Copperheads - 12 (21 page)

Moving quickly toward the unguarded bridge, Butter could sense movement around him. In the distance, he could hear alarmed voices – somewhere a horse’s hoofs pounded the earth. It was obvious April’s shouts had been heard.

He was less than 100 meters from the crossing when two men stepped out from a tree line, blocking the direct route. The cold steel of long machetes was clear in their hands. Butter could hear more people chasing them from the cluster of barracks and outbuildings to their rear. A horse’s unhappy whinny wasn’t far away. People were yelling Spanish words from what seemed like every direction.

With his head spinning left and right, Butter raised his carbine with his one free hand, hoping the threat of a firearm would make the two guards retreat. They held their ground.

Out of the darkness came a sound that sounded like a sizzling, pissed, super-sized insect. The last four feet of a bullwhip instantly wrapped around the barrel of Butter’s weapon and then jerked with significant force. The action pulled the big kid’s finger tight against the trigger and the thunder of gunfire rolled across the plantation.

Barely managing to hold onto his weapon, Butter dropped April unceremoniously to the ground to free his other arm.

The man with the whip kept pulling hard on Butter’s rifle, so the kid decided to go with the flow.

Charging like an enraged bull, Butter rushed directly at the whip-wielder. The surprised sentry didn’t have time to react before the Texan’s shoulder slammed into his chest, crushing his solar plexus and breaking several ribs. He let go of the whip.

Pivoting to bring his weapon back into the fight, Butter was struck in the thigh by another guard intent on tackling the intruder. The angle was bad, barely knocking the rescuer off balance.

Two more guards arrived just then, both of them having the same idea. One was introduced to Butter’s rifle butt, the other easily tossed aside like a hamburger in a greasy spoon.

Now, there were at least a dozen guards rushing into the fight. A second bullwhip hissed through the air, slashing squarely across Butter’s back. The sentry seemed stunned by the lack of reaction, realizing too late that his leather had no effect through the thick body armor protecting the introducer’s torso. By the time he had recoiled the length of rawhide, a huge fist had crushed his jaw.

Still, the sentries poured in, a half-dozen rushing the stranger that had been so bold to trespass onto their plantation. One man managed to wrap his arms around Butter’s legs as another hurdled onto his back. A second later, a wall of sentry-flesh bowled the big kid over.

Landing in a heap of entangled limbs and struggling muscle, Butter’s priority changed from making an escape to surviving. Nearly 300 pounds of highly skilled, desperate strength began wreaking havoc on any body part that came within his grasp.

He snapped one man’s neck, broke another’s arm. Howls of pain and agony came from the dog pile as Butter’s feet, fists, and elbows crushed bone and tore tendons. In seconds, the pursuers began crawling and scrambling, trying to get away from the fury of hammering blows.

Flinging the last body aside, Butter stood and found a grip on his rifle, the weapon’s sling keeping it within reach. Despite their number, the guards began backing away. None of them were armed. None of them had ever encountered anything like this mountain of flesh rising like a Phoenix from the earth.

“Stop! Stop, or I will kill the girl!” shouted a voice in clear English.

Butter pivoted to see a man holding a pistol to May’s head, the revolver’s hammer already cocked and ready to fire.

For a second, Butter made eye contact with the gunman, boring into his soul and trying to gauge if the local would actually pull the trigger before he could aim and fire his own weapon.

Castro’s gaze was empty and cold, his eyes holding less emotion than someone who was preparing to swat a fly.
This man is a killer
, Butter realized.
He doesn’t care. May’s life means nothing to him.

The kid then glared at the pistol’s barrel, the metal so dark against May’s fair skin. The girl was terrified. The muzzle was rock steady against her temple.

Butter relaxed, holding out his weapon in surrender, the barrel pointed downward. “Okay, mister. You win. Please don’t kill her.”

Castro’s mouth curled in a cruel smile, and then he nodded at the ring of guards. A moment later, Butter was knocked to the ground. At least a dozen boots began kicking and stomping on the kid’s prone frame, the recovering sentries now extracting their vengeance.

Grim’s voice carried alarm. “Bishop, our local contact is approaching in that old pickup. He doesn’t have any trucks with him.”

It took a moment for the sleep to vacate the Texan’s eyes, a bit longer before Bishop blinked in confusion. “It’s probably nothing. He’s probably just stopping by to let us know the day’s schedule.”

“There’s more, sir. Butter is missing,” Grim reported, justifying his urgent tone.

“Huh? Missing? Where did he go?”

“No idea, boss. I saw him after Kevin relieved him of guard duty. He was going to eat and catch some rack time. No one has seen him since. His bedroll is nowhere to be found.”

Again, the Texan wasn’t quite sure there was an issue. “He’s probably off digging a cat hole. After that terrible stew last night, I’m surprised the entire camp doesn’t have a bad case of the runs.”

“I don’t think so,” Grim replied, trying to make his groggy boss understand. “We heard some distant gunfire a few hours ago. At first, I thought it had nothing to do with us. Now, I’m not so sure.”

“Why didn’t you wake …” Bishop started to scold, but Grim interrupted.

“You’ve been working double shifts planning and getting the convoy ready. I decided to let you get a full night’s sleep unless I had proof there was trouble afoot. Our perimeter remained quiet.”

Standing, the SAINT leader scanned the area and then began strapping on his kit. “Let’s go see what our host wants at such an hour.”

By the time the old pickup had meandered to the convoy’s perimeter, Bishop and Grim were waiting in the road.

“Hola,” the Texan greeted.

Bishop could tell instantly that something terrible was wrong. The normally mellow fellow driving the truck exited the cab sporting the deep scowl of someone who was delivering bad news.

“One of your men trespassed last night. He tried to rape one of our women and killed two of our sentries when they tried to intervene. Several of our people were injured before he was apprehended. He said his name was Señor Butter, and we now have him in custody,” the driver announced.

“What?” Bishop stammered. “Butter? Rape? I don’t believe it. There must be some sort of misunderstanding.”

The stoic local shook his head, “There are several witnesses, Señor. There is no doubt. My superiors are furious. At this time, they are undecided how to proceed with the shipment. I was ordered to come and inform you of the incident so that no more of your people would trespass looking for your missing soldier.”

“And what do you plan to do with Butter?” Grim asked.

“He will be executed at sunset, Señor. It is our law,” the chilling words hung in the air.

Terri, stifling a yawn and stretching high, joined them at the roadside. It took Bishop only a moment to fill in his wife. “Butter? Butter wouldn’t hurt any innocent person. What the hell is going on?” she barked.

The local shrugged, seemingly not caring. “I will return after my superiors have made their decision regarding the shipment.”

The driver turned to leave, but Terri stopped him. “Wait, please. Will Butter get any sort of hearing or trial? Can we see him? Can I talk to your superiors?”

For the first time in their brief amount of contact, Bishop saw something flash behind the Mexican’s face. “Your soldier-friend killed two unarmed men who were doing nothing more than trying to rescue the women he was assaulting. There were dozens of witnesses to this atrocity. Our law is very clear. He will be executed. As far as your having any discussion with the plantation’s jefe, I will relay your request. Please order your people to stay within the area we have designated so there are no additional incidents. If any more of your party is found outside of this village, we will consider all of you criminals and act accordingly. Do you understand?”

Bishop and Grim didn’t like the man’s tone, the Texan bowing up as if he were about to unleash a verbal assault of his own. Terri stopped the onslaught with a firm hand on her husband’s shoulder.

Smiling at the local, she said, “You have our word that we will honor your wishes. I would, however, suggest that your leaders take a few moments to speak with me. The man you have in custody is a highly regarded citizen of the Alliance and has personally been decorated by our highest elected officials. For the sake of ongoing diplomatic relations, I think it would be wise for everyone to calm down and have a reasonable discussion. Wars have been started over circumstances far less complex than this.”

The messenger tilted his head, not sure if Terri had just issued a threat. Again, Bishop thought he saw something more in the local’s demeanor.

After staring at Terri for an uncomfortable period, the local finally shrugged his shoulders and answered, “I will relay your request.”

Without another word, the liaison spun and climbed into the pickup’s cab, driving away and leaving the stunned group behind.

“This is bullshit,” Grim bellowed first, summing up what everyone was feeling. “No way Butter just wandered off, tried to rape some farm girl, and then killed innocent men. That boy has a lot of growing up to do, but I’d bet my life there’s more to this story than what we’re being told.”

Exchanging hard looks with his wife, Bishop ominously announced, “You may just have to do that, Grim. We all may be betting our lives.”

“What are you going to do?” Terri asked her husband.

“What can I do? I have less than 10 good fighting men and a bunch of willing, but unskilled truck drivers. Given the size of the operation around us, I would assume we’re completely outnumbered and outgunned. Add to that the fact that we have no idea where Butter is being held; we don’t know the terrain, and we’ve got Washington breathing down our necks to deliver the groceries. I don’t see what else we can do but sit tight and wait for their response.”

“You can’t let them just execute the kid,” Grim stated. “We never leave anyone behind.”

It was clear from Bishop’s expression that he agreed, but the team leader offered no solution. After a bit, he asserted, “Let’s get everyone up and spread the word about what has happened. Let’s hope our new Mexican friends will give diplomacy a chance.”

April walked from Castro’s office, exhausted, confused, and wanting desperately to wake up and realize the events of the last few hours had all been a terrible nightmare.

For over an hour, the plantation’s security chief had drilled her with probing questions, threats, and even two, open-handed slaps across the face.

April had told the truth, repeating the same story time after time after time. It had probably saved her life.

Toward the end of the interrogation, Castro had grown frustrated, reaching a new level of spitefulness. He had yanked her up by the hair and pulled her roughly to the back room where May was being held.

Her sister was naked, arms suspended in shackles hanging from the ceiling. May was bleeding from the corner of her mouth, one eye nearly swollen shut. Her breasts showed bruising, and one nipple appeared to have been burned. There was a puddle of urine on the floor.

“Do you see what we do to lawbreakers?” Castro had barked. “If you don’t tell me everything, it will be you hanging in this cell and receiving the attentions of my most sadistic interrogator.”

“I am telling you the truth. I don’t know how May knew where I was. I sent no message, and I’ve had no contact with the outside world. I didn’t know she was coming. I didn’t ask her to rescue me.”

“Perhaps you would be more forthright if you watched a dozen of my men satisfy themselves with your sister? Maybe your tongue would speak honestly if you watched her brutally violated over and over again?”

The situation merely deteriorated when she had tried to justify her sister’s actions. “I ran away from our home. My family had no idea what became of me. Wouldn’t your sister … or brother … or parents come looking if you had simply disappeared?”

Castro wasn’t buying it. “She is a spy, sent by the Quakers. The gringos have been meddling in Mexico’s affairs for hundreds of years. Those terrorists are no different. If we are not diligent, they will come and take everything we have worked so hard to achieve here on the plantation.”

“She’s no more a spy than you are. She is a stranger to this land and is unfamiliar with the laws and customs. Surely, she is deserving of mercy,” April had desperately pleaded, but to no avail.

“Your sister will be executed with the other Yankee infiltrator,” he pronounced. “She will be hung until dead. Go back to the barracks and stay there. Do not talk to anyone. You will be summoned in time to watch your sister’s final moments.”

Now, as April trudged back to the barracks, she struggled to make sense of it all. Sure, plantation society required harsh rules and unbending discipline to survive and maintain the rule of law. Post-collapse anarchy had threatened to destroy what few fragments of humanity remained. She had experienced hunger personally, a poignant lesson that most of the residents had learned firsthand. She lectured her students on the value of a system that allowed them all to eat.

Yet, during the entire time she had been at the plantation, she had never seen or heard of any serious external threat. The operation was enormous. The fields now produced an excess harvest. There was order and a society. Why were Castro and Lady Bella Dona being so punitive? Why execute a young girl whose only sin had been a misguided attempt to rescue a beloved sibling? May hadn’t killed anyone, hadn’t destroyed any crops or harmed any of the operation’s assets.

Finally entering building #11, she paused upon reaching the center aisle, the harrowing journey on the big stranger’s shoulder returning to the forefront of her thoughts.

“My sister kept calling me a slave,” she whispered incredulously to the empty rows of cots. “May was insistent that I was a slave. Why did she think that? How did she know where I was? Why did she choose that label?”

The questions continued to flood her thoughts as April plodded slowly back to her closet-room, her sister’s use of the term “Stockholm Syndrome” rolling through her brain with every step.

By the time she pulled back the drape, April had reached a conclusion. May was simply mistaken. “I’m not a slave,” she informed the cubicle. “I receive food, water, shelter, medical care, and clothing as a paycheck. I am compensated for my labor. I am provided for, the same as everyone else here at the plantation. May just doesn’t understand.”

For the next few hours, Bishop kept busy organizing the truckers and deploying his limited assets to bolster their defenses. It was a pitiful exercise.

Despite having brought two belt-fed weapons and their larger-than-normal supply of ammunition, the Texan knew that against even a modest assault, it was impossible to defend their tiny swatch of Mexican soil for more than a few hours.

Still, he had to try. That and the activity kept his mind from dwelling on Butter.

Over and over again, Bishop asked himself what in the hell had happened to his man? He mentally played out every possibility, finding none of them plausible. Had someone managed to infiltrate their lines and kidnap his team member? Had Butter somehow been lured away from the camp and then been taken prisoner?

None of it made any sense, and after a period, Bishop gave up trying to figure it all out. He needed to speak with Butter. He needed to interview the kid and uncover the truth.

Just as Bishop was ordering three of the semis to change their position, Kevin’s voice boomed over the radio. “Movement. 110 degrees magnetic. Something big up is moving on that hill.”

Everyone that heard the broadcast stared where the sniper had indicated, straining their eyes to see what was surely trouble.

Bishop headed for that side of the compound, running into Grim on the way. Before they could reach the outermost edge of their defenses, the rumble of a large diesel engine vibrated through the surrounding fields.

“I sure as shit hope that’s not what I think it is,” Grim huffed as the two men dashed for the perimeter.

Bishop had just pulled up his binoculars when the silhouette of a long tube crested over the distant hill. A moment later, the roundness of a turret appeared, soon followed by the outline of a tank.

“Oh, shit,” Grim said. “That’s what I was afraid of. Where in the hell did a bunch of farmers get a fucking tank?”

It was a few moments before Bishop responded from behind his optic. “I see old markings of the Mexican army on the side. At least that answers that question. It’s not a tank, though. It’s an armored personnel carrier.”

“Sure as shit looks like a cannon on top to me,” Grim countered. “It has armor and tracks. Might as well be a tank.”

“It’s only a 20mm cannon,” Bishop continued. “I think those are French surplus units Mexico purchased years ago.”

“
Only a 20mm cannon?
That might as well be a nuke compared to what we’re carrying,” Grim replied, clearly unhappy with being completely outgunned.

“Movement, 130 degrees magnetic, same profile,” Kevin transmitted, followed less than 20 seconds later by, “Movement, 150 degrees magnetic, same profile.”

Indeed, two more of the monstrous machines soon appeared, their cannons pointing directly toward the Texas convoy’s encampment.

Over the next ten minutes, the three armored behemoths rumbled across the countryside, eventually encircling the camp and blocking the road back home.

Once more, Kevin’s voice sent a chill down his boss’s spine. “Movement, all points. Infantry. Dismounted. At least two hundred troops, all armed. They’re surrounding us.”

Bishop watched the deployment, praying that it wasn’t a prequel to an assault. “If they come in, we’re screwed,” he said to Grim. 

“Now I know how Bowie and Travis felt at the Alamo,” Grim whispered. “And it sucks.”

Shortly after the final armored vehicle had settled into position, Kevin’s voice again set Bishop on edge. “Movement on the road. It’s the same pickup truck as before. One person, the driver, is visible.”

The Texan exchanged looks with his wife, and then held up his crossed fingers. “You’re our way out of this, darling. I hate to put on the pressure, but from a military perspective, we’re out of options. If this gets violent, we’re all dead in less than twenty minutes.”

“No pressure, huh?” she grinned. “Let’s see what our friend has to say.”

They met the truck at the usual spot, the same local exiting the cab as Bishop and Terri approached. There was no friendly greeting this time.

“I have spoken to my superiors, and Lady Bella Dona has agreed to meet with you,” the messenger explained.

“Lady Bella Dona?” Terri asked, wanting to make sure she had heard the man correctly.

“Yes. She is the matriarch of all that you see around you. Her family has owned this land for nearly 200 years.”

“Why the heavy equipment?” Bishop asked, nodding toward the tracked war machines sitting atop the surrounding hills.

Grunting, the Mexican explained, “They are here to protect you. Considering last night’s events and the fact that there are several organizations that oppose us, we felt it prudent to protect your trucks and men so you wouldn’t meet the same unfortunate end as the first convoy did. We have positioned our security forces to guard your assets against such an attack.”

Bishop thought the man was lying, trying to get the Alliance team to drop their guard. Before he could protest the need for such a massive response, Terri stepped between them.

Flashing her husband a glance that said, “Don’t press it,” Terri redirected the conversation onto less controversial ground. “When will we have the pleasure of meeting Lady Bella Dona?”

“Right now. I have permission to bring two of you back to the Castle … the main house … with me. No firearms or weapons will be allowed.”

Bishop didn’t like it, thoughts of Hunter losing both of his parents flashing through the Texan’s mind.

Sensing the discomfort, the messenger said, “You have the good lady’s personal guarantee that no harm will come to either of you.”

The Texan’s gaze moved to the armored vehicles on the hilltops, then switched to images of Butter’s scheduled demise. Shrugging his shoulders and flashing his wife a look of helplessness, he responded, “What choice do we have?”

After handing Grim his weapon and load vest, Bishop submitted to a quick frisk. As a show of respect, Terri was allowed to merely spin in a circle with her arms spread wide.

“Any last words of wisdom if you don’t come back?” Grim asked in a low voice as Terri marched toward the pickup.

“Get as many of them back to Texas as you can. Have the snipers take out the two APCs blocking the road home, and run like hell for the border.”

Bishop then joined his wife in the old truck’s cab, the interior smelling like a combination of fresh hay and motor oil.

The road was bumpy, the two passengers jolted left and right as their escort seemed unconcerned with avoiding any pothole or rut in their path. After a few kilometers had passed, the truck crested a small ridge, exposing an enormous valley below. There, like a diamond set in a ring of green, was what the driver called the “Castle.”

Despite the stress and seriousness of the situation, Terri remarked, “It’s beautiful. Gorgeous. I had no idea anything like this existed outside of the Deep South.”

The old pickup bounced and bumped its way down into the valley, the fields growing greener as they descended. Before long, the Texans began seeing the occasional outbuilding and barn, as well as dozens and dozens of workers tending to the crops.