Take Back Denver Page 8

  McLean was impressed. “You have some military experience? You talk like a tactician.”

  “I did a tour in the Air Force, counter-sniper security team. We learned a lot of lessons in the Sandbox.”

  “Where are you headed now? Back to Pueblo to report?”

  “I was going to find another position and wait it out tonight. See if I can spot any VIP’s, inside or outside the wire. What are you looking for?”

  “I have a friend that’s rumored to be in here, though I haven’t seen him yet. Not that I could get him out. But I’m also generally interested in these guys’ intentions for the region, and the conflict I’ve been hearing about between them and the resistance fighters they’ve been tangling with.”

  “Well, I was going to try a spot on the northeast, with a view of the gate. See who’s coming and going. You in?”

  “Let’s go.”

  The two men bush-whacked through the trees and grass behind the hills until they were northeast of the prison compound, then crawled out through a draw between two rises. There was plenty of cover at a distance from the prison, and they settled down a couple yards from each other for a long watch.

  For three hours, not much stirred in the prison. It was late afternoon, and no one seemed eager to be out in the sun. As the shadows grew long, however, a humvee approached on the dirt road that led from the highway to the valley where the prison was contained. When it arrived at the gate, the soldiers let it through without challenging its driver. McLean craned his neck to push the lenses of his binoculars through the sage brush for a good view.

  A tall soldier with close-cropped gray hair stepped out of the hummer. He was dressed in digital camo like many of the others, but McLean could tell just by his bearing that he was a commanding officer. He couldn’t make out stars or bars on the man’s jacket and wouldn’t have known exactly what to look for anyway, but he was confident the man was a high-ranking leader over the forces in this area. The prison guards clearly recognized and respected the newcomer.

  “General Garritt Maughan,” Bosin whispered. McLean saw that the free scout had pulled a small booklet of field notes from his pocket and had a few photographs tucked between the pages. Bosin tapped one of the photos. “He’s the C.O. of all the troops between here and Kansas City. I think he’s holed up in Cheyenne Mountain. If he’s not with the contingent that went north last night, it must mean that wasn’t a major offensive.”

  The two men watched Maughan as he spoke with the head of the guards. Then he beckoned to someone in the humvee and another man stepped out to join him. He was blonde, greasy, and wore a rumpled gray suit. McLean recognized him instantly.

  “That’s the mayor of Denver!” he whispered to Bosin. “Well, ex-mayor, I imagine. I had a run-in with him just before things went downhill around here. What’s he doing here?”

  The general and the mayor went inside the main prison building, a hundred-foot long corrugated steel shack. Some of the guards entered the prison grounds and went over to a small tent city where the inmates had set up makeshift shelters against the sun and wind. They hauled a thin man wearing the tattered remnants of a police uniform toward the main building where General Maughan and the mayor had stepped out onto a covered porch. McLean refocused his binoculars on the porch, wishing he had a parabolic dish to listen in on the conversation.

  The general asked the cop something, and the mayor chimed in with more questions, but they didn’t seem to like his answers. The mayor pointed threateningly, and told the prison guards to go get someone else. They returned a moment later with a teenage boy from the same area of the tent city. The cop placed a protective arm around the boy’s shoulders, making it obvious they were father and son. The mayor started verbally abusing the two of them almost loud enough for McLean to hear his words, while the general stood with arms folded under a stony face.

  The cop wasn’t telling the general what the mayor wanted him to hear, and the mayor gestured to one of the guards to use his weapon to make the man comply. At a nod from the general, the prison guard nearest the two inmates grabbed the boy and forced him to his knees with the butt of his rifle. The cop began pleading, and the mayor yelled back at him. This time his words echoed unmistakably over the field toward the hiding place of the two watchers. “How… many… are there?”

  The guard aimed the barrel of his weapon at the boy, and the cop broke down entirely. He started blubbering out information as fast as he could. It sickened McLean to watch the scene. Finally, after a soldier standing by had taken note of what the cop was saying, the general waved the prisoners away and went back into the building. The mayor followed, ignoring the broken inmate and his son, and went into the building trying to convince the general of something.

  “Well, I don’t know what they said,” Bosin said, “but the gist of the visit was pretty clear.”

  “That mayor is poison,” McLean replied. “He’s selling out Denver. They’re probably preparing to move in and want to know where to expect resistance.”

  The general walked back out to his humvee and got in. The mayor hurried after him and had barely shut the door before the vehicle took off. McLean and Bosin waited two more hours without seeing any movement around the prison.

  Just as twilight was setting in, a bell rang twice and some of the prisoners got up to approach the porch. One of the guards set a big pot down on a picnic table there and stood back with a truncheon in one hand. The inmates lined up with an assortment of cups and bowls and began helping themselves to the pot, which appeared to contain some kind of soup.

  McLean was starting to think about heading out when he saw a prisoner in line that looked familiar. There were at least a couple hundred prisoners in line and he’d almost missed it. But after observing the movements and profile of the man, he was certain that he was looking at Darren Bailey.

  Chapter 13 : Coming to Blows

  “That’s my guy!” he whispered to Bosin. “He’s the one I came here to find. Looks healthy enough.” Darren had a bushy beard now and he had a slight limp, but as McLean recalled he’d always had the limp. It was probably exacerbated by what he’d been through.

  They watched until darkness fell completely and the prisoners retired to their tents. The prison building wasn’t lit, but the guards had a fire in a barrel on the back porch and they carried lanterns on their patrols around the perimeter. This made it easy to see where they were and keep track of their patterns.

  After observing this for an hour past dark, Bosin got up. “Well, I’ve got what I need for now.”

  “Me too,” McLean answered. “Darren’s family will be glad to hear he’s alive. Let’s bug out.”

  Their egress under cover of darkness was simple, and soon they were back in the hills away from the valley and heading south through the scrub forest. They quickly reached a fork in the small deer trail they were following, one branch leading west and one east. McLean’s camp was hidden in a grove just to the west, from where he could quietly head westward on the long trek back to his ranch. Bosin seemed to want to head south down the hillside.

  “Well, I guess this is where we go Lone Ranger,” McLean said. “It was good meeting you. Maybe we’ll see each other again.”

  Bosin nodded. “It wouldn’t surprise me at all. Sooner or later. And if you do get involved with these fellows in La Junta and Pueblo, you tell them Micah Bosin vouched for you.”

  McLean nodded and trotted off down the deer trail to his camp. Within a few steps he and Bosin had lost sight of each other. The moon had yet to come out, and the night was pitch black.

  As McLean approached the grove he began to look and listen for his horse. The closer he got, the more concerned he became that he hadn’t heard a single snort or whinny. It was still too early for the animal to be sleeping. Had it wandered off? He’d double-checked his knot, but there was always the chance that his equine friend had found a clever way to tear it loose.

  He froze just before entering the little clearing by the tre
e where he’d stashed his gun and bedroll. His rifle was leaning up against a boulder in the middle of the clearing, the spot where he’d rested his back while brewing a cup of tea that morning over a tiny, smokeless fire. But that wasn’t where he’d left it. He would never have been so careless.

  Slowly, silently, he began to back away. Suddenly the sound of distant gunshots rang out, somewhere back in the hills toward the track Bosin had taken.

  A man leaned out of the darkness and aimed a gun at McLean. “Don’t move!”

  McLean turned and darted away, crouching low and throwing himself sideways into a dense patch of oak.

  “Shoot ‘im! Shoot ‘im!” a voice called out behind him, and a shot cracked and ricocheted off a trunk to his left. McLean stumbled and ran into an oak tree, leaving a lump on his forehead, and managed to crawl away several more yards through undergrowth without being shot.

  He felt like an idiot. All his precautions were for nothing. They had his horse, his equipment, and his rifle. Even if he could live through the night, it would be a grim journey back to the ranch with no food, no gun, no horse, and no bedding.

  He scrambled to his feet and hurried through the trees to the edge of the grove, then checked for movement out in the open. Seeing none by the meager starlight, he ran across the open ground and into another clump of woods.

  He still had a folding knife and his handgun, along with a few bits and pieces of kit that he’d had on him for surveillance: his binoculars, a water bottle, a handkerchief, and some small items in his pants pockets. He took out his pistol now and readied it. He was breathing heavily and knew he wouldn’t be able to shoot straight after his frantic escape. He took a moment to steady himself and try to think. Which way should he go? Would they expect him to head west? Should he double back?

  While he still stood there, a patrol of four men with guns came around a clump of trees and spotted him. The moon was just over the horizon now and it added enough illumination to the starlight that he wasn’t so invisible any more. These men were on his left, and the first ones to shoot at him were still behind somewhere. He could only go straight ahead toward a hill, or right into some dense brush. He opted for the brush.

  Another crack rang out and he felt the whip of a bullet streaking by closer than he liked. The sound of crashing footsteps rushing through the woods behind him revealed his first pursuers’ proximity. It was a desperate moment; they were closing in on him, and if there were more in the hills ahead of him, he’d be completely boxed in. His luck had run out.

  Reaching another deer trail that led around the side of a hill to the west, he sprinted. Stealth didn’t matter any more. He could be shot at any moment and needed distance more than anything.

  As he ran, he wondered if Bosin had been killed or captured. If so, it was probably McLean’s fault. His horse must have given away the fact that someone was lurking in the hills around the prison, someone with an outlawed rifle. The patrol that found his camp had probably sent runners to bring reinforcements to flood the hills while a few stayed behind to ambush him. Apparently others had run into Bosin, hence the distant shots.

  Crossing by the mouth of a small draw, he saw a man coming down the ravine toward him. It wasn’t Bosin. The man shouted something at him. McLean ran faster, trying to make some trees on the side of a hill ahead. With this new pursuer on his heels and the rest just behind, though, he knew he wasn’t going to make it. There were probably soldiers all over the area now, and even more forming a cordon at all the entrances into the hill country.

  He needed to take out at least one of his enemies, the nearest one. That would give him a few precious seconds and slow the rest down; no one would be eager to be at the front of the line rushing through the darkness toward someone they knew was armed and ready.

  He looked for a rock or hillock he could get behind for shooting cover. There wasn’t a good one. There was a small ripple in the ground ahead that he could lie in and shoot from, but it wouldn’t provide real cover. If the men at his back got into shooting positions of their own, they’d nail him in the back whenever he tried to rise and keep going. Or just plug him in the face as he lay there.

  Instead of diving for cover he kept running up the hill and reached his gun backward for a few quick shots. He half turned and saw the man who had come down the draw stop and take a bead on him. McLean fired twice while still running, desperate to put the shooter on the defensive. Both two shots went hopelessly high, but out of the corner of his eye he nonetheless saw his pursuer go down.

  Was his luck finally returning? That was impossible. He was sure his shots hadn’t gone anywhere near their target. A second later he realized he’d heard a rifle report from the hilltop above him, almost simultaneous with his own shots. He stopped and crouched, looking back to confirm that his nearest pursuer was down, and then looking up the hill. Who was up there? Could Bosin have come to the rescue with his scoped rifle?

  He saw three dark shapes kneeling behind rocks and fallen trees near the crest of the hill. Two more came into view on the side he was heading toward, and he heard another approaching farther down the draw to his left. Had more Correctionists, boxing him in from the west, just shot their own man? The questions came fast and thick, and he had no answers, so he remained crouching where he was, unwilling to go up the hill into the arms of the shooters there, but pinned down from all other directions as well.

  Expecting any moment to be hit with a bullet, he held his pistol tightly and tried his best to melt into the ground at his feet. He briefly wondered if raising his hands and surrendering would do him any good, but the adrenaline pumping through him wouldn’t allow it. He couldn’t bring himself to loosen his grip on his pistol or say anything at all.

  The shooters on the hill fired again, four-five-six shots in quick succession. McLean flinched, but the muzzle flashes were aimed over his head to the trail behind him. He watched as the other soldiers that had been chasing him scattered. Two went back the way they had come. One got behind a boulder and returned fire, but another hail of gunfire from the hilltop convinced him he didn’t have as good a position as he needed to engage a group of sharpshooters on higher ground. He dived into a copse of trees and disappeared.

  “Friendly?” McLean called out, voice quavering horribly.

  “Bosin, is that you?” one the sharpshooters called back.

  “I’m not Bosin,” McLean replied, relief flooding his system. “But I’ve been with him all afternoon. Are you on his side?”

  Two of the gun-toting figures ahead of him on the hill came toward him and at this closer distance he could see they weren’t wearing uniforms. One was a short woman carrying a hunting crossbow. The other was a large bear of a man with dark paint on his face.

  “I thought Bosin was alone,” the man said. “We were supposed to rendezvous with him at some point. Who are you?”

  “Name’s McLean. I ran into him while scoping out the prison, and we worked together for a while. Then we split up again.”

  The man turned around. “Anybody know a McLean?” He turned back. “Did you escape from the prison or something?”

  Before McLean could answer, another figure came rushing toward him along the side of the hill. It was another woman, taller this time and carrying a rifle, with a black scarf wrapped around her face to hide it from the moonlight. The way she moved was familiar, and when she pulled the cloth down around her neck, McLean recognized her. It was the one woman he most wanted, but least expected to see, in the whole world.

  Carrie paused a few feet from him to verify that her ears and eyes weren’t just giving in to wishful thinking, and then slammed into him with a hug so fierce that he almost went over backwards.

  “Carrie?”

  “McLean!”

  He dropped his pistol on the ground in his shock and gripped Carrie by the shoulders. “Is it really you? What in the world--”

  “I came to find you! Well, to find these guys, but I hoped-- I can’t believe-- oh, McLean!”
She buried her face in his jacket and clung to him desperately.

  “Okay,” the large man, who was Carl Walsh, said, putting up his hands. “I’m going to assume that Carrie is vouching for you, Mr. McLean. Do you need a firearm?”

  McLean stooped and picked up his fallen pistol. “I’ve got this. They took my rifle, and my horse, and my kit.”

  “Our plan was to knock over the prison tonight, hit and run, see what damage we can cause. You with us?”

  McLean nodded. “If Carrie’s with you, I’m with you. How many are you?”

  Carl shrugged. “Enough to give these peckers a run for their money. By the time a coordinated response arrives from Colorado Springs, we’ll be dust in the wind.”

  “That sounds good to me.” McLean turned to Carrie. “Darren Bailey’s in there. If we can get him out--”

  They all heard a coyote howl, curiously loud and close.

  “That’s Bosin!” the short woman said.

  “Bosin! Come in, we’re having a chat with your compatriot here,” Carl called out.

  A few seconds later Micah Bosin emerged from the trees at the bottom of the hill and made his way up to the group.

  “Glad to see you,” McLean said, shaking his hand. “I was afraid I’d messed things up for you really badly.”

  “They tried to get me, but I gave ‘em the slip,” Bosin replied. He nodded at the others. “Carl. Marie.”

  Carl gestured down the hill. “Sounds like you ran into some trouble. Do you have anything to report? We decided to move in early and just find you in the field.”

  Bosin nodded. “Bad move, Carl. The general was here a few hours ago.”

  Carl scowled. “This raid was supposed to be done in his absence. If we hit the prison now, he’ll be after us like a cat on a carp.”

  “Yeah,” Bosin continued, “and while the prison is understaffed and could probably be taken, there are a lot of prisoners and they’re not in too good of shape. If we spring ‘em all now, they’re likely to get rounded up and shot by morning. If we shoot up the place but leave it intact, the general will have it locked down tight next time we come.”