Under a Tell-Tale Sky: Disruption - Book 1 (40 page)

He cursed himself for a stubborn old fool and wished he’d followed Levi’s advice and started to carry the AR, or better yet, one of the M4s they’d gotten from the Coasties. Then he willed himself calm. His daddy had given him the Winchester Model 12 when he was ten years old, and the old twelve gauge had put a lot of meat on the table over the years—and even ‘discouraged’ a bunch of wannabee Klansmen one dark night years ago. He reckoned he could handle a bunch of bangers. Besides, his vision was none too good anymore, and it was comforting to know he just had to get in the vicinity.

He let the boat draw close and opened fire just before it reached the dock. His first load spread to punch into the boat driver’s chest in a half-dozen places, and the man slumped as the boat veered away from the dock to push bow first into the opposite bank of the narrow inlet. Anthony ejected the shell before the man had even toppled over, and pumped four more loads of double-ought buckshot at the boat in quick succession. At least one more of the attackers was down, and all were showing signs of being hit, but two recovered quickly and began firing in his direction, wildly and without focus. He melted back into the woods to contemplate his next move.

***

Jermain rolled the dead driver out of the boat and took his place at the tiller of the trolling motor. Buckshot from one of the shotgun blasts had hit right at the waterline, and water leaked through the aluminum hull in half a dozen places to slosh around his feet. He cursed as he backed off the bank and swung the boat back over to the little dock. He’d lost one man killed outright and another seemed to be seriously wounded, and the rest of them suffered multiple non-life-threatening wounds in arms or legs. He was pissed.

He looked over to his least injured men leaning over a figure slumped in the bottom of the boat.

“How’s Tyrone?” he asked.

“Gut shot—it’s bad, man. He ain’t gonna make it.”

He cursed as he struggled out of the boat, nursing a leg wound, and tied off to the little dock.

“Leave him,” he said to the man caring for Tyrone. “Y’all come on, but get the radio off Tyrone. I need to call Kwintell behind this shit.”

The man shook his head and held up the radio. “Radio’s busted. Looks like it took a bullet.”

“Shit! All right, y’all come on. We gotta get that old fart.”

One of the survivors shook his head. “I took one in the shoulder and can’t move my right arm. I can’t handle the AK.”

Jermain removed his sidearm and held it out. “Then use this and shoot left-handed.”

The man shook his head again. “But I can’t hit nothin’ with no pistol in my left—”

“TAKE THE GUN, GET YOUR SORRY ASS OUTA THAT BOAT, AND DO WHAT I TELL YOU OR I’LL CAP YOUR ASS RIGHT HERE! YOU UNDERSTAND?”

Cowed, the man nodded, and Jermain turned to his other soldier. “How ‘bout you?”

“I took one in the leg, but I’m okay,” the man said.

“All right. We goin’ after him, but he’s likely layin’ up somewhere to ambush us again. We need to spread out so he can’t target us all at one time. I’ll go into the woods fifty feet or so, you”—he pointed to the man with the shoulder wound—”stay in the edge of the woods near the path, and you”—he nodded at the last man—”stay halfway between us. Then we all move together toward the house. He’ll likely try to take one of you two, and when he does, I want the other one to open up on him, full auto. Force him down and keep his head down, to give me a chance to close on him fast. He likely won’t hear me over the gunfire, and we can take him out fast. Any questions?”

The pair nodded, their expressions leaving no doubt about their lack of enthusiasm for the plan, but neither was willing to trade the ‘possibility’ of death for the certainty of it if they crossed Jermaine. They took their assigned positions and began moving through the trees.

***

Anthony knew one was down for sure, and possibly a second, and he wanted to take out at least one or maybe two more on his ‘fighting retreat.’ They’d undoubtedly split up now to hit him from different angles, but if he struck again quickly, they wouldn’t have a chance to get too spread out. The more he evened the odds now, the easier it would be later. He picked a likely spot twenty yards or so off the path and crouched behind the thick trunk of a white oak and waited for his next target. He didn’t have to wait long.

The man was approaching from his left, just off the path in the tree line, and Anthony heard him long before he began to catch brief glimpses through the relatively thin cover near the path. The banger was obviously injured; his right arm hung useless at his side and blood ran off his fingertips, staining the ground. He held an automatic pistol awkwardly in a left-handed grip. Anthony could tell by looking the man wasn’t a lefty. The shotgun would win that gunfight hands down, long before the man got close enough to hit him.

He heard another man approaching to his right, some distance away, but the cover was thicker there, and he couldn’t see his attacker. He surmised they were coming in a line, with any others perhaps too far to his right to be heard, and began to worry about being flanked if he got pinned down. He definitely had to fall back, but needed to cut down the odds a bit first.

The injured man with the pistol was the logical target, but also the lesser threat, and taking down the still-invisible man to his right would definitely do more to even the odds. He decided to try for a double, figuring even if he missed the second man, he’d instill caution and buy time to get to his next hide.

He swung the shotgun toward the man with the pistol, waiting for him to step into a gap between the trees, then fired. A tight pattern of buckshot riddled his target’s midsection, and Anthony ejected the shell and swung the gun before the man even hit the ground. He pumped four loads of buckshot through the foliage in the direction of his unseen stalker, and turned to run, moving as fast as his old legs allowed. He stuck to the path now, knowing he’d make better time, and confident the surviving attackers were in the thick woods to the west.

His breath was coming in gasps and he was halfway to the cabin when a man stepped from behind a big tree and slammed the butt of an assault rifle into his gut.

***

Jermain moved through the thick woods at a hobbling run, as fast as his injured leg would allow, his noisy passage masked by distance. He figured the old man would set up another ambush closer to the path; that was the logical thing to do. His reluctantly advancing underlings would trigger that trap, spurred on by the thought Jermain was at the far end of their short line of advance, ready to deal with them if they faltered. But unknown to them, he’d already rushed ahead, moving fast and circling wide in an attempt to take the old man from behind.

There were only two possible outcomes: his men would pin the old man down or the old man would win the fight and fall back looking for a new ambush site, and Jermain was prepared for either eventuality. If his men survived the ambush and pinned the old bastard down, he’d creep up from behind and back shoot him. But if the old man sprang his trap successfully and then retreated, Jermain would become the ambusher. Either way, the old man was going down.

He ran on, adrenaline masking the pain in his leg, and when he thought he’d gone far enough, angled right, moving to intersect the path. The woods began to thin a bit, and he was brought up short by the sound of gunfire—a single shotgun blast followed by four more in rapid succession—with no return fire. His men were either down or cowering, and either way he expected the old man to fall back in his direction. He took a position near the path behind a thick tree trunk and was rewarded moments later by the sound of boots pounding the packed earth and labored breathing. He steadied his AK against the tree, sighting up the path. The old man came into sight, running hell-bent for leather with his eyes on the path immediately ahead of him, oblivious to the threat farther down the path. Jermain aimed—and then thought better of it.

What if they had the good stuff hidden? The old man would be the only one who knew where it was. He couldn’t call for reinforcements to search the place because the radio was shot up, and he sure as hell didn’t want to be here by himself when that Levi asshole got back. And showing up empty-handed after losing his whole crew to one old man and then trying to explain to Kwintell didn’t bear thinking about. He knew his odds of survival would be infinitely improved with a few cases of grenades or the gold and silver that fool Singletary was always babbling about. No way round it, he had to take the old man alive. Of course, he didn’t have to be gentle.

He dodged back behind the tree and reversed his grip on the rifle, waiting for the old man to approach. He sprang from hiding to slam the rifle butt into his quarry’s gut, sending the shotgun flying and dropping the old man flat on his back. Jermain flipped the old man onto his stomach and flex-cuffed his hands behind him with an electrical tie, then dragged him to his feet and pushed him down the trail toward the camp.

***

The thug heaved the rope a final time, and Anthony came almost off the ground, forced on tiptoe to relieve the racking pain in his arms and shoulders. He was suspended by his wrists from a crossbeam of the outdoor kitchen, and the sharp pain in his gut from the rifle butt was quickly palling compared to this latest abuse of his aging body. He stifled a moan and glared at the banger as the man tied the end of the rope to one of the support poles. He took satisfaction from the blood staining the leg of the man’s jeans and his awkward movement, and regretted he’d failed to make every shotgun blast accurate. The man pulled the knot tight and limped back toward him.

“Now, old man, we gonna have us a little talk.” The thug smiled. “You a pretty tough old bastard, I’ll give you that. I looked around a little and y’all got a good setup here too. Thing is, I couldn’t find the really good stuff, so you gonna tell me where you got it hid.”

“What the hell are you talking about? We don’t have anything hidden. It’s ALL hidden here in the woods, so why would we need to hide anything from each other?”

“Don’t play stupid! You know what I’m talkin’ about. Where are the grenades, and the gold and silver?”

“Grenades? Gold? Silver? You been smokin’ crack? Why would we have any of that stuff? We sure couldn’t eat it.”

“Don’t act dumb. I know you got grenades from them soldiers at Wilmington, and Singletary told us about the gold and silver—”

Anthony scoffed. “SINGLETARY! So that’s why you’re here? Anybody stupid enough to listen to that fool is dumber than a box of—”

The blow was unexpected, driving into Anthony’s midsection in the same place the rifle butt landed. The result was involuntary and equally unexpected, as the contents of his stomach erupted from his mouth, spraying into the thug’s face. The man jumped back, then stood stock-still for a long moment, Anthony’s vomit dripping from his chin. The rage seemed to build almost visibly until the thug trembled with rage, and he dipped a hand into his pocket to fish out a switchblade. The knife sprang open with an audible click.

“We still got some talkin’ to do, old man, but you don’t need your balls for that. Fact is, I figure an old man like you don’t need ‘em no way, so I’m gonna do you a favor and take ‘em off.”

Less belligerent now, Anthony closed his eyes and steeled himself as he felt the thug tugging at his belt, then something warm and wet splashed his face—followed a fraction of a second later by the unmistakable crack of a gunshot.

***

Anthony lay on the ground and braced himself as the big man probed his tender belly, looking over the man’s broad back at the men standing behind him.

“I’m obliged, Vernon,” Anthony said. “If y’all showed up a few minutes later, I reckon I’d have been changin’ rows in the church choir.”

Vern Gibson laughed. “Glad to help another river rat, Anthony, though I didn’t know you were one. I figured you’d be at your place in Currie. When did y’all move here to the river?”

“Soon as the power went out. Levi figured it wasn’t coming back anytime soon, and we were way too exposed on the county road.”

Vern nodded. “That’s a fact, though it looks like you’re attracting a fair amount of trouble here too. Held your own right well too—taking down five out of six ain’t bad.”

“Five? I only got four that I know of.”

“I was giving you credit for the snake-bit one we found in the willows,” Vern said.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Anthony said, “so THAT was the ruckus, then. Hadn’t been for that snake, they’d have caught me flat-footed for sure. Guess they serve a purpose after all. Anyway, I’m obliged to you.”

Vern nodded to the big man examining Anthony. “Then you ought to thank Sergeant Washington here. He took out the banger.”

The big man finished his examination of Anthony and rocked back on his knees and flashed an embarrassed smile.

“And I do thank you, Sergeant,” Anthony said.

“Not necessary, Mr. Jenkins,” Washington said, “all in a day’s work.”

“How’s it look, Washington?” said a young man who looked somehow familiar.

Washington shook his head. “I’m not a medic, Lieutenant Kinsey, but I think he’s gonna be okay. He really needs to see a doctor, though.”

“Kinsey,” Anthony said. “I knew that face looked familiar. Your daddy in the Coast Guard?”

“Yes, sir,” the man replied. “Is he here? I’m looking for him.”

Anthony shook his head. “He took off a week ago on a ship headed to Texas. But I reckon they’re checking in with the folks at Wilmington. We got a radio here, but their antenna is much taller. They can pass a message to him for sure.”

The young man let out a relieved sigh. “Well, that’s about the best news I’ve heard in a while. At least I know he’s okay.”

“Is there a doctor in Wilmington?” Vern Gibson asked.

“There was a medic with the National Guard unit,” Anthony said, “and they were going to try to find medical personnel among the refugees, but I don’t know if they did. But y’all don’t worry about me. I’m fine right here.”

“We’re not leaving you,” Vern said, “even if we got to tie you up. You need to get checked out.”