Callsign: Bishop (Erik Somers) (Chesspocalypse #5)

Seeing the rifle strapped to the four-wheeler reminded him that he hadn’t secured a weapon yet. He turned to CJ. “Have something with a trigger and bullets for me?”


“Of course,” CJ said. He turned back to the plane and stuck his head into the cabin. After a few minutes rooting around behind the passenger seats, he produced a large black suitcase and a pair of green, military-style backpacks. “One of the benefits of flying an ugly, beat up plane,” he said. “No one ever bothers to search it.” He set the suitcase and the packs on the ground and opened the case, showing Bishop the contents.

Inside were four pistols. A Desert Eagle .357, two Sig Sauer P220, and a matte, black Beretta .380 Cheetah with an improvised laser sight. Beside each gun was a pair of extra clips, all loaded. CJ reached in and grabbed the Beretta, then tucked it into the rear waistband of his pants.

“This one’s mine,” he said. He grabbed the two clips and put them in his front pocket.

Bishop looked at the suitcase. He grabbed one of the Sigs, checked the safety, and tucked it into his waistband. Then he grabbed the two extra clips, along with the two clips from the second Sig, and shoved all four into his pockets.

“Think you’ll need that much ammunition?” CJ asked.

“You’re aware of the kind of weapon I normally carry?” Bishop said.

CJ laughed and closed the suitcase. Bishop was well known for carrying large, chain-fed machine guns that could level an army. The Sigs were pellet guns in comparison. “Fair enough,” CJ said, then put the suitcase back on the plane. He handed one of the backpacks to Bishop and slung the second over his shoulder.

“Pretty standard stuff in there,” CJ said. “Canteen, matches, MREs, that sort of thing. Plenty of room for more if you need any samples.”

Bishop nodded, then put his arms through the straps.

“What about Ilias?” he asked.

“He’s got his rifle. That’s all he needs. Right Ilias?”

Ilias nodded, then showed Bishop his right hand. It shook with a mild palsy, and Bishop understood. The old man would never be able to aim a pistol properly, but he could brace a rifle against something—a four-wheeler, perhaps—and still be an effective shot. Although it limited his availability in a crisis. Still, looking at Ilias with his wrinkled skin and rheumy eyes, Bishop wasn’t sure how much use the old man would be in a firefight, anyway.

“All right, then,” Bishop said, swinging a leg over one of the bikes. “Let’s go.”

Together, the three men sped south over the dry, unforgiving terrain.

***

Massai and Ahmad sat in the rear of the Bell 206 LongRanger, while the pilot—a grumpy, middle aged Iraqi refugee named Devan—flew on in silence. The two men had been forced by limited aircraft and time constraints to secure a private aircraft for this trip, and Devan had been the first available pilot they found. They’d interrupted his lunch, and he complained loudly about it until Massai, in a moment of weakness, had allowed the man to see his pistol. After that, the pilot wisely kept quiet.

It was all a bluff. Massai couldn’t harm the man. Neither he nor Ahmad knew how to fly a helicopter, and they were flying over the desert. Even after they landed, they would still need to get back. Hopefully they would have Somers with them when they did.

The desert passed below the blue and tan charter helicopter at a rapid pace, but to Massai it seemed they were barely moving. Joker and Somers could already be there, and who knew what reinforcements they could have accumulated in the interim? Probably none yet, but CJ would find allies soon enough, and Massai had only Ahmad and a reluctant, grumpy pilot.

He leaned forward and poked his head between the two front seats. “Is this the fastest you can go?” he asked.

“We are already traveling at 220 kilometers per hour,” Devan replied.

“Can we go faster?”

“I am sorry, but this is as fast as the helicopter goes.”

Massai grunted, then sat back in his seat. “220 kilometers per hour. They are probably in Joker’s plane already, and they have a large head start. We should have waited for the Sikorsky.” Shahid’s sleek black Sikorsky S70—the civilian version of the famed Blackhawk—could fly at speeds of over 350 kp/h. They would have had no trouble catching up to Joker and Somers in that, but there was no time to get it here. Shahid had promised to send it to Hassi as soon as he could, along with the pilot and the mounted minigun, which would have proven very useful if Joker had any of his friends with him.