Copperheads - 12 by Joe Nobody Page A

few steps to realize the boat was aground – stuck in the mud at the lake’s edge. As his boot splashed into the shallow water, he watched as Butter and Kevin put their backs into the massive hull, straining to push her out into deeper water while Grim gunned the engines for all they were worth.
    The boat didn’t budge.
    A few seconds later, Bishop joined his men, muscles straining with gritted teeth as he threw his weight into the struggle to free their ride home.
    A bullet propelled a geyser of water skyward beside Kevin’s leg, another forcing shards of fiberglass into Bishop’s cheek as the pursuers caught up.
    Terri proved her gumption yet again, grabbing her rifle and returning fire in order to buy them time. Again and again, her weapon gave the chasing villagers something to think about.
    She heard Grim’s yell before she actually felt the boat move, for a moment thinking the old timer had taken a bullet. It quickly dawned, however, that he was shouting in celebration as the houseboat lurched backward, free from the mire.
    Dropping her rifle, Terri rushed for the steps leading down to the deck. She was there when Kevin came splashing around the hull, extending a hand for help climbing aboard.
    Next came Butter, the big kid grinning as his boot found the bottom rung of the swim ladder.
    For a moment, Terri’s heart stopped when Bishop didn’t appear. Grim had stopped applying power, but the huge vessel’s momentum was now forcing it away from the shore. Where was Bishop?
    More bullets now peppered the water, a few cracking into the boat with heavy thumps and whacks. Still no Bishop.
    She was turning to scream for help when a small wave of water rolled from the surface, drenching her above the waist. Behind the mini-tsunami were her husband’s smiling face and cupped hands.
    After pulling him aboard and finding no wounds, a fleeting sense of anger overrode her relief. “What was that all about, big boy? I am worried sick about you and you spout out of the water and splash me like we had just been playing ‘Marco Polo’ in the city pool?”
    The SAINT team leader flashed her a boyish grin and replied, “I always thought you’d look hot as hell in a wet T-shirt. Now seemed like as good a time as any to test that theory.”

Chapter 4
    The nightmare tormented her.
    She was on the verandah, feet gently pushing to keep the old swing in motion. It wasn’t a conscious effort, more of a habit she’d developed since she had been old enough to climb onto the faded, white slats of painted pine and grip the lengths of chain that suspended the prized perch. Her toes barely touched the ground, such was her youth.
    Air conditioning was unheard of at the time in Central Mexico. The sway of the porch swing was often the only place where a little girl could feel the cooling brush of air against her cheek. It was a refuge of sorts, providing sanctuary no matter how suffocating the blanket of hot, thick air inside the hacienda.
    The view from the swing was inspiring.
    Rolling green hills of neatly planted rows stood and fell for as far as the eye could see, creating a patchwork of emerald, jade, and mantis.
    From a very early age, she had understood that the colors represented security, wealth, and privilege. Avocados, limes, peppers, and maize created the hues, all of which would soon morph into a more profitable shade of green – money.
    People in brightly dyed shirts and wide-brimmed, white straw hats shared the countryside. Their tiny, ant-sized bodies moving here and there, sometimes harvesting, sometimes planting, always engaged in the chores demanded by her father’s agricultural empire.
    Little Bella Dona watched it all, rocking back and forth, enjoying the breeze against her skin. The landscape felt well-worn and comfortable, a scene relatively unchanged for almost a hundred years.
    The tranquil vision of her dream blurred momentarily, the passage of time reaffirmed by her feet now easily reaching the worn planks