Glenn Beck - The Eye of Moloch

Since the accident that had nearly taken her life, she’d seen enough sunsets through her failing eyes to recognize the delicate transition to twilight. That moment when the last gleaming arc of the sun has passed just below the horizon had finally arrived.

“I have an answer for you.” She pulled the cap from the marker and then, by feel, drew a thick diagonal line across the paper from the bottom right to the upper left corner and then down again, upper right to lower left from the other side. Still seated, with the large X complete she unclipped the sheet and held it up high and away, facing flat to the window, and said, “Nobody move.”

For several endless seconds they all seemed dumbfounded; neither George Pierce nor any of his men behind her breathed a word.

And then there were three sounds at once, each distinct but simultaneous. A clink from the window, a solid rap on the wood of the bookshelf on the opposite wall, and a sharp flutter of the paper that she held high in her hand, as though someone had flicked it with a finger.

As she turned the sheet toward the man across the desk, just before the distant echoing sound of a rifle shot had arrived, she didn’t need to see it to know what was there. A clean bullet hole, precisely through the cross of the X.

As she’d ordered them, nobody moved, and no one knew better than George Lincoln Rockwell Pierce who the next round would find if anyone acted against her.

“You’d asked about Hollis earlier,” Molly said.

“Do you really expect to get out of here alive?” Pierce hissed. He’d denied hating anyone just before, but his voice now seemed to tell a different tale.

“Cody, go !” she shouted.

The instant her hand gripped his harness the dog rose and leaped toward the door with a snarl so fierce that men far braver than these would have jumped back and cleared his way. A crash of shattered glass and a bloom of bright yellow heat erupted high in the corner as Hollis’s second shot blew the oil lamp there into an indoor wildfire, instantly out of control. Hands clutched at her as she flew from the room at a full run behind the dog, and she heard the sounds of her people overpowering their guard and then following her through a maze of stairs and hallways that seemed to go on forever.

But Cody knew the way. He burst through the last flimsy screen door with Molly and the others on his heels, and they were suddenly outside in the cool clean air, running and running toward the shelter of the forested hills, with gunshots soon sounding far ahead and from behind.

Chapter 4

A bullet whumped into the turf twenty-odd yards to Hollis’s side, distant enough to tell the shooter hadn’t yet drawn a solid bead on his position, but still far too close for comfort. A sensible man would’ve grabbed his gear and lit off for the high tree line, but self-preservation wasn’t the first thing on his mind.

Through the scope he saw a knot of nine tiny figures stumble through the lower-level door of the lodge, coming on at a run, led by a familiar young woman and her loping guide dog. Two in the back were supporting a hobbled man between them, and their burdened gait would set the pace for all the others. To his unaided eye the considerable distance made their progress toward freedom look painfully slow.

A man with a raised handgun emerged from the same porch-lit exit, firing rapidly but wildly off into the dusk. With a quick, deliberate shift of his aim Hollis took him out cleanly, then worked the bolt and heeled it home to shoot again into the center mass of a second gunman, who’d appeared just behind the first.

He scanned the unfolding situation as he chambered the last round in the well. There would shortly be many more where those two came from. Without a serious diversion this fight would soon take an unsurvivable turn.

The fire he’d started in the second story was only dimly visible; the wide, clear window he’d shot through before was hazed over like a shower door, no longer transparent. Safety glass. Edge to edge the pane was a brittle mosaic of a million cracks, but the shattered glaze was still holding its fragile integrity.

He eased his crosshairs to the bottom corner of the frame and took the shot. At impact a fist-sized ragged hole punched through there, the weakened window sagged, and then it buckled and collapsed in a sudden waterfall of glassy pebbles.

A rush of coal-black smoke and bright curling flames burst forth to meet the backdraft as the wind whipped in to feed the combustion. In seconds the enlivened inferno had spread to threaten the roof above and the unfinished balcony beyond.

That should do it; vengeance may be sweet but a four-alarm house fire in the wilderness trumps all other urgencies. All hands would be recalled to give up the chase and haul water to extinguish the spreading blaze.

All of them, that is, but three.

It was already half-past time to go. He stole a last look at the progress of the escapees; they were well on their way with no visible pursuit. As his thoughts finally turned to saving his own skin an extended volley of automatic gunfire tore up the ground around him on either side. He rolled and with a single sweep of his arm threw off his camouflage of underbrush and snagged his half-buried long duffel, then he crawled into the clear and headed out for the cover uphill. Crouched low, cutting right and left in no steady pattern, tracers hissing like hailstones through the canopy of trees ahead—in the unlikely event that he made it, these would surely be among the longest fifty yards he’d ever run.

• • •

A trio of sentries on their home field, presumably military-trained and well armed for their job, against a solitary man with a bolt-action deer rifle—on its face that scenario should grant unbeatable odds to the superior force. This is what they must have thought as they came for him, because they didn’t do what they should have done. They didn’t work their hunt as a unit, and with that rash oversight their tactical squad of three was diminished to one lone opponent at a time.

The moment he’d found a secluded spot to lay over, Hollis had traded out his Remington for weapons more suited to close work. A simple Springfield .45 was tucked into his belt in back. Slung over a shoulder was his old 12-bore semi-auto, loaded up with heavy rifled slugs. The rest of his gear was hidden in the brush for later retrieval, if such an opportunity should come.

The first one made it as easy as a kill can ever be.

With the sun fully set and no moonlight to speak of, the man hadn’t paused to allow his eyes or his methods to adjust to the gathering night. He broached the woods at the last known position of his enemy and strode in fast and loud, sweeping the terrain with a barrel-mounted flashlight on his weapon, firing at anything that moved and many things that did not. Though his meandering search finally brought him just a stone’s throw away, he never did see the man he came looking for. A single shot through the chest put him down, and then there were two.

The second was harder, and only a stroke of chance saved Thom Hollis from an early, shallow grave.

He’d taken up a cramped but hidden perch in the gnarled lower branches of a nearby cottonwood, on the premise that the earlier noise of combat might draw the others to the scene of their partner’s demise. He was correct in predicting the response, but dead wrong on the approach.

From the only narrow angle of view where Hollis had no cover at all—that was the unlikely direction from which the second man had come. Quiet as doom he’d stolen up close, his target not yet sighted.