The Uvalde Raider by Ben English (great books for teens TXT) 📕

The dust plumes were just around a low-lying rise now, and then a tan three-quarter ton Suburban came into view. It did not take much longer to confirm the Suburban was not alone, two other vehicles followed close behind. The one in the middle was a light green crew cab Ford one-ton with a camper shell. Bringing up the rear was another Suburban much like the first, save this one was white in color. Micah did not recognize any of them and he knew most every vehicle in the county.

In actuality the little caravan might have passed for a survey crew or some oil field hands, at least at first glance. However, near constant experience with both sorts afforded Micah a more discerning eye. Though all three bore the ever-present layer of dust typical to West Texas caliche roads, none reflected the use as well as abuse by someone who drove those roads daily.

There were no dents, dings or scrape marks on the vehicles from bump gates, mesquite branches or a rock thrown up at speed. Their bumpers were not pockmarked or bent, and none displayed the almost prerequisite heavy duty grill guards so popular in this part of the country. These were vehicles from a more semi-urban environment, far too clean and unmarked by the rugged life required of their type on a ranch or in the oil patch.

All three slowed as they approached, not so much in being unsure of what they were doing, rather than not being in any particular hurry to get it done. Micah also noted the vehicles had darkly tinted windows so that no one could see what was inside, or how many occupants there might be. Within his own thoughts, his misgivings continued to mount.

When they were about a hundred feet away the three swung out beside each other and came to a stop. Ezekiel glanced at his nephew and said, "Well, I guess we had better find out what they want." Behind them, Max had stopped working on the Messerschmitt and was cleaning his hands on a red rag, watching.

Micah and Tio Zeke had just started forward when doors began opening. Several men, armed with Kalashnikov-style assault rifles, sprang out and trained their weapons on the two Templars as well as Max. They shouted orders in a guttural manner, yelling in a language that Micah did not understand and at first could not place.

With the sudden display of armed men pointing guns their direction, both Ezekiel and Micah froze. Max abruptly stopped wiping his hands, the rag dropping from his fingers and landing on the tarmac. The three of them stared into the muzzles of those rifles held by the uninvited guests, and the heretofore normal movement of time slammed hard to a dead stop.

Micah's mind was racing wildly, searching for options. His Dodge Ramcharger and its available firepower were too far away to do him any good. From where he stood there was no available cover in moving quickly to, even if he had been armed. Beyond that would have been the less than desirable outcome of trying to take on multiple Kalashnikov-toting opponents in a standup gunfight, with nothing more than a six-shot Smith & Wesson.

Ignominiously, they had been taken completely by surprise and in the absolutely worst tactical position one could ever put themselves into. Micah felt the sickening taste of helplessness churn in the pit of his stomach and slowly, ever so slowly, he and Ezekiel began to raise their arms.

“Easy, easy now fellows," implored the elder Templar in a soft, calming drawl. He placed his outstretched hands before him in an unmistakable sign of submission. "Let's not do anything rash."

Micah was not sure if his uncle was speaking to the heavily armed newcomers, or to he and Max. Perhaps Tio Zeke’s soothing words were more for the benefit of all present. Considering the circumstances, it seemed like good advice for everyone.

The interlopers continued to bark out commands and motion aggressively with their weapons. To the casual observer, their general physical appearance would make one suppose they were Mexican nationals. But their language was definitely not Spanish in any dialect, and Micah was still trying to come up with a possible fit to whatever language they were speaking.

Then it dawned on him. Their words sounded very much like some sort of Arabic. Micah cut his eyes over to Tio Zeke who responded in turn. Without a word spoken between them, he sensed that his uncle had already decided the same.

The men were fairly young, in their late twenties or perhaps right at thirty years of age. The weapons they carried appeared mostly to be different variants of the Soviet Kalashnikov AK47. Micah picked up on this almost immediately, as he was more than familiar with the Communist bloc assault rifle owing to his combat tours in Vietnam.

With a rising curiosity replacing the immediate shock of surprise, he further noted these men were dressed in a style of clothing usually worn by illegal immigrants trying to enter from Mexico. To complete this effect, each man was dark headed and with a matching complexion, and each scowled ominously at the highway patrolman and his two companions.

A previously unopened door on the lead Suburban swung wide and another young man stepped out amid the others. There was no doubt he was the leader of this group, he carried himself with the air of authority and appeared to be in complete control of himself as well as those around him. Somewhat lighter in skin color than his fellows but of a slightly taller stature, the man’s features were well-defined and proportioned. Even in his shabby clothes many would have said he possessed a somewhat handsome appearance.

With active, highly intelligent eyes, he