“I can’t and won’t. You are on my ground, on my land, and I don’t want to hurt anyone. Just stop.”
The phone again went dead.
He looked at it for a moment. Then sighed. So be it.
He watched as they approached. Once again, a man out front. Looking down. Looking for tripwires and whatever else might be out of the ordinary. Only this time, there wasn’t a tripwire for him to find. The trucks were bunched up, one of the 6 x 6’s in front and the rest close on its bumper. Clearly, the Counselor was letting someone else take the risk. Interesting.
He watched them approach the culvert, clearly expecting another ambush as they got closer to the stream. Let ’em. There were no tripwires to find, this time. The water from the pond had done its work, making sure that the flats on either side of the stream, normally at this time of the year only 6 inches across and about that deep, were soaked and muddy and impassable on both sides of the culvert. He just hoped the flood hadn’t affected his charges or washed away the wires as it rushed through the culverts.
He debated when. First truck? Last truck? Middle truck? Yep, the middle. He didn’t want to kill anyone, but he had to stop them. Did he really want to blow up a truck full of men? Men who were likely only following Diego Riviera so they could give their wives and children a decent life in the economy that Cali had become. Where no one had enough to eat, or enough electricity or enough water anymore. Did he really want to cross a line and kill these men? So far, he hadn’t and if he could not get out of the state today it might save him. If he killed these men, he would surely be incarcerated… if they caught him. But dammit, he needed his freedom. His son needed his freedom too.
He waited, watching carefully through the monocular, the firing device in his left hand, his right braced on a tree trunk as they approached the culvert. They were spaced a bit farther apart as they came, about 2 lengths between each vehicle. In the lead was a pickup, then the 3 6 x 6’s, then the truck that had carried Diego Riviera last time he’d seen him, all led by the poor point man walking quickly, but looking for wires or other triggers.
He waited as the convoy approached the culvert. Waited, thinking furiously. Did he want to do this? Did he want to cross another line? Was he gonna kill these men? Or should he wait for Diego’s vehicle. How would they react if their leader was dead? Was Diego even in the last pickup? Or had he moved to a different vehicle?
He made his choice.
As the vehicles came to the culvert, he squeezed the safety in his fist and his index finger pulled the trigger hard three times. The charge blew, and destroyed the culverts just before the trucks got there, leaving a five-foot wide trench in the road that was deep enough that even the 6 x 6 wouldn’t be able to traverse it. The pickup in the lead stopped, hard, almost standing on its front tires: two men in the bed hit the back of the cab, hard, one flipping over to slide down the windshield and onto the hood, but the 6 x 6 behind it didn’t stop in time, and the larger truck rammed the smaller one, pushing it forward and into the hole in the road., where it fell, mostly sideways to the road, into the trench and on its side. The following two 6 x 6’s hit the first one from behind and then Riviera’s truck nearly hit them. Everything came to halt and the men in the trucks unassed them and spread out, well back from the vehicles.
He picked up the phone. Dialed.
“Diego?” He said, when Riviera answered.
“Yes, what now?”
“I could just as easily have killed a truck or two and the men inside. I didn’t. Stop here, while you can. Come back tomorrow, you can take whatever you want then.”
“Fuck you, Daniels.”
“Okay, Diego: Watch the second truck.”
“What?”
“Just watch.”
With that, he put the phone down, watched the wind for a moment, picked up his rifle. Four-hundred twenty yards, more or less. Wind slightly from the left.
He worked the bolt and chambered a round. Used his hat as a rest. It wasn’t perfect, but he was improvising here. He looked carefully through the scope, making sure the cab was empty. No time for a mistake… not right now. He aimed for the center of the side window. No time for scope adjustments, either. Have to do it “Kentucky”. His rifle wasn’t on the “approved” list. Nor was it known to the State… until now, that is.
Daniels aimed three feet high and four inches to the right. Gently cradled the trigger with the pad of his index finger. Applied 2. 4 pounds of pressure slowly. The rifle bucked against his shoulder as the sear broke and the firing pin fell on the primer, sending the 168-grain boat-tailed jacketed bullet on its way at 2695 feet-per-second.
About a third of a second later, he saw the driver’s side window of the first 6 x 6 explode into shards and fall into the driver’s seat. He was lucky, and the bullet passed clean though the cab and broke the passenger’s side as well.
It really wasn’t that hard, 400 plus yards, he mused to himself. The window was about 16 x 22 inches, and all he had to do was hit it to break the glass, but it oughta get their attention.
He picked up the phone:
“Diego? Mr. Riviera?”
“Yes, asshole, what do you want?”
“You saw the window? Both of them? That could have been any of your men as well. Five-hundred yards away, my friend. I could have used that shot to kill any one of your men. Or even you. I didn’t. I picked a truck without anyone in it. I chose not to kill anyone. Yet…
I’m serious, Diego. Be smart… Stop for today. I don’t want to hurt you or your men. But I am serious. Just stop. Go away. Next time I won’t be so nice. There are other explosives here, and I know this country like my tongue knows my teeth. I can kill you from up close, or farther away. I can blow you up or shoot you dead: either way, you’ll never see me.
Listen. To. Me: Just stop today.”
With that, he disconnected the call and ran back to the Arctic Cat and drove back to the house.
When he got back to the house, he checked his tablet again. They had tried to pull the pickup from the ditch where it had fallen with a 6x6, but had given up as the pulling had damaged the truck and torn off a wheel. They had also tried to drive the other pickup across the now soaked and muddy flat on the downstream side of where the culvert had been, but had only mired the truck deeply.
He’d created the hour he needed. Probably more. Likely a day’s worth or more until the mud in the streambed dried. Maybe longer. They could hike to the house, but he didn’t think they would. Not since he’d showed ’em he could shoot and that he had a rifle to respect.
He called his son, but no answer. So he texted him: “Go directly to the plane. Acknowledge”. Then he fired up the plane and warmed it again for ten minutes, making sure it would be ready when he needed it, then shut it down again. It had been less than ninety minutes from the time he warmed it up to now.
He heard the helicopter before he saw it. It gave him enough time to push the Beaver back into the hanger and cover the nose with a tarp though. Man, he was getting out of shape. That plane was hard to move, even with the tow-bar hooked to the four-wheeler. Rushing to drape a tarp over the nose had him out of breath.
The helicopter came over the trees, low and fast. He hid under the fuselage, holding still. Seeing one man not moving was hard from the air. Especially when the aircraft was moving fast. It made a high-speed pass over the house and barn, then banked and made another going back the way it had come. Then it turned and went towards Riviera and his men.