Copperheads - 12 (11 page)

She asked questions about his work and mission, seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say, and looked at him with eyes that bewildered the big man unlike anything he’d ever experienced.

Butter’s mother had died during childbirth, his father killed by a loco mare before he was four years old. Other than a worn, black and white photograph, he had no memory of either parent. Yet, it wasn’t a sad story. He felt no remorse, had never considered himself shortchanged in any way. Carlos Beltran may have ramrodded his spread with an iron fist, but the ranch was a community. The people who worked there were family.

An orphaned child wasn’t all that rare. Life on a working spread was difficult at best and often dangerous. In additional to laboring around large, unpredictable animals and deadly machines, Beltran men went to war when their country called. Many never returned. When such tragedies did occur, the young ones were absorbed without question, accepted into the loving, social fabric of what was essentially a small town in the vast isolation of the West Texas desert.

Like many boys, Butter had neither the time nor the inclination for female companionship. His world revolved around rugged men, horses, cattle, and the modern machinery used on a working ranch. His life was the land, his environment the great outdoors, his heroes the multitude of father figures who treated the young lad like one of their own.

Puberty’s arrival modified that behavior somewhat, the oversized teen finding his eye drifting toward the hourglass shape, softer hair, and smoother skin of the women who operated in various roles around the ranch. He began to listen more intently to the stories and conversations of the older men, dialog that just a few short years before wouldn’t have held his interest.

Secondary school meant leaving the ranch’s friendly confines and entering the Alpha, Texas Independent School District. Butter’s amazing size, herculean strength, and nimble agility immediately drew the eye of every coach at the small school. Within hours, he was being recruited for football and wrestling.

Intense training regiments, private instruction, national competitions, and doing his fair share around the ranch left little time for the now-massive youth to develop social skills or chase girls. Still, Butter was happy and content. His co-workers often consumed a majority of the bleacher seats during home matches. Even Mr. Beltran had taken to setting his beef-empire aside and attending the events.

By the time his senior year was rolling around, every major college west of the Mississippi offered scholarships and promises of professional football recruitment or Olympic-level participation in wrestling. Butter had never been bested on the high school mat and had exhausted all of the competition his coaches could provide.

The natural athlete was about to start touring college campuses when the terrorist attacks crippled America. Like most of the extended Beltran family, he retreated to the familiarity of the ranch when society began its slide into the abyss. There he stayed, his hand-to-hand combat skills making him a natural bodyguard for the expansive outfit’s owner.

It was in this role that the big kid first encountered Nick, Bishop, and Miss Terri. Their “fight” on Meraton’s Main Street was now the stuff of legend and tall tales … the oft-debated details filling the walls of Pete’s Place with fierce, libation-induced discussions.

Butter had simply never had the time to pursue female companionship, always far too engaged with sports, work, or earning a place on Bishop’s SAINT team. An inherent element of shyness also played a significant role in the big kid’s lack of courting experience.

Now, May’s doe-like eyes, buxom shape, and feminine graces were elevating all sorts of chemicals and hormones throughout Butter’s oversized frame. It was as if his testosterone floodgates had been opened, and the young man from West Texas had quite the reservoir of emotional waters.

In reality, Terri was as much to blame as the big kid’s newfound interest in the opposite sex as May. Butter had spent considerable amounts of time studying Bishop’s interaction with his wife. His conclusion was that his boss was stronger and lived a far better life with a mate at his side.

Butter had lost count of the number of campfire tales where Terri had saved Bishop or vice versa. They were known far and wide across Alliance territory as an unbeatable duo … an inseparable team ... a force to be respected.

Despite all of Bishop’s grumblings about his wife being mean or demanding or difficult, Butter knew the truth. His role model adored his mate, and every ounce of that affection was returned in kind. The whole of their marriage was far greater than the sum of their individual parts. The fact that Hunter was a byproduct of that union sealed the deal.

Now, right in the middle of a mission, Butter had met May.

“Tell me what this SAINT … or whatever you call it … team of yours is doing over in Mexico? It sounds awfully dangerous,” she inquired.

Butter’s attention was so focused on the young girl, that he nearly stepped off the edge of the pier. After regaining his composure, he answered, “Mr. Bishop took us across the border to see if we could find any evidence of who ambushed the truckers and why.”

“Mr. Bishop? You mean you’re not in charge of the team?”

With his face flashing red, Butter rushed to correct her misconception, “Oh, no, no, ma’am. Mr. Bishop is in command, then Grim. Kevin is next in seniority, and then, well, umm, me.”

A look of disbelief formed on her face, “You’re the biggest and the strongest and are so self-confident. I just thought you would be the man in charge.”

A different hotness flushed through Butter’s core, her compliments making him feel the warmth of a campfire – only from deep inside. “Size and strength aren’t as important on a SAINT team as experience and judgment. Besides, I don’t know anyone who could best Mr. Bishop in an all-out fight.” 

May needed to digest his response, remaining silent as they continued their stroll around the marina. Finally, “And did you?”

“And did I what?”

“Find any evidence of who ambushed the truck drivers or why?”

Shaking his head, Butter admitted, “No, not really.”

A second period of awkward silence followed as the couple continued sauntering along the old, wooden piers. May seemed to arrive at disappointment, “So does that mean you’ll be leaving the lake and heading back home?”

Again, Butter shook his head, “No, probably not for a while. I think we’ll be here at least a few more days. Miss Terri isn’t one to be chased off by a little gunfight.”

“Miss Terri? I thought you said Bishop was in charge?”

“He is unless Miss Terri is along, and then, well, uhm, they kind of make decisions together … sometimes … it’s a little hard to explain how it all works,” Butter stammered.

Despite the contradiction, May’s face seem to brighten. “Whatever the reason, I’m glad you’ll be staying for a while. I want to cook something nice for you for bringing back my mom’s boat. I want to make you my specialty.”

The lady’s offer struck a chord near and dear to Butter’s heart – food. “That would be great! I love to eat, but you probably had already guessed that, right?”

May shrugged and then smiled wide, “You’re a very large guy. I assumed you have an appetite to match.”

“Butter! Butter!” called Bishop’s voice across the water. “Hate to interrupt, big fella, but we have to finish debriefing and run through an equipment check before it gets dark.”

A quick glance at his watch brought a frown to Butter’s face, “Oh lordy, I lost track of time. I’m sorry, but I have to go.” Then without another word, he was hustling back toward the houseboat, leaving May standing with a confused, almost hurt expression.

As an afterthought, Butter spun around, and while jogging backward, said, “But I really enjoyed our talk. I look forward to having dinner and talking some more. Thank you!”

May waved and smiled, watching as he turned away and then broke out into a full sprint across the marina. “Innocence,” she whispered with a knowing smirk. “I had no idea it still existed in this world. We’ll have dinner, and we’ll talk some more. A
lot
more.”

Bishop’s best boots were soaked. So were his favorite pack and load vest.

As the Texan laid out his equipment to dry on the deck, the rest of the SAINT team joined him.

“At least it’s not salt water,” Grim noted, running a cleaning rod through his carbine’s barrel. “That shit is nasty on gear. You have to rinse it out and get everything wet all over again. It stinks and corrodes metal like crazy. Nasty, nasty stuff.”

“Why Grim,” Bishop smiled, “I really appreciate your taking such a positive attitude this evening. Are you feeling okay?”

Before the old soldier could respond, Terri arrived on deck, grunting under the strain from carrying her husband’s hefty duffle bag. “Here are your spares, babe. How do you carrying all this … this stuff?”

Bishop didn’t respond, trying to decide if his load rig and armor would dry in the night air. His scowl deepened after feeling the damp lining of his boots. No chance. The realization wrinkled his face in a full-on frown. “Now is not the time to break in a new pair of horseshoes,” he grumbled. “I see blisters in my future.”

Merely finding the spare pair of footwear in his size had been a serious stroke of luck. The fact that he had found the military-issued jump boots for a reasonable price had been nothing short of a miracle. Other than rawhide moccasins in the Meraton market, no one was making shoes anymore. Still, he wasn’t happy. “I should have broken these in while we were training in the mountains,” he said, pulling the new units from the duffle bag. “Just once, I’d like to get away with being lazy.”

Terri chuckled, “Ain’t going to happen, my love. It’s just not our lot in life. Maybe we should build a fire on shore? That might help dry some of our stuff out.”

“Somebody’s already thought of that,” Grim advised.

Everybody followed the older man’s line of sight to the horizon south of the marina, spotting a huge column of smoke winding upward into the dusk sky. A moment later, the pulsing orange glow of growing flames followed.

“The village,” Kevin noted aloud. “Somebody’s burning something really big at the village. Maybe they’re having a bonfire?”

“I don’t think that’s a bonfire,” Grim mumbled, his voice thick with worry.

“Oh, no,” Terri whispered, exchanging troubled looks with her husband. “You don’t think ….”

As Bishop opened his mouth to answer, a series of faint popping noises drifted across the lake, the distant gunfire instantly recognizable. “Not good,” Bishop said, shaking his head but unable to look away from the now billowing blaze. “Not good at all.”

“We have to go help them,” Terri announced, glancing between Grim and Bishop.

“We can’t,” Bishop answered sadly. “I’m sorry, but there just no way.…”

“Bishop, please,” Terri pleaded. “Those little boys … the fishermen … they were only kids.…”

With a sigh, Bishop expounded, “We can’t, Terri. It’s impossible. Whatever is happening over there is going to be over before we could even load up our gear and get across the dam. Besides, we’re in no condition to hike to the corner gas station, let alone rush into a foreign country looking for trouble.”

“But Bishop,” she began to protest, now nearing tears.

He took her gently by the shoulders and responded, “Terri, stop, please. Listen to me. The guys haven’t eaten anything all day. Out equipment is in tatters and requires maintenance. We have to restock our ammo and oil our weapons. We are bone tired and need to rest. Even if we were primed and ready to go, it would take us over two hours to reach the village, and then what would we do? How would we know what was going on? We can’t do anything tonight.… I’m sorry, but we just can’t.”

Her eyes glowed white-hot with anger, and the Texan braced for the tempest that was sure to follow. He knew his wife loathed injustice more than anything, despised the strong preying on the weak to the very center of her core.

Terri exhaled, moving her intense gaze from the glowing sky and zeroing in on Grim, clearly asking without words if the ex-contractor could offer any alternative.

“He’s right,” Grim answered with disappointment. “I don’t like it any better than you do, Miss Terri, but Bishop’s spot on with that assessment. We’re in no condition to mount any sort of patrol or interference. At best, we would get there after it was over, at worst we would get ourselves killed. I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“We’ll go back over first thing in the morning, I promise,” Bishop added.

Terri managed to get control of her anger, taking a deep breath and nodding. “Thanks,” she whispered. “I can’t stand up here and look at that sky. I’m going below.”

After she left, Bishop stood and watched the swelling flames as the pop of gunfire intensified from the south. The distant battle motivated the SAINT team, the men moving with more energy as they sorted, cleaned, dried, and prepared for what was surely going to be a dangerous mission in the morning.

Then, less than 15 minutes after it had started, the shooting from across the lake stopped, followed by an eerie silence.

Turning to Grim, the Texan motioned toward the still-glowing horizon with his head, “I can’t help but believe we’re on the edge of something a lot bigger than just a shot-up convoy and the locals not liking each other very much. Those villagers weren’t exactly crack troops, but they were clearly willing to fight. Who rolls in and takes out an entire community in less than 15 minutes? Who is strong enough to pull that off? I don’t like it … not one bit.”

Grim nodded, “My guess would be the guys in the pickup have some friends. Strong, well-armed friends and a lot of them. Somebody is getting their payback tonight.”

“I don’t know about that,” Bishop answered, his eyes never leaving the red and orange illuminating the night sky. “Why would the villagers have kicked a sleeping lion? Surely, they know the players in their own schoolyard. Why pick a fight with the biggest kid?”

Grim shrugged, “Hell if I know, boss. Maybe they were sick and tired of being bullied? There’s no way you and I can stand here and know for certain. Hell, we may never figure it out.”

Returning to his packing, Bishop’s face was still sour. “And that, my friend, is what I fear the most.”

They came out of the pre-dawn light, cutting through the choking clouds of smoke with effortless energy and making no sound.

Chico was beyond pain or fear, the last of those physical sensations having passed hours ago in the new morning. Only thirst registered in his young brain, the undying need for water overriding any other message making it through his tortured mind.

He was helpless beneath the collapsed wall of his uncle’s home, the unmovable pile of stone pinning his chest to the earth while a smoldering beam had nearly burned its way through his leg. He had no concept of how many times he had passed out from the pain, couldn’t conceptualize how many hours he had screamed for help, begged for mercy, and finally prayed for death to come and take him away from the agony that ravaged his soul.

The blurred outlines were coming, moving through the outskirts of his village, their grace and power drawing his exhausted eyes. “Angels,” he managed through dry, cracked lips. “The Holy Father has sent them to take me to heaven.”

“Aqua!” he tried to shout. “Water! Please! Water!”

The effort was both exhausting and disappointing. The bricks on his chest wouldn’t let him draw in enough air to ask for help. The spirits wouldn’t hear him. How would they find him?

But they were drawing closer, darting here, rushing there, and moving through the main street of his village with speed and stealth that was certainly supernatural.

One of the shapes stepped into a red pool of light cast by a burning roof. When he managed to focus, the imaged shocked Chico into drawing in a sharp but shallow breath. He spied a grotesque, frightening figure with huge, insect-like eyes, no face, and a body that bulged with an inhuman form. A demon! Not an angel. He whimpered in fear.

Satan’s servant heard the noise, his bug-eyes instantly snapping in Chico’s direction, his weapon pointing directly at the wounded child’s face.

Fear returned to the Chico’s tortured mind, panic rushing through his synapses as the unholy creature moved closer. The beast spoke but used words that sounded strange. Another soon joined it, and then a third. The young villager was sure the demons were going to gnaw the flesh from his bones.

They surrounded him, evil-looking weapons sweeping what little remained of the surrounding buildings. Then another form appeared, this one completely different in the firelight.

Confused, near death, and having suffered through a night of unbearable pain, it took what was left of Chico’s mental capabilities a moment before something familiar registered. He had seen the newest demon before, but where?

The vision that appeared above him cleared, his fear vanishing as quickly as the clouds of toxic smoke that still rolled through the streets. It
was
an angel, he decided as Terri’s smiling face came into focus. God did love him! He had sent this cherubic spirit to recuse Chico from the army of demons that surrounded him.

Another human face appeared beside her, this one a man.

“Can you hear me,” the woman said in peculiar Spanish. “How badly are you hurt?”

“Aqua,” Chico said weakly. “Please. Water.”

Something touched Chico’s lips, and then a cool sensation flowed into his mouth. It was a feeling unlike any the young boy had ever experienced, a liquid fountain of ice, sugar, joy, and life flowing across his tongue and down his throat. He couldn’t get enough. He couldn’t swallow fast enough. He hoped it would never end.

But it did, convulsions racking the child’s tiny frame and forcing Terri to remove her canteen.

Then Butter was under the beam, groaning with the strain, putting his back into lifting the thick wood that trapped the child. Veins of exertion popped on the big man’s forehead as his massive arms and legs trembled from the effort.

Still, the timber wouldn’t budge. Grim and Bishop pitched in, desperately trying to remove the bricks and rubble accomplishing little other than prompting new spasms of agony through Chico’s frame.

“It’s no use, Terri,” Bishop finally grimaced. “We’re only hurting him more. He’s got hundreds of pounds of weight compressing his chest, and his leg is gone. Even if I could get a copter down here from Fort Hood, I don’t think it would do any good.”

Terri nodded, having already surmised that they were too late. “Let’s make it as easy for him as we can,” she muttered in a dejected voice as she lifted the water to the child’s parched lips.

Grim appeared at the edge of the light, the old warrior resting a reassuring hand on Terri’s shoulder. “The kids are always the worst of it. No matter how many times I’ve seen it, it still rips my guts out.”

Bishop nodded his agreement, his face smeared with the same combination of anger and remorse they all felt, “I’ve seen war zones that weren’t this disturbing. This sucks. Butter, Grim, give her a perimeter. We’ll stay with him until it’s over.”

As his team members rushed off, Bishop turned to his wife and gently insisted, “Ask him who did this.”

“The Copperheads,” the child weakly croaked his answer. “They are evil. They killed my brother and uncle and everyone I know.”

Terri wasn’t sure she understood the words correctly. “Copperheads? Snakes?”

“The Copperheads,” Chico rasped, the effort causing a spasm of coughing and choking.

Before Terri could return the water to his lips, Chico smiled at her … and then closed his eyes as a last breath rattled out of his lungs.

With tears streaming down her cheeks, she rose abruptly and stood rigidly still, staring hard at the dead boy.

“You okay?” Bishop asked, trying to bring her mind away from it and instantly regretting the stupid question.

Terri pivoted at stared at him with the hardest eyes the Texan had ever seen. “I don’t know who or what the Copperheads are, but I sure would like to find them,” she snapped with an ice-cold tone.

Bishop was moving to comfort his wife when Grim reappeared, “No one else is alive. There are dozens of dead bodies down in front of what’s left of the church. It looks like they were rounded up and massacred.”

“There are also drag marks, sir,” Butter added. “From the blood trails, it looks like someone removed their dead and wounded from the field. At least some of the villagers fought back.”