The Alpha Chronicles (32 page)

Young, strong
, and feeling invincible, Bishop had hated the workouts. His poor attitude and lack of effort during the drills had resulted in a scolding from one of the senior men. “You think you’re fucking superman. You’re walking around with this cocky-shit frame of mind that you’ll never get hit. Let me tell you, son, that’s a bullshit, short-sighted mindset. Shit happens on the battlefield. If you lose a hand or arm, you become a liability for not only yourself, but the team that has to protect your sorry ass. Learn to use that weapon one-handed, boy, or I won’t let you work with my squad.”

Invincible or not, Bishop went along. While he found there was no way a one-armed shooter could aim and control a weapon with the same proficiency
as with both limbs, with work a man could put rounds down range.

Those lesson
s all came flooding back, as Bishop reached for the rifle.

Charging the weapon requir
ed squeezing it between his knees – not a graceful process, but a round made it into the chamber. Flicking off the safety was easy.

Again rolling right, he managed to
raise the rifle to his shoulder one-handed. Sighting through the optic was difficult until he braced the weapon against the tree. He started pulling the trigger.

Decades of training had to be thrown out the window. There was no way he could center the dot on a target, let alone hold it there long enough to squeeze the trigger. Without his left hand providing a fulcrum for the weight of the weapon, the small
circle bounced, weaved, and jumped anywhere but on target.

But it didn’t matter. He wasn’t trying to put down the attackers – he only wanted to keep them away
. Bishop concentrated on maintaining the shots on a horizontal plane with his adversaries. Recoil was extremely difficult to manage one handed – barrel travel completely beyond his control. Still, round after round left the M4’s muzzle, the 68-grain hollow points booming supersonic at 3600 feet per second.

Spray and pray
, went through his mind as he continued to pump hot lead at the three men as fast as he could pull the trigger.

And Bishop could pull a trigger.

Two rounds a second slammed into the junk cars, sidewalks, light poles and tree trunks the hunters used for cover. Sparks flew, metal protested, and the air crackled with snapping death. 

The men advancing on his position realized the difference between the pistol and rifle
bullets. They all knew their target’s sidearm was useless at more than 50 meters. The rifle, even with unsteady aim, was a different story. It didn’t matter if the round impacted three feet away. If the lead slammed into the ground where a man was about to step, he hesitated before lifting his boot. It a bullet tore into a car fender and spewed shrapnel right past a man’s head, he thought twice before exposing his face.

Even the mere chance of
being hit by Bishop’s seemingly inaccurate fire slowed their advance. Caution took time, and that’s all Bishop was hoping for – buying time until help could arrive.

Firing two rounds a second bought Bishop 15 seconds
, and then his bolt locked back – the rifle empty.

Ejecting the
vacant magazine wasn’t hard. Fishing the full mag from his back pocket was clumsy.

He flipped the weapon upside down, and while holding the hot barrel between his boo
ts, shoved the full box of pain pills home. He turned the weapon right side up and punched the bolt-release, relieved when a round seated in the chamber – he was back in business. “You’re a beautiful girl,” he whispered to the rifle.

He poked his head around the tree and saw exactly what he expected –
the enemy had utilized the time for a reload and was trying to advance.

Up came the barrel and back went the trigger, over and
over and over again.

They had only managed
to travel two blocks from their hideout when Mitchell noticed movement at the front of the church.

T
here he was - the man they’d been hunting. Mitchell’s relief was short-lived, his stomach flipping when their target climbed aboard the golf cart.
Shit
, the deserter thought,
he’s going to get away.

When
Bishop had pulled out and turned directly at them, Mitchell began yelling at his team, hastily ordering them to reposition for an ambush.

Mitchell
had fired the warning shots at Bishop’s ride, hoping the man would surrender or give up. The guy’s reflexes were good, his choice of cover a lucky break.

S
haking his head in disgust at both his team and the luck of the man they were hunting, he had waved his men forward to press their advantage. The three pistol shots had been worthless bullshit.

When the
rifle rounds began snapping over their heads, the former sergeant knew it was a different story.

The first half-block wasn’t
so difficult. Enough cover existed that it didn’t take a war hero to move forward. That situation soon changed, however. Suddenly, Mitchell and his men were looking at 75 meters of open ground between them and the target. Even a bad shot like the guy hiding behind the tree could do some damage if they tried to rush.

“Pull back!” he shouted. “Every fucking rifle in this town is probably headed this way by now. Pull back to the rally point.”

Nick was helping Diana work on a priority list for the community when their conversation was interrupted by distant popping noises. The obvious gunshots caused both to pause, both hoping it was someone target practicing or scaring off stray dogs.

Nick’s eyebrows arched when the random pops became a
fusillade of rapid, steady fire. A minute later, the radio squawked with activity. “Nick, Bishop’s been ambushed. I can see he’s still moving but don’t know if he’s hurt. We’re chasing the three guys that jumped him.”

Nick launched down the church steps two at a time and almost ran over Kevin who was standing by the front doors holding his weapon. The father’s first inclination was to hold his son back, but he decided the extra pair of eyes might help.

The two hustled into a cart and soon found Bishop’s parked buggy, complete with bullet holes. Nick spotted a pair of legs sticking out from behind a nearby tree.

Rushing over, Nick was relieved to find his friend’s eyes open. “You okay, man?”

“Yeah… I am hurting from the old wound, but didn’t get any new ones. That lady never said she was married, I swear I didn’t know….”

Nick
laughed, glad Bishop’s cornball sense of humor hadn’t suffered. “If Terri heard you say that, you’d be hurting a lot worse, buddy. Do you want me to take you back to the church?”

“
Naw… just let me rest for a bit. Go find those bushwhacking-fuckwads, and put’em down for me, bro.”

Nick’s radio sounded again. “Nick, we’ve chased them to the old Berber house out on West Popular Street. They turned on us and shot Cory.”

“On my way.”

Nick turned to Kevin and said, “Stay here
, and protect Bishop. Help should be coming. If you don’t recognize the responders, warn them off first.”

Kevin nodded and immediately took a knee beside Bishop, h
is head scanning right and left.

The
route to the old Berber place led past the hotel where the contractors were staying. Deke and two of his men were walking down the sidewalk, all three loaded up with a full kit.

“Need a ride?
” Nick asked, pulling up beside them.

“W
e heard the gunfire and thought we’d better see what was happening. Mind if we tag along?”

Nick
said, “We can use all the help we can get.”

Deke, Nick
, and two contractors arrived, the golf cart riding low in the back from the weight of heavy men and their equipment. Deke’s team immediately moved for cover, an old habit developed to stay alive when arriving at a hostile encounter.

Nick found four of his own men huddled in a
ditch, two of them working on Cory’s bleeding leg while the fourth kept watch on a distant house. Joining them behind the embankment, Nick’s first concern was the wounded man. The former Green Beret’s practiced eye scanned the injury and immediately ascertained the patient would make a full recovery. After patting Cory on the shoulder, Nick peered over the crest and asked, “What’s the situation?”

Cory, grimacing in pain, motioned with his head, “
We saw them running out this way. No one has lived in the Berber house since before the explosion. I was behind them on the cart, and they turned around and let loose with a bunch of rounds.”

“And…”

“I made it to about 100 yards from the house when they opened fire. I flipped the cart over trying to dodge their shooting. Tony helped me get back.”

Nick glanced up the driveway and saw the black wheels of a golf cart sticking into the air. He moved his focus to the h
ome where the shooters were holed up and sighed. Whoever was in the house had picked a good spot. There was no cover for 150 yards in any direction, only open, barren desert, and patches of random weeds sprinkled with low cactus. The home was of block construction with small windows and shingle roof. He couldn’t detect any movement.

“Deke, what do you think?”

The contractor had been evaluating the property since arriving and answered quickly. “This one’s a bitch. I would go with a standoff if you’re not concerned about the occupants. There’s no way you get close to that place without somebody getting killed.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking. There’s no one in there I give a shit about other than
having a healthy curiosity why they started shooting for no reason.”

Glancing at Deke, Nick pointed to the right. “Any chance your team can make it around and cover the rear? You know once we open up, they’re going to make a run for it.”

“Got it,” was the reply, quickly followed by the three Darkwater men moving out.

Nick turned to his crew and asked how much ammo was on hand. The answer wasn’t good. “Tony, take Cory and get him back to the infirmary so they can do a proper job on that leg. Find Bishop at the church
, and tell him I need to borrow his .308 and all the ammo he can spare.”

A few minutes later Nick’s people had their injured man loaded onto the cart and were speeding back into town.

While he waited, Nick watched the progress of Deke and his two men. Staying over 400 meters away from the home, the trio moved as well as any team he’d ever seen. Bounding from cover to cover, no two men ever moved at the same time, and their order was completely random.
No wonder these guys gave Bishop hell at his ranch,
thought Nick.

The sound of an electric hum and crunching gravel signaled the return of the golf cart, Tony parking the vehicle where it couldn’t be seen from the distant home. Three more of Alpha’s volunteers piled out of the electric ride, the men brandishing weapons and bags of ammunition.

Nick scurried back to meet the newest arrivals, smiling as Tony lifted an AR10 rifle from the seat. “He sent six full magazines, 20 rounds each,” the man reported.

Hefting the rifle, Nick grunted, “I’ve got to hand it to Bishop, the
man has excellent taste in firepower.”