Warrior (Freelancer Book 2) (26 page)

The big motor home drifted slowly through the streets of Colstrip. They passed jammed parking lots outside Colstrip Baptist, the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints, and the New Hope Christian Alliance, but there were still plenty of vehicles on the streets. Rick assumed that those enormous draglines didn't stop scraping up coal for anything as frivolous as a day of rest.

Scotty was manning the communications and mapping station on the dining room table. One receiver was tuned to Eps on the roof of Tire Retread World and two tuned to the frequencies being used by the Children's Crusade. A U.S. Topographic Service map was laid out on the center of the table and taped to keep it secure.

They'd started out by driving north to complement Eps' listening post in the south. Every five minutes, Scotty would call for a halt at one of the intersections clearly marked on the map—many dirt roads and gravel tracks weren't marked at all. They would wait for a transmission from Cloyes, everyone silent but vibrating with tension.

There would be a squawk of a man's voice followed by a confirmation from Eps. With exquisite care, Scotty would pinpoint the intersection and make a dot with a note of the time and strength of the signal. Then he would call for another location.

While Rick drove, Scotty would be manipulating protractors, a slide rule, and a triangle, tracing very light pencil lines on the map. Whenever they stopped, another light line would appear.

Rick stood up and bent over the map. He could see how the lines—a single solid line from Eps' position and the cloud of light scratches that Scotty was adding—were converging on the power plant.

The map showed the plant covering almost a square mile. Rick knew there would be guards on duty even on a Sunday morning. They'd have to be fast, and speed depended on the accuracy of intelligence. He shrugged and went back to the driver's seat. If anyone could do this, these guys could.

The process continued for another 30 minutes and ended after two passes along the chain link fence with the blue and white signs that proclaimed "Excacoal's Powder River Plant, We're Building Montana's Future."

Scotty sat back and said, "We've got it." Rick picked up speed and drove up and over a slight rise that took them out of direct line of sight of anyone in the plant. Then he pulled over, set the parking brake, and joined Kristee at the plotting table.

"OK, it's definitely right here." Scotty used the tip of his precision draftsman's pen to indicate a box immediately to the south of what was marked "Exhaust Stack #2." "It shouldn't be too hard to find—those smokestacks are easy to spot."

"To say the least," Rick said.

"Um…yeah. They are the highest points in a 50-mile radius. This is the second one."

"Really? Must be why they named it #2."

Scotty looked concerned until he realized that Rick was joking. A small smile crossed his face. "Yes, well, you should orient yourself by the tower, and this building—whatever it is—will be less than 50 yards due south."

Outside the motor home, there was a squeal of brakes and the clatter of wheels on gravel. Kristee grabbed her dad's shotgun and racked the slide. Rick squatted to look out the front window and saw the dust still blowing away from a red pickup. The door opened. "OK, it's Eps."

When the redheaded engineer jumped up into the motor home, Rick asked, "Where did you get the wheels?"

"Hot-wired the ignition." Eps shrugged. "I mean it wasn't like anyone was using it. It was just sitting there outside a church." He sat down next to Scotty and began to examine the map. "Anyway, I'll return it—at some point."

Rick and Kristee rejoined the others at the map. Rick said, "I think we have to sacrifice careful planning for sheer speed."

Scotty nodded. "I agree. There seem to be two voices on the radio—one sounds like a spokesman or a minister. I'm assuming that's Cloyes. The other man is very different, cold and almost brutal in his tone."

"That's the guy we heard that night in the ravine before they blew the crap out of Wounded Knee," said Rick.

Kristee spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper. "That would be Salazar. Vaughn Salazar. Stephen brought him in when they had a 'purge' a few years ago. I didn't run into him much at the Big House, but when I did, I hated the way he'd look at Sage."

She shook her head as if to get rid of the memory. "One of the wives said he was from Chile, did something with the military, and had to get out when Allende won the election. A nasty bastard."

Scotty looked at her for a moment and then bent back to the map. "That would fit. He just ordered the Crusaders to 'silence' the chiefs. Rick, are you sure the Cheyenne don't need our help?"

"Trust me, after what I just learned about these people, they are very capable of dealing with a bunch of brainwashed assassins." Rick shook his head slowly in admiration, "The Crusaders are about to find out that they are definitely not the meanest motherfuckers in this particular Valley of Death." "Hmm. Cool." Eps was still concentrated on the map. "Look, that fence is well-built. I don't think we can rely on crashing it even with Gussie." He patted the vinyl seat next to him absently.

"I vote that we blow the side gate over here." He jabbed a finger at the south side of the construction project. "Then you two use the pickup truck for the assault while Scotty and I create a diversion up here." He indicated an area along the north fence.

He got up, headed to the workroom in the rear, and began to rummage through cabinets. "I'll give Rick a Very gun—hot damn, we've got two. OK, both of you will have flare guns."

Scotty spoke as Eps continued to pull fireworks, long cardboard boxes, and Tupperware bowls out and pile them on the workbench. "When you've got Sage, set off a flare, and we'll drive Gussie to the blown gate. You pull out ahead of us in the pickup truck Eps borrowed, and we'll block anything coming from behind. We'll rendezvous back at Retread World."

Kristee looked dubious. "Are you sure you can draw security to the north end?"

Eps shouted from deep inside a cabinet. "Are you kidding? They're going to think it's the Normandy landings and a Rolling Stones concert rolled into one."

Rick agreed. "Corey and I used to think they were just three boring computer geeks. Boy, were we wrong."

Scotty got up and headed back to help Eps. "Yes, you were. We're three boring computer nerds with a LOT of explosives and very few valid excuses to use them."

Eps came out of the cabinet with a handful of red-waxed sticks that Rick could only assume were industrial-grade dynamite. "I found them! This is going to be freaking awesome!"

Rick and Kristee sat in the pickup truck.

Both were wearing heavy goggles with darkened glass and bandannas around their necks. Rick's leather jacket and Kristee's battered hunting vest were unzipped in the heat.

They were parked on the verge of the road about 50 feet down from the side gate of the power plant, hidden by the tall prairie grass on top of a slight rise in the ground. With the windows open, the soft breeze brought the warm smells of earth, prairie grass, and just a hint of sourness from the Excacoal mine about two miles upwind.

Kristee was alternating between checking the action on her shotgun, counting the number of extra shells in the pockets of her vest, and flipping open the cylinder on the enormous revolver she'd inherited from her father.

"What's that?" Rick asked.

She held up the gun and examined it as if she had never seen it before, "It's a Ruger Blackhawk. My dad carried it when he was hunting. Said it could take down a bear."

"Think we'll run into any bears?"

"Probably not," Kristee said seriously. Then, realizing that Rick had meant it as a joke, "No. I don't suppose there are too many bears where we're going."

She put the gun back in her lap. She had a holster in the small of her back, but with the gun's long barrel, it was uncomfortable at the best of times and not something you wanted to be sitting on in a badly sprung pickup truck. She went back to staring blankly out the windshield.

Rick looked at her face closely and asked, "How are you doing?"

"Huh?" Her head snapped around to face him. "I'm…I'm fine. Don't worry about me."

"I'm not asking about whether you're ready to go in there." Rick gestured toward the power plant. "I was thinking about your head. Sage and…well, killing Flick."

She turned back to the windshield and was silent. Finally, she took a big, shuddering sigh and said, "Sage is an ache that feels like someone has just hollowed out my insides and filled me with acid. It hurts so much, I'll do anything to make it stop."

She paused.

"But I could see what the rifle did to Flick…his head just—"

"Exploded," said Rick quietly. "Yeah. I shot two people in Vietnam. One VC just popped up in front of me, and I grabbed the sergeant's M-14 and jammed it at him. It was on full rock-and-roll, and he just…evaporated."

"But I thought you were in Ia Drang. You must have shot lots of enemies there, right?"

Rick shook his head. "Nope. I spent most of my time trying not to get shot, and I didn't do a terribly good job at that." He gave a short snort of laughter. "Shit, I was the fucking company intelligence clerk. The most dangerous thing I carried was an ax for chopping away tree roots when we dug out a command bunker."

There was another silence as both looked out at the clear, high-plains day. Rick could feel the breeze coming in from his window.

"It's not like hunting." Kristee's voice was so soft Rick almost couldn't hear her. "Even a scumbag like Flick. He was a person. I still see him—" Her voice trailed off.

"It's not going away." Rick said. "Those guys I shot are featured players in my nightmares. Nobody talks about it, but killing people, even the enemy —armed soldiers who are trying to kill you—is the biggest part of the broken glass in their brains. I mean, shooting him is right in there with the screams at night as the Cong found our wounded or—"

Rick found he still didn't want to talk about his other kill.

"Really?"

"Damn right." Rick shook his head but kept looking out the windshield. "That and because Sage is in there is why I only took these flash-bangs." He hefted an army surplus gas mask bag slung over his head and shoulder. "I killed a woman last year when she was about to slice Eve and me up with a razor. Now she shows up at night too. I can see her crying as I strangled her and all the time—" Rick took a deep breath. "She was talking about how much she loved this guy who'd been trying to kill me."

He shook all over and sat up straighter behind the steering wheel. "Ah, shit. I get enough of these people at night. I don't need them now."

"So you don't get used to it?" asked Kristee in a wistful voice.

"Some people do." Rick answered. "I'm not one of them, I guess."

"I guess I'm not either." There was another pause. "But I've got to get Sage back. I have to."

"I'm right there with you on that one." "But you're not going to kill anyone?"

Rick sighed. "If it comes down to it, I won't hesitate to kill in order to save Sage. I just hope it won't have to go down that way."

Kristee looked at him. "You know, most people would say that was a fucked-up way to go into a gunfight."

Another snort of laughter. "Well, yeah. On the other hand, most people have never killed anyone, so who gives a fuck what they think?"

Kristee patted her ammunition pockets again. "Well, we'll see if Eps' sandbag shells take down the bad guys." She touched the revolver in her lap. "But I've got this and the heavy buckshot, and I'll use them if I have to."

Rick glanced at his watch. "OK, check your seatbelt, and get your earplugs in. We're one minute from Go."

Rick zipped his jacket, pulled the bandanna over his mouth, and gripped the steering wheel tightly. "If there's one thing I know about Eps, he's a very punctual and very loud person."

"That's two."

Whatever else Kristee might have said was drowned out by an explosion under the gate that slammed the right side back against the fence and sent the left cartwheeling into the air. Rick stretched his jaw to try to clear the ringing in his ears and jammed the truck into gear.

Thunder roared from Rick's left.

It was the drum solo from Louie Bellson's "
The Hawk Talks
" being routed through the 8-tube breadboard amplifier that Scotty had made and blasted into two PA speakers that Eps had "liberated" from Colstrip Regional High School. Bellson's signature double bass drums made an enormous muttering groan, and the snares and tom-toms ricocheted off the walls of the plant like every caliber of weaponry going off at once.

Then came three enormous slams as dynamite charges took out both of the end fence posts on the north side and rocketed a Port-a-John 20 feet into the air. From the corner of his eye, Rick could see flashes in the high grass on that side as string after string of firecrackers and fulminate squibs went off, and homemade mortars dropped flash-bang grenades into the construction area.

A moment later, there was no time for anything but taking a sharp left turn with all four tires skidding on the smooth asphalt, followed by an equally tight left. The pickup swayed and shimmied but a touch more acceleration brought it out straight, and Rick could see the small, square cinderblock building just south of the smokestack.

Rick hadn't seen it earlier because it had been blocked by two other buildings, so he examined it now. Two stories high, it had no windows on the ground floor and only high glass-brick windows near the flat roof. The single door he could see looked steel-clad, if not solid steel, and had a lever system that rammed metal bars deep into the frame on either side.

“If they've got the same bars on the inside, that's going to be tough to open,” he thought.

"Kristee." He spoke as calmly as he could to combat the jitters from the noise and speed of their approach. "Load those TESAR breaching shells first. Forget the door. We'll go straight in through the wall. I figure we'll need four."

Kristee nodded and slotted the copper shells into her shotgun. Eps had told them that the special rounds hit with tremendous power, but then the slug fractured into a powder making it less likely that anyone on the other side would be hurt, a vital factor until they knew where in the building Sage was being held.

She loaded the remainder of the tube with the pink-colored shells that indicated they were the non-lethal sandbag variety. Then she leaned forward and holstered the big Ruger back of her jeans.

Rick slid to a screeching stop in front of the door and yelled, "Get out! Hit the wall while I jam the door!"

Kristee jumped, and Rick backed up a few yards, slammed the pickup into first gear, and rammed it firmly into the metal door. As he got out of the pickup, he was relieved not to see the cloud of steam that would have indicated a blown radiator. They needed the vehicle to escape.

As he came around the back of the truck, he heard a muffled boom and saw two square feet of the first layer of the cinder block disappear in front of where Kristee stood braced against the recoil of the shotgun held against her hip. She racked the slide and fired the second shot low, and then two more to take out the second layer of cinder block. A two-by-four-foot hole went entirely through the wall.

Rick could hear cement grit and pebbles rattle against his heavy, dark goggles. After a second, he pulled them off, and dropped them around his neck. His own glasses were shatter-resistant, and he wanted his eyes to adjust when he entered the building.

They split up and flattened against the wall on each side of the hole. Rick held up three fingers of his left hand while reaching into the bag with his right. Then he pulled three of the baseball-sized aluminum foil explosives, lit each fuse with his Zippo, and lobbed them into the hole. Handmade by Eps, they were called "flash-bangs" because they had remarkably little concussive power but a stunning amount of light and sound.

Blue light flared out of the hole in the bright sunlight, and a shattering crack was only slightly muffled by the wall; and Rick realized that, as he'd expected, he was deaf. He signaled Kristee by making a fist and jerking it down. Kristee revolved around the edge of the hole, lowering herself into a crouch against the inside wall.

Rick did the same on his side, desperately trying to make sense of the scene through drifting smoke and dust. He heard Kristee's shotgun and only then picked out a man turning toward them with a gun in his hand. When the sandbag hit him in the stomach, his eyes seemed to turn inward, and he looked down and fell to his knees, dropping his weapon as he wrapped his arms across his torso.

Suddenly, the smoke shifted, and Rick could see another man to his left. Just a silhouette in the dim light, he was trying to pull a pistol from his waistband. Rick launched himself up and forward, grabbing the man's gun hand just as he finally got the hammer unstuck from his belt, and began to raise it.

All those hours of working out surged power through Rick's arms and shoulders, and he grabbed the wrist behind the gun with his left hand while the right covered the hammer, preventing it from cocking. His fingers were locked as he spun to his right. The snapping feeling and the accompanying scream told him that his attacker's right arm was either dislocated or broken. He pulled a semi-automatic from the man's limp grip, removed the clip and cleared the slide, and threw it out the hole in the wall. His attacker was a young Indian in the inevitable brand-new western shirt and jeans. His face was pale with pain, and he fell back into a chair clutching his arm tight against his side.

It was only when Kristee shouted "CLEAR!" that he realized he could hear again. He pulled a couple of Scotty's plastic cable ties and immobilized the young man's ankles and wrists. Kristee's opponent was already zipped tight and lying on his side on the floor in a growing pool of vomit.

A young girl screamed from upstairs. It cut off abruptly.

Before the echoes from the scream had stopped, Kristee was taking two steps at a time up concrete stairs along the right wall.

Rick followed. There was a gunshot and chips of concrete spat off the wall at the top of the stairway. Rick lowered himself to the stairs and climbed as quietly as he could to a small landing where the stair turned, and he could stand up and see into the second floor.

Kristee was standing stock still in the doorway at the top of the stairs. Her body was shaking.

A male voice was saying, "Mrs. Whitaker. You have my sincere condolences for the loss of your husband, but please do not increase your pain by forcing me to kill your daughter."

Rick recognized the voice, the cold lisping tones he'd last heard ordering the assault on Wounded Knee, the man he'd been told was Vaughn Salazar.

The man he'd heard boasting of the rape and murder of Beth Pine.

Salazar spoke again. "Now, move very slowly, and please raise the muzzle of that weapon so that it points toward the ceiling."

Another voice cut in. Rick recognized Stephen Cloyes' baritone, but the soothing, persuasive tones were gone, replaced by strain and fear. "Vaughn, just kill the bitch and let's get the hell out of here!"

"Calm down, Stephen. We have time." The voice was cutting, decisive. It had the resonance of a military leader in contrast to Cloyes' panic. "Please, Mrs. Whitaker. Point that weapon away from me before I have to do something I would truly regret."

Rick resumed his slow creep up the stairs, moving by fractions of an inch to keep the motion of his head from sparking off the hunter's reflex attention to anything that moved. Only Kristee had spoken during the fight downstairs, so there was a chance they assumed she'd come alone.

Finally, he could see everything.

On the far side of the room, a slim, short man had his arm around Sage's neck pulling her close to his body. He had a pistol—it looked like an old German Luger—pressed against the little girl's temple.

Cloyes was standing in front of a table on the right filled with radios, chargers, and other communications equipment. Behind him was a fire door with a metal panic bar and an alarm bell set near the rear wall.

“Another way out,” Rick realized, “I couldn't see it as we drove up.”

The radio crackled with static and a voice came through, speaking urgently. Cloyes spun around and listened intently, his head down and his eyes closed to concentrate on the fragmented voice coming from the speaker.

Salazar never took his cold eyes from Kristee and pushed the barrel of his pistol harder into Sage's temple. She flinched and a squeak of pain emerged from her clenched teeth. "This is your last warning. Point that weapon up and then put it down, very carefully."

Still trembling with repressed rage and fear, Kristee slowly raised the shotgun to a vertical position and then crouched to place it carefully on the ground. As she did, Rick could clearly see the bulge of the Ruger holstered at her back. Moving slowly and carefully, he reached into the bag over his shoulder, fingers seeking the aluminum foil flash-bang grenades.

"They must have fallen out!" he thought.

Then he felt the thick plastic of the Very pistol. Slowly, he pulled it out and released the safety. The flare wasn't meant to be a lethal weapon—just a signaling device—but anything was better than nothing.

Kristee stood up slowly and softly kicked the shotgun a few feet away.

"Shit!" Cloyes spoke explosively and smashed his hand down on the radio receiver. "All the men are gone! Fucking gone. How in hell did they get stopped by a bunch of damn Indians?"

He spun around. "We've got to get the hell out of here!"

Salazar didn't take his eyes off Kristee. "Calm down, Stephen. You can catch the 2:00 p.m. flight back to Washington. I would love to take you with me, but the Company seems to want me back in Satiago immediately."

He loosened his grip on Sage, and her head came upright as the pressure of the gun barrel eased. "Mrs. Whitaker is a very brave and determined woman. I hope her daughter takes after her. I'll find out when she and I are back in my hacienda.

Rick saw the pistol begin to swing toward Kristee and fired the flare gun. The room filled with white smoke and then a violent green light blossomed from Salazar's shoulder. The flare was jammed into the heavy cloth and a waterfall of green sparks and flame cascaded over the small man.

"Sage! Drop flat!" Rick screamed as he surged up off the stairs and across the room. He heard a gunshot go off almost next to his ear as he slammed into Salazar. He slid his hands up the man's right arm, pointing the gun toward the ceiling as another shot went off, and finally stripped the pistol free and sending it spinning off into the smoke—carrying the tip of Salazar's finger with it.

Rick put all his rage into a solid right to the belly, pushing the power through his hips and using all the muscles in his body. His fist sunk deep into Salazar's stomach, and the man collapsed to the floor. Rick kicked him in the crotch.

The first sound he heard through the ringing in his ears was the door alarm going off. Cloyes was getting away.

Rick ran to the door, flung it open, and then stepped back just as a bullet went
sprang
off the metal doorframe. He heard a powerful engine start up and looked out. Cloyes was driving a black pickup from behind the building.

As the truck passed under the stairs, he heard the dusty scrape of brakes, and the truck stopped.

“You motherfucker!" Cloyes screamed. "You think you've won? Bullshit! I know where you and your girlfriend live. I'll fuck her and kill her before you can make it back to Washington."

The truck's tires smoked as it fishtailed off and around the corner of the building out of sight. For a second, Rick was frozen, paralyzed with the plans he was making and rejecting. Then he shook his shoulders to release the tension and turned back into the small building.

Kristee was crumpled facedown on the floor with a puddle of blood spreading steadily from her throat.

Salazar had struggled to a sitting position against the wall, feebly trying to pat out the smoking bits of white phosphorus from the flare on his right shoulder. The strained grimace showed his pain, but his eyes never left the small figure directly in front of him.

Sage was standing with her legs slightly spread and her knees bent. The Ruger looked like some enormous cartoon weapon in her small hands. As heavy as it was, it was rock steady, fully cocked, and aimed directly between Salvador's eyes. Tears were streaming down her face, and her nose was running, but Rick could see the furious determination as her finger began to draw back on the trigger.

"Sage," he said calmly and began walking over to her. "Sage. Please wait."

"Mom's dead," she said in a choked voice trying to keep back tears. "He killed her. I'm going to kill him. Don't try to stop me."

"I won't." Rick came up next to her and knelt down. "This guy is a worthless bastard who deserves to die. I'd like to kill him myself. But I'm asking you not to do it."

Her eyes flicked to his face for a second and then back to Salazar's face. "Why? He was going to kill me too. He told me."

"I know. This guy should be dead."

"Then why do you care about him?"

"I don't. I don't give a shit about him. I wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire." Rick glanced over. "Which, in fact, he is."

There was a tiny twitch of the little girl's mouth, almost the beginning of a ghost of a smile.