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

the dead terrorist.  He began patting the corpse down, looking for anything of use but especially for a key fitting the ignition of that Chevrolet Suburban. It was a scant chance, and like most scant chances Micah came up with nothing.

His thoughts turned again to Blue Shirt behind that large rock. As the evident leader of this Hezbollah group, Blue Shirt was the most likely to have that ignition key. Thinking of what must be done to confirm that and the risk involved, the highway patrolman sighed deeply. He straightened up, checked his gear, and began moving up the draw once more.

Blue Shirt was the last remaining part of his getting out of here, and needed to be located and dealt with. Also, the Shi’a Lebanese had to have the keys to that Suburban and Micah knew that he was pulling negative numbers in the minutes needed to stop the Raider.

Going up another two hundred yards or so, the Texas lawman left the main draw and entered one of the numerous small fingers leading off to the northwest. Carefully selecting a proper observation spot from cover, Micah moved on cat’s feet to that location and scrutinized the area where Blue Shirt had last been seen.

From his new vantage point he could see the dead terrorist lying at the foot of the boulder, sunlight reflecting off the man’s dropped AK47. More surprisingly, and far more importantly, he could see Blue Shirt in a semi-sitting position, back propped up against the large rock. Micah raised the .30/30, running his left arm through the rifle sling again. But something stopped him and he took the Marlin out of his shoulder for a second look. Blue Shirt was not moving, and that was not the sort of position any man would take to fight from or try to hide in.

Micah raised up slightly to get a better view, his own features blending with the shade from a large live oak tree branching out overhead. No weapon could be seen anywhere around other than the dropped AK in front of the boulder.  There was still no sign of any movement from Blue Shirt himself. The former Marine found himself wishing for those binoculars again, or anything else that would help him observe the immobile Hezbollah leader in greater detail.

But if he was going to get a better look, he was going to have to get a lot closer. Skirting the back of the live oak and the brush around it, Micah picked his way through the undergrowth, pausing every now and then to make certain that Blue Shirt had not changed position. Crisscrossing the terrain between them, the Texan found a spot in the road’s right-of-way where he could cross unseen from the boulder’s location. As he prepared to do so, he doublechecked the dead Lebanese who had been carrying the SVD still lying nearby, as was the scoped rifle. Neither had moved from where they first fell.

Shaking off the lingering pang of guilt for having taken any human life, Micah reset his mind to what he was doing next. He peered searchingly around his position before exposing himself, and crossed the road at a rapid pace to more concealment. From there he began circling, continuing to pause at favorable spots to see if Blue Shirt was still there. He was. Soon enough, Micah had come up on the far side of the unmoving terrorist and was scant yards away.

   From there it was plainly evident why Blue Shirt had not moved. A large part of his right shoulder, torso and right leg was soaked in blood. Looking closer Micah could see the large, gaping wound torn through muscle and bone by the flat-nosed .30 caliber bullet.

The passing chunk of lead had turned just about everything in the man’s right shoulder into a grisly mixture of shattered bone fragments, gristle and pulp. The Arab’s shoulder was beyond useless, its only present worth an oozing testament of probable finality for someone who was perilously close to dying.

The terrorist’s dark eyes shifted about from time to time, slightly out of focus and radiating with agony as well as an attendant deepening shock. His breathing came in uneven gasps and lines of pain crossed his pasty face that mixed with a disoriented expression, all of which combined to give the full definition of a badly injured man. Micah had to give an inner nod to Blue Shirt, most men would not have had the grit to make it this far. The highway patrolman moved in with the Marlin at the ready, making certain that both of Blue Shirt’s hands remained empty and in plain view.

The half-closed eyes of the terrorist continued to wander about aimlessly, a process of an oncoming delirium more than any real sign of alertness. But they opened wide and regained their focus at the distinct sound of the hammer of a Marlin .30-30 coming to full cock. The Hezbollah leader rolled his head slightly to the right, and looked down the gaping muzzle of the same rifle that had ruined his shoulder and killed his men. The hands holding the rifle were rock steady, and the eyes which met his were cold and hard.

“Don’t move a muscle, Mohammed,” Micah growled.

The Hezbollah Lebanese did not understand English but he did understand the obvious warning in the words. More so, even through his all-encompassing clouds of agony, he understood those two cold, hard eyes.

“I ought to kill you right where you sit” the trooper said. “But murdering someone with that kind of hole would bother me some, and I’m still wearing a badge. It’s just not our way.” Micah eased up near the man’s feet, his rifle still aimed squarely in Blue Shirt’s face. “I guess you wouldn’t understand that, would you?”

The Texan scrutinized the shoulder again, and lowered the hammer slowly on the lever action Marlin. “Then again, I might