The Jared Chronicles | Book 4 | The Devil's Bastion, page 22
part #4 of The Jared Chronicles Series
When the VW was fifty yards down the driveway, John whirled his mount and spurred it to the corner of the barn, where he pulled the animal to a halt, staring north into the night with his NVG. Jared pulled his own mount to a stop next to John, using his own goggles to search the landscape for any sign Carnegie was reacting to their late-night exit. When after two minutes, nothing could be seen moving in the green glow of the goggles’ tubes, both men returned to where Stephani, Raul and Carlos were waiting.
Raul wore a shotgun slung across his back while Carlos possessed a pistol held in a holster strapped to his waist. Jared didn’t give the men’s weapons much thought, but John sure did. It would have been better if the men embraced weapons with a longer reach, in John’s opinion, but neither man was comfortable with anything other than what they carried. John, Jared and Stephani all carried Colt AR-style rifles capable of ranges to and sometimes past five hundred yards.
Carlos’s pistol in John’s hands was a fifty-yard weapon on a good day, while the shotgun Raul carried was more suited for a gunfight held inside a phonebooth. Well, it was what it was, thought John, again spurring his horse forward in trail of the retreating VW. The group of riders moved at brisk trot down the driveway until they reached the road, at which time they turned left and continued the same pace up Mines Road, the horses’ hooves clopping loudly along the paved road.
Neither Jared nor John were fans of the road they would be traveling on based upon the steep embankment on one side and a cliff on the other, leaving them only two choices if they were contacted. The positive in John’s mind was the road was like a hallway in a structure, it confined an attacking force to the number of men and equipment pieces they could fit on the road, making a superior force’s numbers irrelevant. As they rode, John talked to the other four, telling them his plan in the case they were contacted from the rear.
They would run to a bend in the road, dismount, and fight from the bend. After the initial come together, John would have Jared and Stephani move up the road to the next bend, where they would set up and cover John, Carlos and Raul as they made their way to Jared’s position. It was a simple plan, and John hoped they would not have to put it to the test. The next several minutes were filled with the clatter of the horses’ hooves on the paved roadway and nothing else.
Jared began to breathe easier the farther they went with no indication of being pursued. In order for Carnegie to close the distance on Jared and his friends, the soldiers would require vehicles, which would be heard. Based on what Jared could remember John saying the colonel had in his arsenal, there was no drone for tracking, and the helicopters were gone, helping to further relax Jared’s racing mind.
The five riders rode most of the night, stopping every hour to water the horses and themselves. The trot had been reduced to a walk after the first hour, the horses’ flanks flecked in the white foam of their sweat, gleaming in the moonlight like a thickly lacquered tabletop. Every stop was done off the road, where John set the group into ambush positions with interlocking fields of fire. After the second stop, no one needed telling where to go, instead heading off the road and settling in, depending on the man or woman next to them.
Close to sunrise, the five riders crested a hill, the landscape falling away to their left and right, disappearing into the blackness of the draws, canyons, and valleys. They rode for another few minutes before a ranger’s gate came into view. They’d reached the entrance to Del Valle Reservoir at long last. Wordlessly, Jared reined his mount toward the ranger station with the other four riders in tow. Shannon should be waiting at the first campsite area, where Jared prayed they would all be reunited.
Chapter 20
Carnegie sat at his table, the flaps of his tent lowered, blocking out the world around him. A glass of brown liquor sat half empty on the table not more than a couple of inches from his large hands. For the first time in his life, Carnegie was tired, fatigued to the point of nearly wishing it would all just stop. In his former life he’d gotten breaks from the daily grind of combat operations, not now though. He’d been in the fight every single Goddamn day for nearly a year.
Taking the glass in his hand, Carnegie steeled himself for the hot burn the liquid would provide on its way down his throat. He didn’t really enjoy the burn, but he did love the warmth it provided once it reached his stomach. Whether true or not, Carnegie felt the alcohol slowed his mind down, helping him to make sounder decisions. He swirled the glass, remembering a high school friend who once tried convincing Carnegie the friend was a better driver after having a few drinks. Carnegie hadn’t believed his friend then, but now—who knew.
Pulling the glass to his lips, Carnegie felt the burn, swallowed, and enjoyed the warmth. His enjoyment was destroyed by the sound of excited voices along with movement not normal inside the base camp at this hour. Carnegie was still in full uniform as he stood and replaced the glass in his desk drawer before flipping the tent’s flap to the side and staring out into the night. As a soldier scurried along one of the camp’s many trails, Carnegie called out to the man.
“Soldier.”
The man stopped dead, looking up the slight incline at the colonel’s silhouette outlined in the opening of his candlelit tent. “Sir,” shouted the soldier.
“What’s all the hollering about?” Carnegie barked, getting right to the point.
“Someone down at the target just left in a car, sounded like a VW bug, older model, sir.”
“Find Talley and have him report to me as soon as he’s finished doing whatever the hell he’s doing,” Carnegie ordered, then turned and went back inside the tent, dropping the flap behind himself.
Back inside, Carnegie glanced at the drawer with the booze inside, but decided against it. Well, maybe that was the answer to his high school friend’s declaration. Tonight, he’d drink no more, not at least until they had a handle on things pertaining to the ranch. A few minutes after deciding against any more recreational drinking on Carnegie’s part, Josh’s head popped through the flap.
“Car fired up and left the ranch,” Josh announced, stepping inside the tent. “Not much we could do other than add some people to each post in case they’re trying some bullshit.”
“Where’d they go?” Carnegie asked placidly, the alcohol having made him feel a little mellow for the time being.
Josh heaved his shoulders. “Can’t see that far with the goggles, even tried mating them to my binos, but that didn’t really work. They didn’t come this way though; sounded like they left the ranch and headed south on Mines Road.”
“Any other movement out there?” Carnegie asked, knowing Josh would have already told him if there had been.
“Nope, not that we can tell. I think they’re getting out of Dodge, myself,” Josh mused.
Carnegie thought about how this latest event would affect his strategy and then what tactics he could apply to reacquire his original goal. He wanted two things to come out of this operation, John Buckley’s death and the fifty head of cattle kept by the ranchers. “Bring that Barry guy up here. I want to talk to him—with you present,” Carnegie finally said.
Ten minutes later, Barry was shoved through the tent flap, followed closely by Josh, who grabbed Barry’s shoulder and shoved him roughly into the chair opposite Carnegie.
“I, ah, don’t understand why I’m being treated like this,” Barry blurted out, fear evident in his voice. “I came to you of my own free will, gave you valuable information, and now I’m being treated like a prisoner.”
“I lost a lot of good men and women today because of your friends down at that ranch,” Carnegie started.
“Not my fault,” Barry said, shaking his head. “Not my fault. I told you what they were planning and—”
Before Barry could finish his sentence, Carnegie leaped from his chair, reached across the table with an open hand, and struck Barry in the side of the head. The blow came hard and swift, knocking Barry clean out of his chair and onto the floor. Josh grabbed Barry by the collar and belt, heaving him back into the chair in a flash, giving Barry the slightly dazed feeling that he’d just imagined the whole thing.
Pointing a meaty finger at the shaken Barry, Carnegie admonished him harshly. “Interrupt me again and I will shoot you right here in this tent where I sleep. Josh will drag your body out and dump you in a ravine. I swear this is not a threat.” Carnegie lowered his finger and sat back down.
Barry thought briefly about saying something, then decided his ear already felt like someone was holding a hot iron against it, so he kept his trap shut.
“Now,” Carnegie continued dramatically, “I lost a lot of good men and women today.” The colonel paused, giving Barry the opportunity to kill himself, which he wisely refrained from by remaining silent. “Tonight, it sounds like your friends down there left, and I for one want to know where they would be headed,” Carnegie concluded.
Barry’s head dropped as the colonel finished his inquisition. Carnegie glanced up, giving Josh a curt nod, to which Josh stepped forward and drove the butt of his rifle down into the left side of Barry’s temple. The blow was savage and lightning quick, leaving Barry no time to turn away or otherwise defend himself. The rifle butt nearly cleaved Barry’s ear from the side of his head, but did not knock him from the chair as Carnegie’s slap had done moments prior. Barry grabbed at the already hot ear and felt warm viscous blood flowing down his neck and into his shirt.
Barry hadn’t cried out, the blow hurting so badly, it simply eliminated his ability to breathe. When his hands found the floppy chunk of cartilage hanging much lower than its right-side partner, he groaned audibly. “My ear.” Barry moaned from somewhere in the middle of his throat. “I need a doctor.”
“I’m not asking a second time. You don’t get it, do you? You are a traitor to your own people, the lowest scum on the battlefield. Selfish and self-serving, thinking of only yourself, so if you think I won’t shoot you—” Carnegie reached back and grabbed a mirror, holding it out for Barry to peer into “—take a look at that ear of yours, ’cause, boy, we’re just getting started here,” Carnegie hissed from behind the mirror.
Barry couldn’t help himself from taking a quick look into the gore reflecting back at him in the little mirror Carnegie held. His stomach turned as his mind processed the fact that he wasn’t seeing a picture of some other poor soul’s ear, but was in fact staring at his own destroyed appendage. Barry’s body suddenly convulsed, and he vomited on the floor beside the chair he sat in. What came up was mostly bile since he hadn’t eaten in a day and a half. Barry retched several more times, a mixture of bile and saliva hanging like slime from his mouth as he bent at the waist, trying his best to stop the gut-wrench episode.
Josh had done a lot of violent things to men in his life, but the way he’d just peeled Barry’s ear nearly completely off his head was a new move. He stared at the side of Barry’s head as blood pumped out in rhythm with the man’s heartbeat, wondering what Carnegie would have him do next. Josh hoped he wouldn’t be asked to cut a finger off, that was so cliché, and he wanted no part in cliché. Josh glanced at Carnegie, who just gazed down on the pathetic traitor hunched in the chair, making a mess of his tent at the moment.
Carnegie had seen men in much worse shape, but they’d been far tougher men. This Barry guy had reached a level that took most hardened jihadists days to reach. Weaklings like this guy were part of the reason the world was in the shape it currently found itself. Carnegie tried controlling his breathing as he waited for Barry to return to the here and now so the colonel could continue his question-and-answer session.
Barry’s stomach finished ridding itself of all materials on board, allowing Barry to sit up straight. Coming face-to-face with the devil himself caused Barry to wish for another vomiting fit that never came. “The lake, they’d maybe be going to the lake up the road,” he said with a grimace, his hand holding the broken ear up and in the general area it had previously been attached.
Carnegie’s lips drew tight across his teeth as he leaned back in his chair, studying Barry. “Grab his right hand, Josh,” Carnegie barked suddenly.
Josh snatched Barry’s right hand and pressed it to the tabletop as Carnegie leaned back, opening a drawer in his desk. He withdrew a small .22-caliber pistol from the drawer, stood, and pressed it to the back of Barry’s hand as both Josh’s and Barry’s eyes went wide. Before either Josh or Barry knew it, Carnegie shot Barry through the back of his right hand.
“Let him go, Josh,” Carnegie commanded.
Josh released the wounded hand, permitting Barry to roll out of the chair onto the floor of the tent, curled up in a ball, holding his freshest wound like a man who’d just struck his thumb with a hammer.
Both Carnegie and Josh stood over Barry’s withering form for several seconds before Carnegie jerked his head at Josh, who in turn hauled Barry to his feet for the second time that evening. Barry was going into shock, his limbs shaking while his hand and ear continued to bleed profusely. Barry was finally able to gather himself enough to inspect the wound on his hand, which was slightly powder burned due to the close proximity of the pistol when Carnegie pulled the trigger. The stippling around the wound looked like black polka dots, with the largest hole in the middle representing where the bullet had entered Barry’s doomed hand.
“So, here’s the deal,” Carnegie said, no longer patient enough to wait while this piss-poor excuse for a man worked on pulling himself together. “You are going to walk up that road, find your friends, and come on back here to let me know for sure where they’re at, or”—Carnegie pointed the pistol at Barry’s forehead—“I can end it all right here. Your choice.”
Carnegie turned and sat back down, letting Josh know he was finished with Barry. Josh grabbed Barry and shoved him out of the tent, guiding the man to the west for nearly fifteen minutes before stopping.
“Keep walking, and you’ll come to Mines Road.”
Barry didn’t reply, his brain housing group trying to make sense of what had just happened to him and what was in store for him considering his present condition.
Josh laughed out loud. “You’re the luckiest motherfucker I know, man. I thought for sure the colonel was going to shoot you back there.” Josh chortled before turning to walk back toward the base camp.
Barry stood blinking at Josh’s retreating shadow, wondering what in the hell he was going to do. When Josh was out of sight, Barry turned and stumbled down the grassy slope, heading in the direction of the road. He walked for fifteen minutes before stopping at a barbed-wire fence between himself and Mines Road. Gingerly, Barry slid between two of the strands of wire, struggled across a ditch, and climbed up the opposite side to stand on the edge of Mines Road.
His head was throbbing with what he could only imagine was the cadence of his pulse as Barry staggered south along Mines Road. Barry held his right hand tucked under his left armpit while he used his left and still operational hand to hold his wrecked ear in place. He needed medical supplies, not that he would know how to use any such materials other than wrapping his wounds in gauze.
Thirty minutes later, Barry stood in front of the Thackers’ driveway, working through his conundrum of obeying Carnegie versus taking a slight detour to manage his recently acquired injuries. After much muttering to himself, pacing back and forth, and overall indecision, Barry started up the driveway toward the Thackers’ ranch house. Drawing closer, Barry slowed his pace, not wanting to be shot—for the second time in less than two hours.
The ranch house was dark, not surprising after what Carnegie had told him about everyone leaving. Barry made it all the way to the front of the barn without being challenged, which was beginning to feel odd. The barn door stood fully ajar, which added to the ranch’s irregularities. Barry stood in front of the barn, staring toward the house, wondering if he should go inside and see if anyone was still around.
At last, he turned and groped his way into the darkened interior of the large barn, feeling his way to the worktable.
“Devon?” Barry called out softly.
When no answer came, Barry felt his way to a plastic bin next to the table where he knew a small first aid kit was kept. Finding the bin, he pulled it away from the table, where he could sit and pull items from its interior. Barry found the first aid kit, pulled it out, and opened the plastic container that housed the badly needed medical supplies. Barry somehow accomplished all this using only one hand, all the while holding his ear from flopping about by pressing the side of his head into the top of his shoulder.
The first aid kit didn’t have much in the way of trauma-treatment supplies, but it did have two large rolls of gauze, two small bottles of Saljet saline fluid, and several other items only useful to someone with a skinned knee. With great trepidation, Barry lifted his head from his shoulder, allowing his mangled ear to flop downward. Next, he used a small amount of saline fluid to rinse his hands, which only seemed to thin the viscous fluids that covered his hands and fingers, turning the redness to a pinker color.
The next thing Barry had planned sent his stomach a flutter at the mere thought. Taking the saline fluid and turning his head to one side, exposing the flap of flesh that had not long ago been his intact ear, Barry poured the fluid into, onto, and around the horrific wound. He gasped as the fluid met with the open injury, his breath catching in a guttural sound that seemed more animal than human. When the bottle was empty, Barry remained on his good hand and knees, permitting the blood and saline fluid to drain from his wound.
