Hell's Fortress (14 page)

“How do you know he’s alone?” Grover asked.

Miriam pocketed the bullet. “If there were two shooters, we’d be dead. What do you think, six, seven hundred yards?”

Eliza thought about the flash of reflected sunlight. “Seems about right.”

“So we’re well within his range,” Miriam said. “Unfortunately, we can’t make the same claim.”

Eliza was still thinking about who might be shooting at them. “I don’t see how it’s the army. Why would they shoot at random travelers?”

“Maybe they wouldn’t,” Miriam said. “We don’t know anything yet. And I don’t much care. Whoever it is, I want him dead.”

That was all great, but here they were, short on weapons and ammo, and Trost with a broken arm.

“We may be at a tactical disadvantage,” Miriam said, “but we’re not four random idiots. We know how to shoot, how to defend ourselves. And we are God’s chosen people. We wear His garment, which is a shield and a protection.”

Had Miriam forgotten Eliza’s father, murdered by Elder Kimball? The Lord’s own prophet, cut down by his enemy. The undergarments hadn’t stopped a bullet then, so why would they now?

But Miriam wasn’t speaking for her benefit, Eliza realized as her sister-in-law sized up Grover. “You received your endowments in the temple last month, Brother Grover,” Miriam said. “You exchanged covenants with the Lord.”

Grover licked his lips. When he spoke, he sounded a little stronger. “Yes, I did. What do you need me to do?”

Miriam examined the two rifles and handed over the 30.06 to Grover. It was a type of gun he must have fired hundreds of times.

“You’re going to shoot this gun at that sniper.”

“That’s a really long shot.”

“You don’t have to hit him. You probably can’t, not from this distance. And he’s well concealed—you can count on that. So you have no hope of out-dueling him. Try that, and you’ll die. Your head will stick up a little, then he’ll fix you in his high-powered scope and blast a gaping hole from one end of your skull to the next.”

“Then I don’t understand. What am I trying to do?”

“You need to take plausible enough shots that it will draw his attention. While you’re doing that, Eliza and I are going to flank him. Send his miserable soul speedily unto hell.”

Eliza’s stomach dropped.

“And me?” Trost asked.

“You make sure Grover doesn’t get killed. Find him some rocks and have him push them onto the shoulder. He can shield his gun. Grover, do not stick your head up. Do not look for the sniper.”

“Okay, I won’t.”

“Trost, are you still wearing that old watch? Good, you keep time. Ten minutes, then Grover fires the first shot. After that, count the minutes. One shot every sixty seconds.”

“How about if Grover makes me a rock shield, then keeps time while I do the shooting?” Trost said.

Miriam shook her head. “No. Stick with the plan.”

“Eliza, don’t you think so? Tell her.”

“Listen to Miriam,” Eliza said. “She knows what she’s talking about.”

Trost persisted. “I know I’m injured, but I’ve got steady nerves. I could do it.”

“No,” Miriam said. “And that’s final. Do you understand?”

He stared back. “Fine.”

“Listen to me, both of you,” Miriam said. “The man who sticks his head up dies. I cannot emphasize that enough. A fraction of an inch above the road, and it’s over. Do not do it.”

Miriam pulled out the magazine of the Glock to count the bullets, then returned the pistol to her holster. She looked at Eliza. “Ready?”

“Not really.”

“If it makes you feel better, neither am I. Come on.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Eliza felt surprisingly calm as Miriam led her south behind the shoulder of the road, first at a crawl, then at a crouch as the ditch dropped lower below the road surface.

It was training, she supposed. All those hours with Miriam, Lillian, and Rebecca at Yellow Flats. Shooting, running through scenarios. Some of the scenarios were not so different from this one.

Miriam brought her about two hundred yards south of where they’d left Grover and Trost. “Look up ahead. See the culvert? That’s how we’re getting across.”

A pipe about thirty inches in diameter ran beneath the highway, carrying the wash from one side to the other. The spring flooding must have overflowed the culvert, because the asphalt above it slumped and appeared ready to fall away completely.

“How did you know we’d find a culvert?” Eliza asked.

“I scanned the terrain before I dove off the road.”

While drawing her rifle and shouting a warning to the others? Sure, why not?

“You’re so confident,” Eliza said. “I wish I felt the same.”

“It doesn’t do any good to show fear. Hurts me, hurts my companions. But I do feel pretty good, yeah. Guess you could call it confidence.”

“I don’t suppose you have any tips, do you?”

“You’re like your brother, you know. Jacob is self-deprecating too. It makes me want to tear out my hair, makes me even doubt him. But when the shooting starts, he’s cool and collected. So are you. You’ll do fine.”

“I hope so.”

“Do you remember what happened in Colorado City last fall?” Miriam asked.

“I wasn’t there, but I heard. You and Steve went up against those bandits.”

“Believe me, it was more dire than this. It was dark, which helped, and we had night vision, which our enemies did not. That helped a lot more. But those enemies were a small army. This is one guy. He doesn’t know what’s about to hit him. He has no idea who we are.”

“You have no way of knowing that,” Eliza said. “Lots of people know we’re out here—Kemp’s group, Cedar City, maybe even the guys flying the drones.”

“Last fall I was in a bad place,” Miriam continued, without addressing Eliza’s point. “My confidence was shaken. I think it was the pregnancy. And I was having nightmares about the Kimball cult hiding in those old missile silos. But when I got into action everything fell away. My body did what it was supposed to. It will this time too. So will yours.”

They reached the culvert. The flow was no more than a trickle, and didn’t make it ten feet from the pipe before disappearing into the sand. The inside of the culvert was damp and cool and just wide enough to squirm into.

Eliza bit down her claustrophobia, slung the rifle over her shoulder, and entered on her belly. She focused on the dim light at the far side and inched forward. Miriam came in behind her. When Eliza reached the end, Miriam grabbed her ankle to hold her up.

“What do you see?” Miriam asked.

“More of the same—brush, rocks, sand.”

“Can you see the sniper’s hill?”

“No.”

“Good, then he can’t see us either. Stick your head out. Then tell me what you see.”

Eliza leaned out. She could see the hill now, but only the far western shoulder, as the road curved ahead to get around the rocky outcrop. It was about a hundred yards away now. An easy shot for any reasonably competent marksman, if he somehow had a view of this position. She described it to Miriam.

“You’ll have to risk it,” Miriam said. “Go.”

They popped out of the culvert and then hugged up against the highway. After a moment, Miriam proclaimed their position safe. Eliza’s knees and shirtsleeves were wet and sand clung to her wet boots. She brushed off the rifle.

“See those boulders at the foot of the hill?” Miriam said. “Look, there’s a magpie sitting on the tallest one.”

“I see them.”

“That’s good cover. We’ll hide behind there. When you run, pay attention to your surroundings. We’ll make another plan when we get there.”

“When do we go? Now?”

“Not yet. Wait for Grover’s first shot. That’ll be what? Three, four more minutes, I think.”

This surprised Eliza. She would have guessed that it had already been ten minutes. “What if the sniper spots us running for the rocks?” she asked.

“Most likely he will. But if I’m right, he’s got his gun on a tripod. And if Trost did what I asked, Grover has been pushing rocks onto the shoulder. The sniper is watching. By now he’s probably had a dozen shots at that kid’s hands and arms. He’s disciplined. He’s held back.”

How chilling to imagine a sniper blowing off one of Grover’s hands. And chilling to know that Miriam had risked it. All her warnings about sticking one’s head above the roadbed held equally for other body parts. What if Miriam had guessed wrong about the man’s discipline?

“Most likely, he’ll see us running,” Miriam continued. “But Grover’s shot will
force his attention. No way does he get his gun turned around to shoot at us before we’ve taken cover.”

“Assuming there’s only one gunman.”

“Yes, assuming. I’d better be right about that.”

Grover’s rifle fired. The two women had been waiting in a crouch, like runners ready to break from the starting blocks, and Miriam was off in an instant. Eliza scrambled to keep up.

The ground between the culvert and the pair of boulders was sandy and gave poor footing. They struggled to build up speed. Eliza tensed herself for an answering shot from the sniper. A sharp, searing pain in the lungs, then she’d go down. The shot never came. Moments later, the two women sat gasping in the cover of the boulders.

“Wait,” Miriam said. “Don’t do anything. Not yet.”

The sun was dipping west and directed its full force against the flat surface of the black volcanic tuff. It radiated heat like a stone plucked from the coals of a fire. Sweat trickled down Eliza’s brow. She wished she’d had time to grab a canteen before jumping from her horse.

“The sun is our friend,” Miriam said. “It’s shining in his eyes. I like our odds better now.”

Another gunshot from Grover’s rifle. It rolled over the desert. Still no answer from the sniper.

“Is he gone?” Eliza asked.

“I doubt it. Okay, here’s what we do. On top of the hill there’s a knob that looks like a huge nose. You saw it?”

Eliza shook her head.

“You didn’t? I told you to pay attention. What were you doing?”

“Running for my life.”

“There’s a knob. It’s the best feature for a sniper to use as cover.”

Another gunshot.

“Next shot we go. The instant Grover fires, you stand up and you shoot at that knob. Keep firing until you empty your magazine. Take your time. Aim.”

Eliza swallowed hard.

“Listen to me,” Miriam continued. “I’m making a run up that hill and I need that shooter off my butt.”

“Got it.”

Except Miriam had given a stern warning to Grover to keep his head down. To
not
aim. Eliza would be aiming and shooting, again and again. And closer to the sniper. But at how much greater risk to Miriam, sprinting in the open toward the hill? Not to mention the risk of friendly fire from Grover and Eliza.

But now Eliza understood Miriam’s strategy. Two rifles firing at the hill from different angles. They would force the sniper to keep his head down. And while he was ducking, Miriam would overrun his position and put a couple of bullets in his head.

Eliza waited, cooking in the sun. She tightened her grip on the rifle with sweating hands. Miriam squatted beside her with the pistol held firmly in her grip, her breathing slow and fluid. She stared at the ground without blinking. It was like she’d entered a trance.

Grover fired.

Eliza didn’t wait to see if Miriam would run, but jumped up with the rifle. It took her a second to identify the nose-like protrusion from among the other rocks, boulders, and humps sprouting along the hill. When she found it, there was nothing to give it away as the sniper’s blind, no twinkle of reflected light off a scope, no rifle muzzle jutting out. Trusting Miriam, she fired, her aim a few inches to the right of the knob. A puff of dust rose up where her bullet struck.

A figure raced up the hillside on the right edge of Eliza’s peripheral vision. Miriam. Eliza chambered another round, aimed to the left of the knob this time, and fired again. The rifle kicked against her shoulder. No sign of movement. A few seconds longer and she fired again, back to the right. Grover also fired.

Finally, the sniper answered. A hollow thump from his rifle, distinct from the other guns as the fire was suppressed. Not shooting at Eliza; she’d be dead. She fired again. Miriam was straight in front of her now, scrambling up the hillside, but partially shielded from the gunman by the hill itself. Unless the sniper rose to his feet, he’d never get at her. And Eliza saw no movement.

Suddenly, Grover was popping off shots. Eliza looked carefully for movement, then fired again. Miriam disappeared behind the rocky protrusion. Grover kept shooting.

“Hold your fire!” Miriam screamed a moment later. “Eliza, tell that idiot—”

Grover didn’t stop.

“Grover!” Eliza shouted. She was midway between Miriam on the hill and Grover and Trost where they’d jumped off the highway. “Stop shooting.”

But apparently he couldn’t hear. When he finally stopped—most likely because he was out of ammo—Miriam rose from behind the rock, ran to the edge of the hillock, and fired her pistol several times down the highway to the south, out of Eliza’s view.

Miriam turned around and shielded her eyes to look against the sun toward Eliza. Even a hundred yards away, her disgust was clear as she shoved her pistol into her holster and came back down the hill.

Behind them, Grover came running down the highway, waving his arms. “Over here! Help.”

“Shut up, you idiot,” Miriam yelled. “If you hadn’t been shooting off your gun—”

“It’s Trost. He’s hurt.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Trost wasn’t hurt. He was dead. He lay on his back in the dirt, with his lifeblood spilling out of a gaping wound in his skull. His body was still twitching, his chest still taking shallow gasps. His fingers clenched and unclenched on the ground. But the light was fading from his open eyes. He was dead already, even if his body hadn’t realized it yet.

Eliza couldn’t turn away from the horrific sight. Miriam muttered something unintelligible and angry-sounding.

“Aren’t you going to do anything?” Grover asked. His voice was pleading, his face stricken and pale. Another moment and Eliza thought he’d be sick.

“Turn away, Grover,” she said. She put her hands on his shoulders and flipped him around to stare back toward the highway.

Then she bent, took off Trost’s hat, and put it over the man’s face. He twitched a few more times and lay still. His body relaxed. It was as if his spirit was visibly taking leave of his body, shucking it off like a glove.

“Say a prayer,” Miriam urged.

“Father in heaven,” Eliza said. “Into thy hands we commend this man’s spirit. He was not of our church, but he was thy true and faithful servant. Welcome Brother Trost into thy arms. Let him stand by your right side, raise him up on the morning of the first resurrection.”

“Amen,” Miriam murmured.

Grover tried to say the same, but it came out in a shuddering sob. He turned around, but didn’t look at the dead body. “Shouldn’t it have been me praying? Because, you know, I have the priesthood.”

“You’ve done enough,” Miriam said. Her voice was cold enough to freeze the roasting pavement.

“It’s not his fault,” Eliza said.

“Isn’t it? Why is Trost dead, and not Grover? Because Trost was the one shooting the gun, that’s why. I gave clear orders. And this coward—”

“I’m not a coward. I was the one shooting at the end. That was me.”

“But you weren’t at the gun at first, were you? That’s what I told you to do. You only got behind the gun when Trost went down.”

“He
made
me,” Grover said. “I tried to do it, but he pushed me out of the way.”

Miriam got in his face. “You could have stood your ground. How about that? You could have followed the orders that I quite clearly gave you. Trost had a broken arm. What was he going to do, fight you for the gun? Dammit, I gave orders. It was your job to carry them out. You didn’t and now he’s dead.”

Grover stared, his eyes wide, his mouth slack.

Looking back and forth, Eliza suddenly understood. Both Miriam and Trost had calculated the odds. Whoever manned the hunting rifle would be the one to face the sniper with his superior arms, his superior position, and his patience. He was likely to die.

“Grover, you stay here,” Eliza said.

“Wait, where are you going?”

“To check out the hill. Look for clues. I want you to find the horses. That’s your first job. Then cover Brother Trost with stones. If you’re not finished when we get back we’ll help.”

“You won’t leave me, right?”

“Don’t be silly. We’re not going anywhere.” When Grover looked unconvinced, Eliza took his trembling arm and stared into his eyes. “Grover Smoot, we are not going to leave you. I give you my word.”

When the two women were heading back up the highway, Miriam said, “We may as well. He’s no good to us. Now that we’ve lost Trost, the boy will only be a drag.”

“You were going to sacrifice Grover all along, weren’t you?”

“Don’t make this about me,” Miriam said. “If it hadn’t been for Grover, that sniper would be dead. But I couldn’t stand up and expose myself to Grover’s fire, wasting his ammo, blasting away. I said one shot a minute. By the time I got up, our enemy was galloping down the highway. I didn’t have a chance of hitting him with the pistol. He was too far away.”

“Trost was down,” Eliza said. “Grover panicked. But you didn’t answer my question.”

“No, I did not sacrifice him. Of course that was a risky spot. That sniper had his gun set up and he was waiting for his chance. Grover wasn’t the only one in danger. How about when we came out of the culvert and crossed open ground? And then I made a run for the hill. I wasn’t asking Grover or anyone to take a risk that I wouldn’t take myself.”

“Fair enough,” Eliza said. “But it wasn’t because of Trost’s broken arm that you wanted Grover at the rifle.”

“You are right.”

“I thought so.”

“Broken arm or no, Trost was worth ten Grover Smoots. He was a better shot, calmer in a crisis. Better head on his shoulders. And what about navigating in the real world? You know what Grover told me when Kemp dumped us off the bus? Grover said it was his first time out of the Blister Creek Valley since he was thirteen. Five years ago. Never left the valley in five
years.
”

“That’s hard to believe,” Eliza said.

“I’m not the one who said it.”

“So you figured he was expendable.”

“Nobody is expendable,” Miriam said in an irritated tone. “But you tell me who we can more easily spare. Is it the former police officer who keeps his head in a crisis? Or is it the naïve, panicky kid? But hey, if you think Trost and Grover are more or less interchangeable, that’s fine with me. Keep telling yourself that. Maybe it will make you feel better.”

Eliza was ready to snap. She pulled ahead so she wouldn’t say anything she’d regret later. The women left the highway. They kept their guns at the ready in case the sniper had decided to double back and retake his position. He had not. They made it to the top of the hill without incident.

“Right here,” Miriam said. “This is where he was dug in.”

The digging was quite literal. Using a spade or shovel, he’d excavated the dirt and rocks and sagebrush roots to the right of the knob to make a body-shaped indentation that would shield him from the road. If not for that lucky glint of sunlight off his scope, they’d have never spotted him.

Eliza thought of Trost and the awful way his fingers had grabbed at the dirt while blood and brains gushed out of his skull.

Two empty cans of chicken noodle soup lay to one side. There was a Ziploc bag that smelled like beef jerky, plus two apple cores, munched so deeply into the core that practically all that was left was seeds. An empty plastic water bottle.

Miriam picked up a shell casing and pocketed it. She lay in the indentation with Eliza’s rifle to sight it north along the highway, as if she were the sniper.

“He had a decent shot,” she said. “Could have taken it earlier if he hadn’t been waiting for us to get out from cover. He was greedy—he wanted to kill us all.”

Eliza took back the rifle when Miriam stood up again. “It was a lot of work to dig that hole. How long do you figure he was here?”

“Not long. A day, maybe.” Miriam walked around, then pointed to a smoothed area in the ground. “Here’s where he put his bedroll. I’m guessing he arrived yesterday afternoon. No sign of a fire. Must have eaten his dinner cold. Maybe in the morning he got up and dug himself a little bunker. Yes, I think so. See how the dug-up ground is still clumped from residual moisture? It’s in the shade, but it wouldn’t take long to turn dry in this heat. He dug it today.”

“So his timing was perfect,” Eliza said. “And he got in position to attack the road to the north—the open desert—not south toward Las Vegas. Most traffic—if there is such a thing anymore—would come from that direction.”

“That’s about how I see it, yeah.”

“You think he was looking for us in particular?” Eliza asked.

Miriam found another shell casing. She held it up against the dying light, frowned, then fished the other casing out of her pocket. She handed them over to Eliza. “What do you think?”

The sniper had etched letters into the brass bullet casings: “Christianson I” for the first. “Christianson II” for the second.

“What do you bet that he also has bullets that say Christianson III and IV?” Miriam said.

“I don’t understand.”

“Someone is hunting us.”

“I get that part. Why? Who?”

“He’s military or former military and is comfortable with a sniper rifle like an M24 or M40.” Miriam took the casings back. “These etched shells are just the sort of thing a sniper does while waiting for his prey. And he knew how to pick his spot. He was patient. Waited to get a good shot on Trost, and wasn’t distracted when we ran from the culvert.”

“He might not have seen us come out,” Eliza said. “He might have been staring down the scope the whole time.”

“Which also speaks to his discipline. But I think he did see us. He waited, took one shot, then ran for his horses, which must have been waiting right down there.” Miriam pointed down the gentler slope on the south side of the hillock. “He was already in the saddle and galloping away by the time Grover stopped shooting.”

“That means he was both hoping to gun us all down on the flats and preparing to run away at the same time,” Eliza said. “He’s not fearless.”

“No, and he makes mistakes. He left these shells. And don’t forget the glint you spotted off the sniper scope. Nice catch, by the way.”

“That was pure luck.”

“You were paying attention. He was not. If he had been, he’d have thought better about the angle of the sun. I’m no sniper, but I did some training in the FBI, and I can tell you that as important as it is to be a good shot, choosing your sniping position is even more critical. He did almost everything right, but not quite.”

“He was good enough to escape,” Eliza said. “And Trost is still dead.”

“There’s nothing we can do about Trost. But we can bring this son of Satan to justice. And by that, I mean put a bullet in him.”

“Forget that. I have no intention of playing cat-and-mouse games. Or looking for revenge. We’re three hundred miles from L.A. We have no food, we’re almost out of ammo. Our horses are scattered.”

“And?”

“And our job hasn’t changed. We’re on a mission to rescue Steve, not run around the desert killing people. So let’s stay focused on that, and on getting home with him.”

“I want to get home too, Liz.”

“Are you sure? I’m not convinced.”

“Of course I do. My baby is back there, my husband. And my job is to stand by Jacob’s side and protect him. Protect our valley.”

Eliza softened at this, particularly the part about Miriam’s baby. But she was still on edge over everything that Miriam had said and done, actions that had contributed to the tragedy of their dead friend.

“Let’s get this on the table,” Eliza said. “Grover is not expendable. He wasn’t before, and he certainly isn’t now. People are not equations. You don’t tally them up and decide who is more important and who can be tossed aside.”

Miriam didn’t respond.

“Either everyone matters,” Eliza added, “or nobody matters.”

“Even gentiles? Even men trying to kill us?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Let me ask you this,” Miriam said. “Jacob planned to send you with Lillian and Stephen Paul. Was he or was he not calculating when he made that decision?”

“He was calculating,” Eliza admitted.

“He wouldn’t send me because of the baby. He wouldn’t send himself because he has to lead Blister Creek. He wouldn’t have sent Sister Charity because she’s old and afraid. He wouldn’t have sent Elder Smoot because he doesn’t trust the man.”

“We didn’t have the luxury to choose. And anyway, I’m not Jacob.”

“You fought my decision-making in the mountains and in Cedar City. Fine, I gave in, because you agreed that when it came time to fight I’d be in charge. So now it’s time to fight and you’re arguing. What is it, what do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. I want Trost to still be alive.”

“That’s not my doing, and it’s not yours. It was the sniper’s fault, but more than that, it was the will of the Lord. We can’t change it. We can only adjust.”

Everything Miriam said made sense, but it didn’t ease Eliza’s dejection as they made their way back to where Grover was stacking stones on Trost’s body. Surprisingly, he had managed to retrieve all four horses. He said they’d been frightened and he’d coaxed them to his side with a soothing voice. He’d tied them to clumps of sagebrush while he worked.

Unfortunately, Trost’s horse had taken a bullet to the shoulder. Under normal circumstances, it was hardly a fatal wound. It was hobbling, it had lost blood, but it was alive. What the horse needed was a veterinary surgeon to remove the bullet and sew up the wound, then a week or two of recovery time like any injured person or animal. But that was impossible here.

After they finished covering Trost, Eliza came over to where the horse sat on its quarters. She rubbed its trembling neck. It was weak; it could neither handle the road nor survive being turned loose in the desert. Time to make the call.

Why now? Why can’t I wait until morning?

Too many blows, too much turmoil. The problem would be the same in the morning, and then she’d have more strength to do what needed to be done.

But that wasn’t fair either. Leave the horse suffering all night? No.

Miriam came over to her side. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but it will solve the food problem.”

“You’re right. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Let me do it,” Grover said. “I’ve put down an injured horse before.”

“No, Grover,” Eliza said. “My father said that if you have to do something hard, be man enough—well,
woman
enough—to do it yourself. Don’t force someone else to do your dirty work.”

“I want to, though. I need to do it.”

She looked him over. His face was earnest. His motives came into focus. Grover wasn’t much good in battle, he had a tender sensibility at a time when the world demanded ruthlessness, but he could do his duty without flinching.

At last she nodded. “Get my rifle.”

“We can’t spare the bullet,” Miriam said. “It will have to be with the knife.”

Eliza closed her eyes and put her hand on her forehead. It was too much to bear. And yet Miriam was right. They had two rifle shells left and one more bullet in the pistol.

The horse was weaker than she thought, and didn’t struggle as they tied its hooves together with the reins. Miriam led the three able-bodied animals down the highway and around the rock where the two women had taken refuge earlier.