left and came here. I sent the townspeople on into Valentine. Mayor Ferguson led them. Then I came back here. I knew you’d need all the help you could get.”

“You’re going to be all right,” I said, hopefully.

“No, I’m not, Longville. You know that. But it’s all right. This ain’t such a bad way to die, for an old drunk vet from a war nobody likes to think about.” He laughed bitterly and coughed.

“You’re a hero,” Andrea said, squeezing his hand. “Today, you were a hero, and everyone will know. But you always were.”

He grasped Andrea’s hand and his breathing grew ragged, then faint, then stopped altogether. Andrea closed the old man’s eyes, and I hoped he had found some kind of peace after all of his troubles.

Andrea’s eyes rose to meet mine.
 

“Cushman’s still out there.” I said. We stood up together. She hefted her M-16 and squared her shoulders.

“Then let’s go get that bastard.”

Chapter 24

The gate was open and there was nobody home. As we rode in, I could see the watch towers and the guard shack were vacant. Most of the Redemption Army official vehicles were missing, and the place looked like it had been ransacked. We coasted right up to the front office and got out. We both went in, M-16s in hand. No one challenged us. We didn’t even see anyone. The place felt deserted. We went through fast, clearing the rooms one by one. No one in sight. Out the back, through the infirmary. No nurse, no snotty secretary. Nothing. The back doors were wide open; I could see across to the warehouse where I’d set the bomb, just the day before. There were still ghostly tufts of smoke finding the breeze over there. No one in sight, though.

 
Then we heard it.

It started as a barely perceptible whistle and grew into a long, low whine, with the rising accompaniment of a low, dull beating sound. The unmistakable
thud, thud, thud,
of a helicopter engine starting up.