Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent (28 page)

Rushing to the camper, Bishop was relieved to find Terri deep in la-la land and undisturbed. Her reaction to being rousted so early in the morning wasn’t positive.

“Bishop,” she yawned, “Why are you waking me up at the crack of dawn on New Year’s Day? Don’t you know by now people have hangovers? There’s no football on today either. Go back to sleep, anxious boy.”

“I found a footprint up on the canyon wall, and I don’t think it was Kris Kringle. I also don’t bel
ieve it’s one of ours. I need you to wake up, be alert, and carry your pistol. I’m going to check it out.”

“What? You found a footprint? How is there a footprint on the canyon wall? Isn’t that solid rock?” Terri, convinced her slumber-logic had solved the mystery, rolled over, and pulled the covers over her head.

“Terri, I’m serious.”

“Bishop, you’re paranoid,” sounded the muffled voice from under the bedroll.

“I seem to recall your saying that exact same thing a few nights ago at Fort Bliss. You remember, the night someone broke into our room and shot at our bed?”

He had a point. Terri sighed loudly, throwing back the warm blankets and rubbing her eyes. She grumbled, “My pistol is over there in the top drawer. I have to visit the powder room.”

Bishop retrieved her 9mm as Terri padded by. While he waited on his wife, Bishop checked the weapon’s condition. There was a round in the chamber, and the weapon was well oiled and spotless.

Upon returning, Terri stretched and
conceded, “Okay, Bishop. What do you want me to do, and more importantly, what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to load up and go search for other sign
s. Maybe I’ll run into our new stalker . . . maybe I’ll figure out it
was me
after all. Until I get back, I need you to be vigilant and armed.”

“Okay, Bishop. Be careful. I’ll stay in here or in the cave. Signal me when you’re coming back in.”

Bishop strode to the Bat Cave casually—just in case there was a stalker nearby. The stone walled room wasn’t really a cave at all, merely a deep recession in the canyon face created by years of erosion. Before society had taken a nosedive off the edge, he’d mounted a heavy steel door into the bedrock to create a secured space about the size of a two-car garage.

The
Bat Cave was their storage room and Fort Knox. Heavy locks and thick, stone walls made the perfect place for Bishop to store his weapons, ammunition, and other equipment carried with them on the bug out from Houston. When the ranch had been used merely for a hunting retreat, he’d still kept spare tools and other assorted items locked away inside the rock room. Those supplies had been a godsend now that the ranch was their full-time residence.

Along one wall rested several metal lockboxes full of gold
, property of the town of Meraton. After the harrowing journey across a Texas landscape ruled by anarchy, Bishop and Terri had arrived in the tiny West Texas town to find it occupied by a gang of bank robbers. Eventually, the couple had helped the townsfolk overcome the thieves. Now the gold was hidden here in the cave so as not to draw every desperado for 100 miles into Meraton.

Entering the
cavity, Bishop closed the door behind him and secured the heavy latch. This wasn’t his usual routine. Normally, he appreciated the airflow allowed by the open entrance. Today was different—today, he didn’t want anyone sneaking up on him. He immediately set about putting together his gear. Load vest, ammunition pouches, magazines, night vision, body armor, and an assortment of other equipment were assembled on the smooth, stone floor.

As he worked, Bishop glanced over at the gold, its presence reopening a quandary that had been bothering him since he’d seen the footprint. How did anyone find the ranch?

Only five people knew where his spread was located, and he doubted two of those could find it again. The colonel had been here, along with his grandson, but that had been after a dramatic plane crash, and he doubted that they had noted landmarks on the way in.

Pete, the sort-of mayor of Meraton, had a map in his safe, emergency instructions in case the town needed help. Bishop grunted, sure his friend would die before giving up the location. In reality, he could say the same for
the colonel.

So how had anyone found my ranch?

Bishop resigned to having to wait for an answer, so he pushed the mystery to the back of his mind and finished loading for the scouting expedition. With 40 pounds of ammo, weapons, body armor, and gear on his back, Bishop exited the Bat Cave on the sly. Instead of walking out into the open area of the canyon as usual, he skulked off the opposite direction.

The steep, igneous
walls rose over 20 feet vertically at this end of the canyon. The floor narrowed here, almost at the dead end of the box. Bishop hugged the rock face, knowing this route would obscure all but a few points where anyone hiding above could observe his movements. It wasn’t foolproof, as anyone on the east rim could detect him, but the path did reduce some risk. The footprint, however, had been on the west rim, and he hoped if any stalker was out there, he had stayed on that side.

Behind
a sheet of reddish-gray granite, Bishop moved into what was essentially a deluxe-sized crack in the wall. It wasn’t easy, but he knew from his boyhood days it was just wide enough to climb to the plateau above. This had always been part of the plan for an emergency escape route.

With the heavy load, climbing through the narrow gap proved to be more difficult than he remembered. Foot and handholds were sharp cuts in the stone or the edge of fallen rock. If the ascent had been any more than 20 feet, he wouldn’t have attempted it with
the weight and bulk of all of this gear.

After 15 minutes of grunting and cursing, Bishop’s head appeared at the top, slowly peeking out like a prairie dog
popping out of his burrow. The exit point wasn’t visible from most angles, large boulders and mounds of sandstone blocking it from observation.

Staying low as he crawled out of the crevice, Bishop slinked to a nearby outcropping and peered over the top.
If I had the ranch under surveillance, where would I hide?

The terrain to the west rose into a staircase of rolling, barren foothills, eventually cresting at Crosby’s Peak some five miles away. The vista from Bishop’s position was misleading, the land appearing gradual in its climb, almost featureless. Bishop knew that wasn’t the case. Sheer drops, boulder fields, sharply defined valleys, and finger canyons existed between his position and the 6,000-foot high mountain in the distance. Practically void of vegetation or discernible feature, the great distances involved were deceiving, painting a picture of calm, gently undulating landscape. In truth, it
concealed some of the harshest hiking trials in the state.

If I were trying to scout the ranch, where would I be?

There was one foothill, higher than the rest and slightly south, that Bishop thought would provide the best angle. He had brought along his big rifle, an AR10 with a 24-x scope. The .308 was heavy, longer, and more cumbersome than his M4, but in the desert, he felt like the extra range it provided was well worth it. He slowly raised the weapon and braced it on the rock he was hiding behind. Focusing the optic, he began a slow, detailed search of the area.

While it was nearly impossible to judge the angle, Bishop believed anyone spying on the ranch would have to mount the crest of the distant hill to obtain the best vantage. He concentrated his visual along the very top of the knoll, slowly moving from rock to cactus to mound, looking for anything out of the
ordinary. It was a slow process examining every detail, trying desperately to keep his imagination from seeing things that weren’t there.

The three men finished up the last of their box-feast and began readying equipment. The plan was simple enough, they would surprise and overwhelm Bishop and take Terri back with them. If she re
sisted, each man carried a Taser in his kit that would subdue even the most voracious wildcat.

While reports of Bishop’s escapades during the coup attempt hadn’t escaped their attention, there was little concern among the team.
After the crew had reviewed Bishop’s military records, they were all convinced he was hardly at their level of combat skill or training. The rancher below was deserving of caution perhaps, but no more of an obstacle than what they routinely overcame. Their prey was also well beyond his prime - a serious consideration by men who believed peak physical conditioning was a critical element in this sort of operation. Confidence was high that their superior numbers, training, and conditioning would crush any resistance in short order.

Deke whipped his hand in a tight
, circular revving motion, a signal it was time to mount up and get moving.

Grim was ready
. “’Bout time we got out of this shithole landscape. I like trees and water. This place is as bad as Iraq, maybe worse.”

Moses concurred, “Yeah, let’s go get this over with. I’ve got better things to do.”

Moving out at an aggressive pace, the team proceeded down the slope toward Bishop’s ranch.

Bishop was thinking the search was a waste of time. There was too much territory to cover
, and what he was looking for might not even exist. He persuaded himself that checking out the footprint was the smart thing to do. There was a chance it was his, maybe even Terri’s.

He was picking up the rifle when movement on the downslope of the hill caught his eye. He immediately returned
to the scope’s eyepiece, scanning for a moment until he found them.

Three men came into view, all dressed in neutral browns and tan. They wore bush hats, load vests, and packs, and carried what appeared to be three different models of battle rifles. Bishop watched with keen interest as the men progressed, their confidence and economy of movement were obvious even through the tiny glass portal of the riflescope. These weren’t drifters or random hunters—the men in his sights were professionals, and they were headed directly toward Terri and the ranch.

A million questions flooded Bishop’s thoughts. The approaching team was well over 1,000 yards away, out of range. Should he move to intercept them? Who and why would anyone dedicate such a highly trained resource to his ranch? Should he beat it back to the camper and warn Terri, or should he engage them as far away as possible? Should he and Terri just hide in the hills?

The rifle he carried was a tool for long-range engagement, not
“close in” fighting. Its magazines didn’t hold as many rounds, and the optics weren’t right for close-in battle. He monitored their progress for a little longer, trying to judge how long he had before they reached his property. He determined he didn’t have time to change equipment; he’d have to “run with what he brung.”