Ever Onward (61 page)

Josh surveyed the small arsenal with
distaste. In the last year he’d handled far more guns than books.
That saddened him. “I’ll take the shotgun.”

Cobb checked the safety, worked the
slide and handed the stubby shotgun to Josh. “A Winchester
Defender. Eight shots with an open choke for maximum spread. Hell
on wheels up close but not worth shit over thirty
yards.”

“You’re the sharpshooter, not
me.”

“Ya, well, you might as well take the
Browning too. It’s a bit lighter than your Beretta was, but close
enough. The Colt kicks like a mule.”

Now, armed to the teeth,
they had to decided what to do; head for the lodge or follow along
nipping at Scar’s heels. Cobb was for taking the fight to them,
Josh for getting to his son as soon as possible. In the end, they
decided on a compromise.

“Son-of-a-bitch!”, Heller growled as
the body count grew. Five in all, with the cunt Mitsu looking like
her jaw might be broken. She’d been a real fox before, with half
the squad aching to get into her pants. Now, with a swollen nose, a
split lip and two teeth missing, there was no way she’d make prom
queen. Heller had had the hots for her as well, but now his
fantasies were all for the two farmers that had made him look like
a Grade A asshole.

“Sergeant Cozens!”, Heller bellowed.
“Assemble the men! Everyone to move out in five minutes! And
Cozens, make damn sure Swan has a trail for us to
follow!”

As Cozens began rounding up the
remaining soldiers, Scar sauntered up to Heller’s side. “Well Roy,
still think you’ll have them by sundown?” Scar’s voice dripped
sarcasm.

“Unless you’ve got something useful to
say, fuck off!”

Scar’s distorted face attempted a
grin. Heller though he widely missed the mark.

“As a matter of fact, I
do.”

“Ya? What?”

Scar sighed. “So far they’ve been
leading us down the garden path and sticking it to us at every
corner.”

“So?”

“So, we know where they’re going. If
we haul ass and get ahead of them, we can set up a little ambush of
our own.”

Heller’s frown slowly turned into a
sly sneer. “Fucking A! But where?”

Scar took out his map. After some
discussion, they decided on a narrow valley about a day’s hike
away. A river ran through a deep gorge called Hell’s Gate. Steep
ridges on both sides made it a natural path through the mountains.
Jocco’s lodge lay on the other side.

“What if they get there ahead of us?”,
Heller asked.

Scar’s response was to call his radio
man, Corporal Phil Givens, over to him. “Givens, get Jocco on the
horn. It’s time our self appointed king started earning his
keep.”

As Givens unslung the powerful
short-wave and began fiddling with the dials, Scar explained that
he and Jocco had worked out a little emergency plan.

“I told him that this little duck hunt
of his would go sour. I also told him I wanted some back-up when it
did. He agreed to have a troop ready to send in from his side when
I called. I also insisted on some air support. He said he’d have
two copters standing by. Well, the shit’s hit the fan just like I
said it would, and now, Roy old pal, it’s time to call in the
cavalry.”

Givens held out the mike. “He’s on the
line, sir.”

“Jocco?”, Scar said into the
mike.

“Major Scar. How nice to hear your
voice. I trust you have good news?”

Scar grunted. “That depends on how you
look at it, your kingship. Half of us are still alive, but your two
farm boys are now heavily armed and running free.”

“They got the collars off?”, Jocco
demanded.

“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Scar
quipped. “I told you these good ol’ boys were good. Following them
has got half of us killed, so we’re going to try and get ahead of
them and pick them off at a place called Hell’s Gate. I’ll need
chopper recon and that back-up you promised.”

Silence. Despite the cool wind, Roy
Heller found himself sweating. When Jocco finally did respond, his
voice had lots all its casual banter. “Two choppers will soon be in
your area. Shoot up a flair when you hear them. As for the ground
support, they’ll be in position by tomorrow morning.”

“Sounds good to me,” Scar said,
winking his good eye at Heller.

“And Major?”

“Ya?”, Scar casually
replied.

“Fuck up again and you’re a dead
man.”

Static filled the airways.

Chapter 48
: ‘JUDGEMENT
DAY’

Jocco’s Hunting Lodge

Sequoia National Park

California, May
26
^th

‘Lord’ Walter Pinkton had a very bad
case of the shakes. Dry mouth, sweaty palms, queasy stomach, the
works. The fact that his bowels rumbled like Vesuvius didn’t help
either. He’d had the shakes for almost a week now, ever since
Bobby-Joe Burlis and his squad had burst into his private
apartments and accused him of treason. He’d denied it of course,
called Burlis all the foul names his twisted, inventive mind could
come up with and demanded to see Jocco. The king however, being
preoccupied with the rebels and his plans for his eastern invasion,
left Walter to stew in his own juices.

Not that Walter wasn’t guilty. Power
hungry, Walter the Wicked was up to his scrawny neck in plots and
counter-plots. But he thought he’d been careful. Always using a
middle-man and never putting anything in writing, he thought he’d
covered his ass pretty well. Obviously Bobby-Joe Burlis had thought
differently. Now, sitting in Jocco’s hunting lodge, Walter watched
the beefy red-neck sweat as Jocco barked out orders. ‘Eat shit and
die, both of you!’, Walter thought.

Something had obviously gone very
wrong. Yesterday Jocco had been in the highest of spirits, laughing
and joking with his officers; today, however, the monarch’s
demeanor had taken a sudden and rather drastic turn for the worse.
Ill tempered and impatient, he seemed barely able to contain his
rage. All morning he’d been chewing out his officers, Bobby-Joe in
particular. The guards had been tripled around the lodge, the red
head and the boy were tied up in the cellar and both copters were
constantly coming and going.

“And where the hell is George?!”,
Jocco demanded. “The drunken bastard was supposed to be here last
night!”

Bobby-Joe wiped his brow. “George will
be here, Jocco. He’s probably having trouble with the roads. Last
weeks storm washed out a couple of bridges.”

“Fuck the bridges!”, Jocco yelled.
“The retarded bastard can drag his ass through the mud for all I
care, just as long as he gets his men here!”

Bobby-Joe poured himself and Jocco a
drink. Walter noticed that Bobby-Joe’s was a double.

“Take it easy, Boss. George knows what
he’s doing. Besides, the choppers will spot them long before they
get close to here.”

Jocco downed half the glass. “George
couldn’t find his dick in the dark! As for the copters, it took
them half the bloody morning just to locate Heller’s
group!”

Pam Gliss unfolded herself from the
couch in front of the roaring fireplace. Dressed only in lace
panties and an open flack-jacket, the flames silhouetted her lush
body, turning the beads of sweat into liquid diamonds. Purring like
a kitten, she handed the bottle of Southern Comfort she’d been
sucking on to Eva Madeau, stretched and sauntered over to stand
behind Jocco. Her undulating hips drew Walter’s gaze like a magnet,
his beady eyes fastening on the crack of her ass. She and Jocco had
been very tight lately, a fact that Pam the Bitch played to the
hilt.

“What say we go out hunting ourselves,
Jocco?”, she breathed. “Ace can fly us to this Devil’s Gate place
and we can kick a little butt.” Leaning against his back, her hand
moved slowly down to his crotch. “Who knows? You might even get
lucky.”

Eva Madeau, her shaved head reflecting
the firelight, chuckled from the sofa. Bobby-Joe shot her a warning
look and she shot him The Finger.

Jocco pulled the blonde to him,
cupping a heavy breast in his left hand. “I make my own luck,
Kitten, but then, why not? We’ll all go, even Lord Walter. The
fresh air will do him good!” His left hand suddenly squeezed
harder. Pam moaned softly, her blue eyes brightening. Jocco applied
more pressure, the pliable flesh like putty in his cruel hand.
Sinking to her knees, Pam fumbled for his belt. A cruel smile
twisted Jocco’s handsome features.

“Bobby-Joe, you and Eva take Lord
Walter out to the copter and watch him. Tell Ace I’ll be there when
Kitten here is finished.”

Eva Madeau’s throaty
laughter danced along with the flames.

Josh and Cobb, following a fast
flowing creek as it cut its way over the ancient rock, were now
high up amidst the weathered boulders and stunted pines. They’d
spent the last thirty-six hours on the run, scrambling to stay
ahead of the men hunting them, stopping only long enough to set a
trap or take a quick shot at their pursuers. They’d managed to
snatch a few hours sleep last night, wolf down a cold can of beans
and still stay ahead of Scar and Heller. They were tired, hungry
and cold, but they were alive. Josh intended to keep it that way.
Now, with a freshening wind blowing away last night’s rain, Josh
scanned their backtrail with the dead ranger’s
binoculars.

“Here they come.”

“I see them,” Cobb said, sighting
along the M-16. With no scope it would be another long shot. Not
much chance of hitting anything, but with Josh spotting the shots
through the field glasses, it sure as hell was keeping Scar and his
boys on their toes.

The weapon barked once. Cobb had it on
single shot so as not to waist ammo. A quarter mile below them a
hollow point slug chipped a piece of rock off near the front man’s
head.

“Nice!”, Josh grinned, still looking
through the glasses. “A little to the right of the lead guy, but
nice.”

“’
Nice’, hell!”, Cobb
growled. “I was aiming at the two behind the point man!”

Josh shrugged and began moving up the
steep slope. “Coming?”

Cobb made a slight adjustment to the
rear sight. “Now that I’ve got the range, one more should hold them
there for awhile. Give us a chance to get over the top. You go
scout out a path.”

Nodding, Josh began to
climb alongside the gurgling stream.

The bullet that hit the rock close to
Private Swan’s head arrived almost two full seconds before the
muffled report from the rifle reached him. “Shit!”, he muttered,
crouching low. “That bastard can shoot!”

“Where the fuck are they?!”, Roy
Heller demanded from further back down the trail. Since the
incident the other day, he had been more than willing to let Swan
to take the point.

“Ahead of us,” Swan replied dryly.
“Probably up in those high rocks.”

Heller squeezed up beside him.
“Christ! That’s a good half mile away!”

“More like a quarter,” Swan
corrected.

Heller ignored him and called for
Jenkins to bring up the 309. Private ‘Gut’ Jenkins, stripped to his
overflowing waist despite the cool wind, struggled over the rocks
with the large weapon. Setting up the bi-pod, he unslung the belt
of heavy shells and fed them into the slide.

“What’s the target,
Capt’n?”

“That shit pile of rocks up there just
below the falls,” Heller barked.

Jenkins laid down and squinted along
the perforated barrel, his massive stomach crushing the moss
covered granite. “Shit, that’s a long one, Roy. Can’t guarantee no
accuracy.”

“Just fucking do it!”, Heller
growled.

Jenkins hawked up a wad of phlegm and
spit. “You’re the boss, Cap’n. Hey, Nose. What d’ya figure? Two
thousand yards?”

“One eighty, but allow for a 5% wind
drift to the right,” Swan said.

Jenkins nodded and adjusted the rear
sight; first the elevation, then the side thumbscrew. “Only 5%? I
think maybe 7 or 8…”

“Jesus H. Christ!”, Heller exploded.
“When you girls are through finger fucking each other, will one of
you shoot the goddamned gun?!”

“But I can’t see nothin’ up there but
rocks,” Jenkins complained.

“Then shoot the goddamn
rocks!”

Blowing air out his chubby cheeks, Gut
Jenkins yanked back the slide and let her rip. A copper cascade of
spent shell casings ejected out the side as the .309 stitched a
slanting line of led across the distant jumble of
boulders.

A quarter mile away rockchips flew as
the heavy shells slammed into the granite giants, ricocheting away
like angry wasps. Cobb, tucked into a crack with his head between
his legs, waited for the barrage to finish. When it did he sighted
on the cloud of drifting gunsmoke far below, a look of intense
concentration on his hard face.

“Come on you one-eyed bastard,” he
whispered. “Show yourself.”

As the smoke cleared, Scar and Heller
stood up. From behind, Corporal Dutch Muller, eager to see what
Jenkins was shooting at, scrambled up beside his fat friend,
passing Scar in the process.