Chapter 12: Repercussions

“I borrowed Mr. Axelrod’s measuring wheel to determine my grid size on the wall,” Charity explained. “I squeezed in next to the wall between the scaffold frames and marked each vertical line with chalk.” She touched her bandaged forehead and shuffled over to make more room for her pregnant aunt. Peter and Bradly stood by the foot of the bed while Sue and Kathy sat on either side of the girl with their arms resting on the bed. “He is going to let me use a cool laser to help me mark the grid on the wall.”

She woke several hours after her surgery. Everyone was drifting off in their chairs. Lenna had climbed into the bed with her niece and slumbered beside her. Kathy noticed the change in the room and glanced up to see the girl lifting her head and looking around. Lenna stirred beside her, and her eyes filled with tears at the conscious girl beside her. She hugged her tenderly. “Hey baby girl!” she cried softly. “Welcome back.”

“Mmm...,” she moaned, patting the woman’s arm. “Oww!” she touched her bandaged forehead.

The nurse came in to check on her and promptly called an attending, who arrived and performed a thorough examination before responding favorably to everyone’s questions.

“Max was nickering about the big black secret agent van that pulled up,” she continued. “This pencil-neck dweeb got out of the passenger side and asked me where the nearest open gas station was.” She sighed sadly and teared up, thinking of her dead horse. “I crawled back through the scaffold frame, and Reggie jumped out from the back.” Her voice became angry. “I snatched my rifle from Maximillian’s saddle scabbard and chambered my first round when he pulled a gun and screamed, ‘Kill her!’ to his buddies.”

Peter felt his skin crawl as she recounted the encounter. “I shot Reggie first,” she snarled. “Got him below his left collarbone. Then Pencil-neck squealed like a bitch and dove back into the truck. The driver aimed a pistol at me, so I shot him next. I swear I got him in the face because he disappeared.” She gritted her teeth and rubbed her temple. “Then everyone started shooting at me, and I just ... fired back. I can’t remember when I got knocked down, but they jumped on me and tried to hold my arms behind my back.” She frowned at nothing. “My leg hurt like hell,” she touched the dressing over her gunshot wound. “I swung the Henry like a bat and got Reggie in the face before someone punched me in the throat. I couldn’t breathe for a minute, and they dragged me into the Suburban.” She teared up. “I was so scared I just lost it, kicking, biting, clawing, and screaming.” She leaned against Lenna and sniffed. “I don’t remember anything after that.”

Everyone turned to Pat when she snorted, “Apparently, you had this beauty tucked away. “ She grinned, slipping a plain-looking knife from her belt. The blade measured roughly five inches long, with a handle made of wrapped rawhide. There was no guard, and the keen edge doubled back half the distance from the curved tip.

Charity smiled when she saw it. “Sting,” she announced happily. I made it in the Metal Shop after Mr. Colson confiscated my tomahawk head.”

“Sting?” Bradly chuckled as he examined the knife. It was crafted from an old metal file. He tested the edge and found it very sharp.

“You know...,” she replied off-handedly. “Frodo’s sword ... The Hobbit? Glows near orcs or goblins...” She rolled her eyes at his oblivious shrug.

“Well, you stung them,” Pat added with a devious smile. “Might’ve even killed a few of them.”

“Good!” the injured girl snorted. “I hope Reggie was one of them.”

Peter’s phone buzzed, and he stepped back to answer it.

“We got the other three,” Maggy announced happily. “That beautiful old man shot one dead as they charged his hogan. Reggie Morris and the other accomplice retreated and hid behind a rise. Old Begay kept them pinned until Echo Team arrived and forced their surrender!” He could tell by her tone that she was jubilant. “Brent has all seven surviving members in custody. There are a dozen Bachos present as well.”

Bradly stepped up next to him, and he relayed the news. “I need to get back there,” he stated. “This needs to be handled our way and under the radar.”

Peter nodded and spoke to Maggy, “Can you send the helicopter back here for us? Brad and I need to get back there...” he nodded when Sue lifted her hand. “ ... and Sue as well. Tell him to do his best to treat the injured. I want to talk to each of them.”

“Got it. Standby...” her voice faded for several seconds. “The chopper will be airborne in three minutes and there in twelve.”

“Thank you,” he replied, “And Mags?”

“Yes, Cher?”

“You did really good on this one, babe!” He hung up and turned to see Charity and her two mama bears looking back at him.

“You’re heading back?” Kathy asked worriedly.

He nodded, “Pat and her team will stay here to ensure your safety. The situation seems over for now,” he replied. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her deeply. He had to lean over Charity to kiss Lenna, who remained in bed alongside the girl.

“Eww!” the teenager griped before accepting a gentle peck on the cheek from him. She turned to her father and spoke to him in Native. Lenna frowned at her and gave her cousin the stink eye.

“It will be as you say,” the tall trader replied firmly before bumping fists with his daughter.

“What?” Kathy asked guardedly.

“I think they have decided a fitting fate for the mutts who tried to harm us,” Peter replied curiously. He still hadn’t grasped the language enough to converse in it.

Charity shrugged off her aunt’s dark glare and stuck her tongue out in response. “It’s an Apache thing, you wouldn’t understand.”

It was a long, bumpy ride in the dark. There was no road that Peter could discern, but that didn’t deter the grim-faced Bacho, who drove the derelict Jeep along the rugged track. Beside him, Bradly took up most of the back seat, pressing the smaller man inside the hard metal frame behind the driver. One of Brent’s team rode shotgun and occasionally cupped his mouth to speak into his comms over the noise of the old motor.

Peter knew they were traveling north and west beyond the plain where Old Begay lived. They crossed several washes and followed another before climbing out of the dark ravine and onto another steppe. Even Bradly admitted he knew little about the area their guide was taking them except it was beyond the reach of ‘nosy folks’ and off the beaten path.

“We’re twelve mikes out, sir,” the security man said. He was younger and in his mid-twenties but carried himself with the same confidence and attentiveness as the others. He even brought a thermos of rich black coffee, but Peter couldn’t enjoy it in the back seat of the bumping and lurching vehicle.

Eight minutes later, the Jeep descended sharply, skirting a deep arroyo. Seeing more than a few yards ahead was impossible in the pitch-blackness. How the Indian knew to avoid the chasm beside them was beyond Peter. Then they rounded a sharp wall, and he saw lights ahead. It was a wide wash, with several other vehicles parked randomly about the flattened base and a—

“We could’ve flown here?” he demanded, waving at the Blackhawk silhouette nearby.

“Sorry, sir,” the security guard, Mike Jenkins, replied. “It was loaded down with eight prisoners. There was no room.”

So those fuckers rode in comfort! He thought dourly. While we get the shit knocked out of us. His thought was interrupted by a derisive snort from the big man beside him.

“Don’t be a pussy,” Brad chuckled.

As they approached, he noticed the other four vehicles arranged in a semi-circle so their headlights illuminated a broad area of the flattened wash. When their driver parked, he saw a row of innocuous-looking boulders lined up on the ... He realized, with a start, that the boulders were not rocks—but human heads. He turned and regarded the tall trader with raised eyebrows.

“It’s one of our old ways of dealing with enemies,” he replied, grabbing the thermos and opening his door to climb out.

As he approached the group of security personnel near the helicopter, the four men stood and faced him respectfully. Brent nodded in greeting and pointed with a gloved hand. “Interesting people you live with, sir,” he replied calmly. “I questioned each of them extensively but couldn’t glean much of importance.”

“I was hoping to talk with them myself,” Peter grumbled.

The former Army officer ran a gloved hand through his short-cropped hair and nodded. “Very good, sir.” He turned and stepped toward the grisly arrangement.

Peter was stunned, “Wait! They’re alive?” he exclaimed, rushing after the mercenary.

“Yessir, for the most part,” Brent replied.

As they stepped closer, he saw it was true. Each man had been buried in the wash’s compact dirt, with only their heads protruding. Most faces were bloodied and covered with dirt and filth.

“Holy shit!” he breathed, turning to Bradly at the rear. “Remind me never to piss you off!”

The tall Apache elder snorted as he filled the thermos cup, “Too late for that pale face.”

“Which one’s Reggie?”

“Far end,” the bodyguard replied, stepping past the prisoners until he stopped before a man blinking up at them with one swollen shut eye. He couldn’t see through the headlights’ glare.

Peter knelt before the trapped man. “Hello, Reggie,” he stated calmly.

“Who ... who the ... fuck ... are you?” the man gasped, struggling to breathe with the dirt pressing against his chest.

“I’m the man who saved Lenna from your psychotic clutches last time,” he replied. “Why would you consider coming back for her again?”

“Fuck you!” the escaped convict shot back.

“That was eloquent,” Peter mused, gripping the man’s face and pressing his thumb against the swollen eyelid. “Let’s try again. How did you arrange your escape with these men?”

Reggie’s predictable “Fuck y...!” was lost in a sudden shriek of agony as Peter’s thumb stabbed into his injured eye. The swollen lids parted as he pressed his nail against the man’s eyeball.

“I’ll give you one more chance, Reggie. I’m patient to a fault, but you’ve exceeded that.” He released his pressure and let the helpless man sob for several seconds. “Again, how did these men arrange your escape?”

“FUCK YOU!”

Peter sighed and stood up, shaking his head. Rage coursed through him, thinking of what could have happened if the crazed fool had succeeded. He braced himself and kicked the prisoner in the face with his titanium foot, shattering his teeth and maxilla and cutting off his defiant scream.

“This one done died,” a gravelly voice announced nearby.

Peter turned and saw a native man pulling back a fistful of hair attached to a nearby prisoner’s skull. The man was gazing blankly forward with his mouth open. Peter’s stomach flipped when the Apache produced a long knife and began slicing the dead man’s scalp, peeling it back from his face.

“Oh Jesus!” he balked, turning away.

“Sorry, sir,” Brent said as they returned the helo. Several Bachos moved to the prisoners and unsheathed knives. “I interrogated them too hard. Most refused to answer, while others jabbered in French or Corsican ... I sent the videos to Ms. Desormeaux. I think she speaks French.”

Peter nodded. He felt a chill as the night erupted in terrified screams while the merciless Indians systematically butchered the prisoners. Each had their scalps sliced back, exposing their skulls. Two bald prisoners were additionally sliced about the face and had their ears removed. The bloody flesh flaps were left attached to the wretches—their wails and screams were a dystopic symphony of hellish misery that echoed through the night. Peter tried to calm his nerves, determined to maintain his resolve to punish his enemy with the same lack of mercy they showed him.

Sooner than expected, the gruesome task was done, and the natives dispersed back to their vehicles. He looked around and recognized similar expressions from his security personnel, who observed the event with mixed emotions.

“Well, that was fucking horrible,” he muttered, accepting a cup of black coffee from the unmoved trader. “What’s next?”

Bradly snorted derisively as the first vehicles departed. Behind them came a high-pitched whine as the Blackhawk spooled up its engines. “Next comes the truly horrible part,” he replied as he climbed aboard the chopper and held out a hand for his friend. His voice got louder as he shouted over the noise of the machine. “But we will spare you that part since it will take the rest of the night for the coyotes to clean up our mess.”

Peter felt his color drain as he realized the prisoners weren’t scalped just as punishment—but as bloody bait for nocturnal scavengers. He handed the coffee back, feeling nauseous. “I’m gonna be sick,” he groaned.

“More for me,” Bradly grunted calmly as he sipped the bitter drink.

A compact digital video camera on a tripod quietly bore witness to the eight trapped and defeated prisoners(six alive) awaiting their fate. Occasional moans or despairing cries escaped the barely conscious. Buried to their chins, they had a limited viewpoint in the near-pitch darkness. If they could see, they’d note several curious and hungry nocturnal scavengers drawn to the wash by the scent of blood and their pitiful sounds.