Glenn Beck - The Eye of Moloch

When he reached her left leg he flinched back and called the others nearer so they could see. One lifted her skirt and bent to feel the prosthesis, seemingly fascinated, starting at the ankle and continuing upward until he found bare skin. Others joined in and she endured all the pawing until the hooting, leering men were finally called back to order.

They left a couple of their mob to free their unconscious compatriots in the back and to check over the shrink-wrapped cargo. Two more were assigned to lift the hood and get the truck started, refueled, and ready to depart for the border. The rest led her back to the house. The pace was slowed due to her exaggerated limp but despite a few pokes in the back and some mockery they didn’t seem too awfully hurried. As far as they knew, time was still on their side.

From the snippets of conversation she caught it was clear they were now faced with a conundrum. They’d obviously planned to immediately head south for home with their loot while delaying the authorities in fake negotiations for a turnover of the hostages, who by that time would already be dead. With the truck temporarily out of commission those plans might have to change.

Inside, the house was filthy and thoroughly defiled from its brief time under siege. Through an archway she saw the remainder of the Dell family clinging together on the floor of the dining room. The mother and the girls had obviously been brutalized; they were clutching their torn and bloodied clothes against their skin, pale faces looking shell-shocked and lifeless as the tomb.

The son, all of maybe twelve or thirteen, had somehow been permitted to live. He made eye contact with Virginia, and as he did she could see his initial confusion pass away and become an understanding.

These men had demanded that their truck be delivered by a civilian known to the family. The photo matched on the ID she’d brought and the name was verifiable to the extent that they might be able to check it. But the boy was already thinking and he was with her all the way; to cement her identification he got to his feet and ran to her and hugged her close.

Virginia Ward had whispered a question in his ear before they were pulled apart and the boy was shoved back toward his place. When he was near to his mother and sisters again he found her eyes, and nodded.

Are you ready to help me? was what she’d asked.

While she still held his gaze she glanced up toward the mantel, where a rack of family rifles were displayed. Under two showpieces hung an off-the-shelf Winchester 94 lever-action, something a father might give to his son on the occasion of his coming of age. She looked back to the boy, and though his expression was dark he nodded once again.

The boss man walked over. The phone in his hand was ringing, and upon double-checking the caller ID he held the device out toward her.

“This will be the authorities,” he said in English. “You will tell them you’re here and that this family is safe and sound, every one of them. Say any more and I’ll have to cut your throat. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.” With that she took the phone, thumbed the talk button, and brought the speaker to her ear.

Meanwhile, right on schedule, a commotion had begun outside.

With all their ham-fisted attempts to restart the truck they’d managed to ignite a small fire at the fuel pump under the hood. In truth, of course, their efforts weren’t really to blame; an automated sequence of electronics and incendiaries was controlling every step of the unfolding diversion.

Amid a lot of yelling and mounting confusion among the pandilleros she heard the creak of a garden faucet turning and the hose being dragged from its reel, but it wouldn’t be nearly long enough to reach. The exasperated ringleader left her with the phone and herded nearly every one of his crew outside to try to bring the now-urgent situation with the truck under control.

Virginia heard one of her own men on the other end of the call and she repeated the words as she’d been told, loud enough so all nearby could hear them. The caller asked a coded question. She took one last look around the room, and responded: “Yes.”

Before her earlier departure she’d made a satellite call to the base commander of the 162nd Fighter Wing, stationed near Tucson International Airport. The confirmation she’d just given hadn’t really been necessary, she knew; the cavalry was coming regardless, and no one had been certain she’d make it this far. The subtle infrared signature of the truck afire, visible from satellite reconnaissance, had been their agreed-upon go-signal. A trio of F-16s were no doubt already orbiting the area and would have carried out their orders whether or not she and the hostages were still alive.

But just as she’d planned, all hostile attention was focused outside; no one there was expecting any trouble from a timid, crippled woman and a terrorized young boy.

As she’d spoken on the phone Virginia had also made an inventory of the firepower left in the room. Two holstered handguns, a jacked-up AR-15, a ridiculously converted Glock pistol—complete with shoulder stock and a double-canister magazine slung underneath—and then there was first prize: an Atchisson assault shotgun carried by the swaggering leader of the pack.

And that man was still at the open door watching as the truck’s engine fire continued to bloom. The flames suddenly snaked down to a generous puddle of fuel that had dripped to the ground beneath the chassis. He began shouting orders to abandon the failing effort to extinguish the spreading blaze and to unload their valuable cargo while there was still time enough to save it.

“Hey, mister,” Virginia said. She leaned heavily on her cane as she hobbled toward the head man, holding out the phone to him. “They want to talk to you.”

From a great distance in the cloudless night a rumble from the sky arrived, just barely sufficient to rattle the standing china in a hallway cabinet. Unlike any variety of natural thunder this deep roll didn’t recede as these final critical seconds crept by; it only grew.

She stopped a few feet away as the leader of the gang turned from the door. She could see his mind working as he stepped toward her, and he’d just begun to reach for the cell phone she offered when he froze, looked her directly in the eyes, and he knew.

Virginia Ward dropped the phone and let her cane fall aside as the man fumbled to ready the shotgun slung over his shoulder. In one practiced motion she moved into him, caught the barrel and pushed it down and away as it discharged, lashed an elbow into his neck as she grabbed the stock, and wrenched it up and under to bring the muzzle beneath his chin. His finger had snapped as it broke from the backward twist but the sting of the fracture would never reach his brain. She pulled the trigger with her thumb and blew his head through the ceiling.

She crouched behind cover just as a wild reaction shot rang out from the corner. With her weapon now free she flicked the selector to full-auto, stood quickly, and emptied the 20-round 12-gauge magazine in a four-second semicircular volley of solid buckshot and destruction that ripped through the remaining three inside-men and sent them all cut to pieces to the floor.

“Come on, kid!” she yelled, and Virginia leaped to the fireplace, snatched the racked Winchester from the mantel, and tossed it upright to the boy, who was already running toward her. He caught the rifle, worked the action, and fired through the door to take out a man running toward it, and he continued firing from the hip into the others as fast as he could shift his aim and squeeze the trigger.

Virginia pulled the boy down to relative safety behind her, dropped her empty shotgun, and picked up the AR-15 from the arm of one of the fallen thugs. She’d been hit but couldn’t pause to determine how seriously; the next minute or so would tell.