Phoenix settled atop the counter, brushing a few empty wrappers and dust from the top. He rested the Judge on his chest and settled into a deep sleep while Sinclair patiently stood at the door. About an hour later, Phoenix woke, stood, pissed in a corner and strolled past Sinclair.
“Let’s hope those lazy bastards are done by now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Phoenix found Larry returning from the bridge.
“Just comin’ to find ya,” said Larry.
“The bridge clear yet?
“Not quite. Close. Being cleared as quick as we can.”
“Not quick enough.”
Phoenix turned and headed toward his truck. He needed a fresh cigar and decided to wait there, as good a place as any. Settled in and leaning back with the door open, he heard the men atop the ramp yelling orders, clearing the bridge. Absently, he rubbed his crotch a few times, angry at not bringing at least a few of the newer young girls on the mission, for ‘moral support’ for him and his men. His thoughts drifted quickly to the young girl supplied to him by Luke at the mill. She certainly was a feisty one. Too bad she’d tried to run away on wobbly legs. Mentally kicking himself, he’d forgotten the important lessons learned during his short war with Erie and the eventual conquest. Brutal men needed sexual release to maintain control. His men were getting a bit edgy in the heat. But, shifting focus, he studied the sweat dripping from the dirty face of Larry Reed, who had followed him to the truck.
“Where’s progress now exactly, Uncle?”
“We’re ’bout three quarters of the way clear.”
“And where, pray tell… are the Twenty-first, Eleventh, and Fourteenth brigades at this time?”
“Still traveling with Luke.”
“I know that! Where are they located, exactly?”
“They’ve sifted through the city from the north since mid-morning. They’re on the Liberty Bridge. Town side.”
“You’re fuckin’ sure we’re still on Connor MacMillen’s trail?”
“Quite possibly, yes.”
“And he and that Rat Pack team of his are the same people that hid out at the mill?”
“Yeah. Luke’s sure of it. The horses make tracking ’em easy, he says.”
”Where they hell’s my update?”
“Luke’s set to provide an update on channel twelve in ten minutes.”
“Good. Bring me up to speed, ya hear? I’m gonna take a look myself to see what the fuck’s going on up there. Maybe motivate the men.”
“Yeah. But, you might, ah, be safer back here.”
“C’mon, unc, you worried ’bout me?”
“Nah, but I’d rather you sit back and let the men get it done.”
“Uh, huh. But maybe I don’t give a fuck right now.”
“Your call—”
“Damn right it’s my call. Alright. I’ll sit tight. Let me know.”
“Thank you.”
“Grab a beer or two for your walk back. You’re sweating like a pig, uncle.”
“Ah, yeah, that I am.”
Phoenix exited the truck, too irritated to stay inside. He looked into the truck bed as Larry dropped the tailgate and snatched two bottles from one of the last fifteen cases of homemade beer. Larry grabbed a third bottle and held it out. Phoenix stared.
“What?”
“Take one ya bastard. Or is it too early in the day for you?”
Phoenix took the beer and turned toward his driver and guard. He took a moment to study Sinclair, who was coming around from the front of the vehicle, and Titmouse, staring out the windshield with his hands on the wheel.
“You two sad fucks, grab a few beers while you wait.”
“Yes sir,” said Titmouse. He popped open the driver’s door and headed back to the tailgate.
“Sir?” asked the guard, “I’ll pass. I’m still on duty.”
“Sin, if I need you, you’ll do just fine with three or four beers in ya. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Besides, I got Larry. See? Relax. Have a beer. I don’t like to drink alone.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Ridin’ with me today would drive any man to want a drink.”
“That’s probably true,” said Larry. Smiling, he made his way to the bridge to check on the progress of the log-sups.
SECTION 8: A Hellfire, Tailshaft Bearing and Secret Cache
CHAPTER 8.1-Travel at 2550 Feet Per Second
“Target acquired. That scout is ex-military or advance recon from back in the day. Moves pretty good.”
“I see him, Surf Boy. Yeah, the one in the green shirt and black pants near the Jersey barriers?”
“Yeah.”
“Take ’im.”
The shot rang out before Connor finished the last word. Peering through binoculars, he watched the man drop hard on the concrete. The man’s chest exploded in a bright blossom of red on green.
“Chose targets at will.”
Marty fired four more shots, expertly operating the bolt of the M40A1. Each completed shot triggered a shift in target acquisition focus so smooth and unparalleled that it seemed as if each shot was already a predetermined event. Connor watched each man crumple to the ground while the rest of the men scrambled back down the onramp.
“Impressive.” At this first true display of Marty’s prowess, Connor acknowledged the remarkable skill and training involved in making each shot. Clearly, Marty was all that he’d suggested he was, though there was never really any doubt.
“Thank you.”
“Go, go! To the West End Bridge!”
In one fluid motion, Marty slipped a new magazine into the M40A1 after blowing off imaginary dust. Carefully, he glassed the bridge with his riflescope and settled into target acquisition mode. BB served as spotter, providing range, windage and target selection updates.
“See that tubby man with the bandana? I think he’s running the bridge clearing operation. How about him, Mac?” asked Marty.
Connor studied the man wearing an orange and brown bandana. “Got ’em. Yeah, near the overturned rig. He’s definitely running the show.”
BB shifted to the overturned rig and began range and windage updates. “Take him, Surf Boy.”
“Hold on.”
“What?”
Marty shifted from the riflescope and grabbed his binoculars. “I see an older man coming on the bridge walkin’ towards him.”
“What about ’im?” asked Connor.
“Ahh, I think I might’ve seen that older guy,” said Marty, “Yeah, yeah! He was part of the assault on the Hall of Fame.”
“No kidding?”
“In fact, I think he was leading some of it when all hell broke loose.”
“Huh.”
“I’m almost certain I took a shot at the bastard. Musta missed.”
“Make amends.”
“Copy that, sir.” Marty settled the Leopold scope reticule onto the nose of the man. Listening to his spotter for real-time data, he made adjustments to his shot.
BB took his time to confirm tactical parameters. “Range: 1042 yards. Windage: four mph southwest.”
“Copy.”
BB continued. “Target stationary. He’s settlin’ down on the truck fender. Hold! He’s movin’ again. At the bridge edge. Stationary. You got the shot. You got the shot…”
“Copy.”
“It’d be a heckuva shot, Surf Boy,” said Connor
“Mac, just watch and learn.”
Marty pulled the trigger and the 7.62mm caliber bullet travelled at a muzzle velocity of 2550 feet per second.
CHAPTER 8.2-Dodging a Bullet
“How much longer until you’re done up here?” asked Larry Reed. He handed a beer to Henry Bristol, log-sup supervisor, and sat down atop the fender. Patiently, he waited for Henry to crack open his beer and fill him in.