Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent (27 page)

“Nooooooo!”

Nick quickly moved to his son and laid him gently on the floor. Tearing open the boy’s shirt, he measured the wound with experienced eyes. Nick had seen more than his share of human flesh damaged by piercing lead. He knew immediately his son was in trouble—serious trouble.

The bullet had entered Kevin’s chest two inches right and one inch above his sternum. There was no exit wound. Reaching for his blow out bag, he was momentarily surprised by its absence, quickly recalling they had prepared this morning for a hunting trip, not a combat mission. The medical kit was back at the church, hanging uselessly on his load vest.

The bullet’s entry had left a small blackish-colored hole, about the size of a pencil eraser. A steady stream of blood drained from the wound, but that wasn’t what sent a chill through Nick’s soul. Small pinkish bubbles appeared every time his son took a breath. The lung had been pierced and would soon collapse if Kevin didn’t get some medical care quickly. The other lung would follow shortly after, and his son would basically drown in his own blood.

Nick used the palm of his hand to apply pressure, an automatic reaction drilled into every soldier’s head over and over again to stop the bleeding. As a Special Forcers operator, Nick had received more medical training than the average trooper. He desperately tried to remember the lessons taught so long ago in the humid forests of Fort Bragg and reinforced too many times on the battlefield.

Instead of the cool, business-like demeanor typical of such an elite warrior, Nick struggled to think clearly. The fact that it was his own flesh and blood lying on the floor unhinged him. Instead of a meticulous sorting of medical procedures stored in his mental inventory, a whirling carousel of visions invaded his mind. Images of Kevin’s first steps, a wobbly bicycle ride, and that first jump shot quickly led to remorse.
I missed so much more
, he thought.
I wasn’t there.

Squinting hard from the effort to force the images of fatherhood out and allowing the trained professional back in, it all came flooding back into his conscious.
Seal the wound.

Without his medical kit, he didn’t have the right tools for the job. Nick stood, head pivoting desperately, trying to recall
the courthouse’s layout. He couldn’t remember seeing any first aid kits or other medical supplies anywhere. His instructor’s voice echoed in his head, “Use a rubber glove, plastic wrap, a condom – anything that will cover the wound with an airtight seal.”

Nick rushed to the closest doorway leading off the hall. It was an office, but a quick search produced nothing useful. As he returned to check on Kevin, something caught his eye. Inside the doorway, leading downstairs, was a roll of packing tape hanging on a nail. Fifteen seconds later, Nick wiped the blood clear, pinched the opening closed as best he could
, and applied a long strip of the tape across the opening. He watched anxiously, sighing with relief when no more bubbles appeared. He’d bought his child some time.   

Scooping up the unconscious young man, Nick turned and made for the front door. He glided down three steps, looking up to see several people approaching,
concern displayed in their expressions.

The first woman to arrive gushed
, “I heard the gunshots, how bad is he?”

“I’ll get a cart,” yelled another man.

“I’ll run ahead and warn Deacon Brown you’re coming,” offered another.

Nick didn’t
hear any of it. He paced quickly toward the church, his entire focus on getting help for his son. The desperate father was only a block closer to the sanctuary, when a man pulled up in the golf cart. Somehow, Nick acknowledged the motorized vehicle was faster than walking, and sat on the back of the small transport, holding Kevin like a baby in his massive arms.

By the time they arrived at the compound, word had already spread. Diana met the electric ambulance at the front steps, several of the church’s women standing by to assist. The congregation had been at war with the criminal gang for months, and several of the members had seen their share of gunshot wounds as well. All of them were eager to help the quiet, polite young man.

Nick carried his son into the main building, guided by Diana through a few twists and turns, eventually arriving at the makeshift infirmary. Someone had spread a clean, white sheet over what was probably a cafeteria table, and Nick gently laid his son’s motionless body on the surface.

The still air meant that the advantage of electrical power had dissipated with the quiet evening.
Bright flashlights turned on, all focusing their white beams of light on the wound. Several pairs of experienced eyes scanned the damaged flesh while other hands checked the patient’s pulse, took a blood pressure reading and laid a damp towel on Kevin’s forehead.

One of the older ladies looked up at Nick and
remarked, “Chest wounds are bad, young man. No one here has the skill to remove the bullet that’s still lodged in there. I hate to say it, but we didn’t save very many who were shot in the chest.”

Two of the helpers looked down at the floor, slightly nodding their heads in agreement.

Nick wasn’t ready to accept the death sentence. “Surely there’s something we can do. My training is limited, but enough to keep someone alive until they can be treated by a doctor.”

Diana rested
her hand on Nick’s shoulder. “This is the same dilemma we’ve faced so many times. We don’t have any doctors in Alpha.”

I’m going to save my son
, thought Nick.    

Suddenly Nick’s face brightened, a decision having been made. He turned and looked at Diana, hope in his eyes. “I’m taking him to Meraton. I don’t care if I have to carry him there. Is there any gasoline?”

Diana nodded, “Yes.” She then turned to the caregivers. “Do you think he can survive the trip?”

One of the ladies looked at Kevin, “He’s young and strong. He’s not bleeding much externally. He might survive the trip if you hurry.”

Nick said, “Let’s do it. I can’t let him just lay there and die without trying.”

Diana nodded, asking one of the women rushing out to make preparations. Taking Nick by the arm, Diana led him aside. “What happened?”

Nick relayed the story of seeing the light in the courthouse basement and all that followed. After he had finished, the town’s leader frowned. “There’s nothing down in that basement but old annals. It’s full of property deeds, tax records and notes of town council meetings – that sort of thing. Why would anyone shoot a child over that?”

Nick couldn’t answer the question. “Whatever it was they were after, it was worth killing over. They knew what they were doing—it wasn’t just a couple of bumbling thieves. They blew past Kevin and me like we weren’t even there.”

Diana’s gaze drifted off, thinking of the recent loss of her own son. She placed a hand on each of Nick’s shoulders, embraced him warmly, and peered into his eyes. “We’ll do everything we can for Kevin. After we get back, we can worry about what those men were after.”

Five minutes later, Diana was driving a pickup truck, speeding through the deserted streets of Alpha. In the bed of the truck, Nick was keeping a watchful eye on his son, lying comfortably on a soft mattress of hastily gathered quilts and blankets. 

Bishop’s Ranch

January 1, 201
6

Early New Year’s morning, Bishop set about policing up his decorations from the canyon. While he was sure most of the candles had burned themselves out on Christmas Eve, he wanted to gather up any remaining scraps of wax. Such things still held value at the market.

Halfway through the task, he rounded a large rock formation on the western rim, and stopped cold. Disturbing a loose swath of sand, the clear outline of a boot print stood out like a neon sign on a dark night. Bishop immediately swung the M4 around from his back and moved to the nearest cover. He was
positive he hadn’t walked that way—at least not in recent memory. The wind and rain would cover a print like that in a matter of days; it had to be fresh.

Peering from behind his cover, Bishop meticulously scanned the surrounding rocks and desert. There were a million places someone could be hiding, and he’d never find them. His next step was to mentally retrace his last few movements. Glancing back over his shoulder, Bishop admitted he’d been exposed for more than long enough for someone to have taken a shot and picked him off.
Either they’re gone, or they don’t want to shoot me just this minute,
he thought.

Uneasy with coming out of his hiding place, Bishop’s thoughts were troubling. He knew he wouldn’t hear the gunshot if a sniper was waiting for him. Any rifle used for such activity would fire a supersonic bullet—lead that would slam into his body before the sound waves caught up with the flying death. On the other hand, he couldn’t stay up here until it became
dark. He had to expose himself . . . he had to take the chance.

Cursing his lackadaisical attitude and short-sided holiday spirit, Bishop regretted not donning his body armor that morning. He needed to check the canyon perimeter, but didn’t want to do so unprotected. As he debated the merits of wandering around exposed, one overriding thought caused his head to spin back toward the ranch—Terri.

His wife was asleep down in the camper. He needed to get down there, wake her up, gather up some gear, and then go scout the area. Holding his breath, Bishop moved from behind the rock. Despite his determination to hurry back to Terri, he couldn’t help himself and avoided the direct route, stalking in non-linear lines, and taking advantage of as much cover as he could. It was silly, really. Even a novice-level sniper could pick him off with ease.

After making some progress toward the camper without a bullet tearing into his body, his attitude began to improve. Perhaps the footprint belonged to a wandering passerby. Still, how did any drifter get around his multiple layers of tripwires? Maybe it was from his boot, and he just didn’t remem
ber walking through that area. But he just couldn’t shake the idea that this wasn’t going to be such a Happy New Year, after all.

Verifying the sun’s position wouldn’t reflect off his binoculars, Deke raised the glass to his eye and focused in on Bishop. “He’s found something. He’s hiding behind some rocks, peeking out like a school kid hiding from the neighborhood bully.”

His two partners looked at each other and shrugged, really more interested in the MRE (meal ready to eat) they were consuming than the activities of the target below.

“He’s come out of hiding now. For
sure, he’s onto something. He’s worming his way back to the camper like he’s scared to death. One of you two clowns must have dropped something.”

“Bullshit,” responded Moses. “He probably heard the wind whistle through the canyon and freaked out. Nobody dropped anything.”

“He’s an amateur,” announced Grim. “Those tripwires were so-so, but anybody with any sense wouldn’t hole up in a dead-end box canyon.”

“He sure as shit wasn’t an amateur the other night, was he? Made a fool out of those two at the VOQ.”

Grim chuckled, “Even a blind squirrel gets a nut every now and then, bro. He got lucky. We’ll snatch the woman in a bit and head back.”

“Happy fucking New Year.”