Copperheads - 12 (36 page)

The dead and wounded began to pile up around Butter’s perch, the carpet of bodies making it difficult for friend or foe to climb onto the Texan’s personal slice of the battlefield. The steel plates and sides were slick with blood and human gore. Those who did manage to achieve the armored deck were soon addressed, adding to the bleeding, withering heap of flesh beside the tracks.

During a brief lull, Butter found himself with a moment to scan his surroundings. Four of the APCs were burning, five others, including the one beneath his boots, were no longer firing their deadly cannons. That left three more that still survived.

Butter peered down into the open hatch at his feet, the dead face of the former commander staring back up at him with lifeless eyes. “I wonder if this gun is big enough to kill one of its own kind?”

Kicking the dead body out of his way, Butter dropped down into the hatch to study the cannon’s controls. They were nearly identical to the M2 machine gun he’d fired at Foot Bliss. Was it really that easy?

A pair of buttons near the butterfly trigger were labeled with right and left arrows, another level printed with up and down indicators.

With a touch of a button, the motorized turret rotated left. Another test sent the cannon up, and then down. Butter smiled for the first time in over a week.

Spinning the gun, he took aim at the closest operational APC. The sights were very similar to the irons on his carbine. After taking aim, he pressed the trigger.

The big gun barked much louder than Butter expected. Again, he fired, this time making sure to see if the round landed high or low.

Within seconds, men were fleeing from the targeted APC, a small column of smoke rising from the rear engine compartment. Shortly thereafter, flames licked the hatch, followed almost immediately by a massive explosion that thrust pieces of the doomed machine soaring into the night. “Damn,” Butter whispered. “I gotta get me one of these.”

Making sure to close the panel behind them, Bishop had forced Castro down the slick stone steps. Bella Dona followed, with Terri the last to descend. Ten steps down, they reached a damp, foul-smelling, brick floor. The torchlight exposed a low tunnel leading off into the blackness.

“My gosh!” Terri grumbled. “You’d think with all the dough these guys spent building this place, they would have included a secret passage that could have accommodated more than a Hobbit.”

There wasn’t any option but to crawl through the claustrophobic tube, the effort reminding Bishop of the time he visited a cave in the Texas Hill Country.

Not long after they began their subterranean journey, water dripped from the ceiling, and the occasional tree root made the space even tighter. Still, the old structure had been well constructed, maintaining its integrity for many decades.

Their journey passed in silence, all ears focused on the muffled sounds of battle, the occasional rumble or explosion managing to penetrate the earth around them.

An intense detonation shook the ground, sending a shower of earth and mortar from the roof. Castro, in the lead, hesitated, coughing the grit from his lungs.

“Keep moving,” Bishop grumbled from behind. “It’s tight enough in here without us having to crawl over your dead body.”  

After scrambling through the spooky confines for several minutes, Bishop noticed that the tunnel was beginning to ascend. It was only a slight, barely noticeable, upward grade, but it helped calm his nagging fear of being trapped underground.

Castro’s lead torch soon indicated a wall, and for a moment, Bishop worried that they had encountered a dead end. The enforcer knew the secret, however, and pushed hard against one edge.

The barrier moved on old hinges, swinging outward like a door. Sticking his head through the opening, Castro disappeared through the opening.

Bishop was so distracted with finally being out of the crushing passageway, he didn’t see Castro waiting in ambush. Just as the Texan’s head cleared the opening, the plantation henchman struck.

Only cat-like reflexes saved Bishop’s life, his last-second move of ducking back into the underground structure allowing the Texan to absorb a glancing blow. Still, it hurt like hell, bells ringing inside his head.

Leveling his pistol to send a round Castro’s way, Bishop paused before pulling the trigger. He didn’t know what was on the other side of the hatch, didn’t want to announce their presence with a gunshot. Besides, firing a pistol in the tight confines of the underground shaft would leave him completely deaf for several hours.

Ducking his head quickly out and back, Bishop didn’t see Castro. “Shit!” he barked over his shoulder to Terri. “He’s making a run for it! Stay here with the lady. I’ll go find his ass.”

Bishop lunged through the primitive entry, finding himself in some sort of small root cellar. He spied a ladder in the corner and began climbing.

Nearing the top rung, Bishop could make out a trapdoor blocking his passage. Expecting Castro to be on the other side, Bishop pushed cautiously against the hatch, finding himself peering out at an old barn. The plantation’s head enforcer was nowhere to be seen.

Climbing out into the night air, Bishop took a moment to scan his surroundings. Gunfire still raged down by the water, but the pitch of the battle had clearly declined. “Grim, I hope you’re still with me buddy. Hang on; I’m working on getting you out of this mess.”

The Texan heard a scrape, a sound like cloth being pulled across wood.
There you are
, he thought.
Let’s play a little game of hide and seek
.

Castro, given the revolt that just occurred on the Castle’s front verandah, had apparently hidden inside the barn versus taking the chance of running for the protection of his own men. Bishop didn’t blame him.

Yet, the escape tunnel had deposited them outside of a huge facility.
There’s only one way to do this
, he thought.
Walk around until he either tries to jump me, or I find him first
. From Bishop’s point of view, both options sucked.

The Texan’s natural instinct pointed him toward the huge barn’s open end to his right. On that side, there was freedom, the great outdoors, the best possible escape. Instead, Bishop turned the opposite direction, thinking to draw Castro out and retake his hostage without attracting any unwanted attention. Besides, if Bella Dona’s brother had made it outside, the chances of finding him in the wide-open spaces were greatly reduced.

He ventured slowly along the barn’s outer wall, choosing his footfalls with great diligence. Stopping often to listen, the Texan was confident that his field craft was far more practiced than Castro’s.

The shed was a large rectangle, nearly 50 yards on each side. The further Bishop traveled from the door, the darker it became. Old farm machinery was stored here, a rusting plow there, some sort of dilapidated sprayer alongside. The place smelled of used engine oil and musty earth.

Bishop had to admit, Castro had no shortage of hiding places. Between the lack of light and the piles of junk laying around, the Texan could have walked right past the man and not known he was there.

As much as he wanted to retake the vile hatchet man, Bishop recognized that Bella Dona was the key to their escape. His thoughts returned to Terri, probably still in the root cellar with the plantation’s mistress. He needed to get back to her. He would settle with Castro later.

Bishop pivoted, his mind now working on the next step after rejoining his wife. A sound registered in his mind … a movement of air … someone had inhaled. A bolt of lightning shot through his right arm as something hard came from the darkness. The pain was unbelievable, his hand no longer able to hold the pistol. 

It was pure instinct that caused Bishop to duck as the axe handle whizzed over his head, so close the wood actually brushed hair. Castrol growled, pissed that he had missed and resetting for another blow.

Bishop bolted.

In Castro’s world, bravado dictated that Bishop should hold his ground. He was a man, wasn’t he? He had been attacked, assaulted, challenged. He should fight.

The local strongman was absolutely stunned when rather than turn and defend himself, the gringo had scurried away like a young maid being chased by a wolf.

Bishop already had a four-step lead by the time Castro recovered from his surprise. Ducking his head, the enforcer gave chase. “Are you running to your wife? Does she protect you?” he snarled as his target accelerated.

Ignoring the insult, Bishop was trying to regain control of his right arm as he ran. The pain was getting worse, and a quick check via his good hand revealed a bone protruding from the skin between his wrist and elbow. “Fuck,” he grunted, now understanding the searing, white-hot agony that bored into his brain. Castro had managed to gain the element of surprise, reduce his enemy’s capabilities, and a now held a weapon with the longest reach.

“Coward!” Castro taunted while giving chase, “Stop and fight, little girl.”

I’m going to stop soon enough, ass clown
, Bishop thought.
On my terms, not yours.

A large piece of machinery provided the Texan the opportunity he was looking for. He cut hard around the rusting hulk and then stopped and ducked.

Castro barreled around the corner a moment later. Bishop was waiting.

The Texan sprang at his nemesis, bounding out of the shadows like a striking snake. With his good arm wrapped around Castro’s waist, the two men when down, a heap of straining, grunting, cursing, tackling flesh.

Bishop, despite his handicap, now had surprise on his side. Grappling eliminated his opponent’s advantage.
It’s tough to swing an axe when you’re rolling in the dirt
, he thought.

As the two combatants struggled for the upper hand, elbows flew, fists jabbed, and muscles strained. Both managed to deliver their fair share of punishment, but the Texan’s strength, conditioning, and skills were too much for Castro to handle.

Time and again, Bishop punched with his good arm, each blow draining more of Castro’s energy and focus. The Mexican was getting sloppy, his timing off, his balance wobbly.

Somehow, Bishop managed to roll away and stand, panting hard from the pain and exertion. Castro remained on his back, beaten and moaning in pain.

Out of the darkness, Bella Dona emerged, her brother’s axe handle wielded held high above her head. Snarling like a tigress trying to protect a cub, she launched a vicious downward strike at Bishop’s head. He turned, partially blocking the blow with his one functional arm. Again and again, she hacked and swung, driving the Texan back until he finally stumbled and fell.

With eyes glaring with hatred and stringy hair glistening with perspiration, she looked like a crazed demon as she towered over Bishop. He tried to rise, strained to roll away, but his body was at its limits. The pain from the broken arm and exertion of combat were inducing shock.

“Now, you die,” Bella snarled and coiled for the final strike.

The barn was filled with a thunderous roar, the front of Bella Dona’s chest exploding outward in a crimson cloud of blood, flesh, and bone.

Again Terri’s pistol fired, the second bullet spinning the plantation’s mistress a quarter turn. The third shot knocked her over, tearing out another section of lung, rib, and flesh.

Before Bella Dona’s body had hit the ground, Terri was rushing to Bishop’s side. One look at her husband’s arm and battered face nearly sent her into a panic. He finally smiled, whispering weakly, “Hello there, pretty girl. Come here often?”

“How bad?” Terri asked, running her hands up and down his torso, checking for blood … or holes … or both.

“Just my arm,” he replied. Then added, “And my chest, and my head, and my shoulder, and my.…”

“I’m sorry, Bishop. She got away from me as we made the root cellar. She threw the torch into a puddle in front of me … and then ran like hell up the ladder, knocking it back into the room once she reached the exit. I couldn’t see … didn’t know where Castro was, or you, or her for that matter … and had to regroup very carefully.”

“It’s okay,” he managed. “Just let me sleep a while.”

“No. You can’t go to sleep. We need to get you help. Right now.”

“But I’m sleepy. Let me rest. I’ll be fine.”

Blood was pouring from his arm. Several small cuts and lacerations added to the drain on his system.