An Excerpt From 'Neither Predator Nor Prey'

We first told you about this novel by Wyoming State Shooting Association President Mark Spungin here.

To recap:

In a time of great economic downturn, the US Senate, in thrall to an evil leftist president, ratifies the UN Global Gun Ban Treaty. Congress passes implementing legislation and an aggressive enforcement effort is launched.

There are those in Wyoming who decide not to comply with the new laws. The old ways suit them just fine, and they are willing to take whatever measures are necessary to preserve their traditional lifestyle.

They have no intention of letting themselves become prey to the predatory treaty enforcers.

This is their story.

Mark now has been so kind as to share this excerpt from the novel; don't forget to order your copy today:

Chapter 13

A roadblock can be as simple as a single policeman pulling his car across a narrow stretch of road. It can also be exceedingly elaborate with permanent fortified structures alongside the road and a substantial movable barrier. During the earliest stages of implementing the new Homeland Security Department's Terrorist and Drug Interdiction Vehicle Inspection Stations, the roadblocks were of a simple and temporary nature.

For any roadblock to be completely effective, it needs to have security, search, and pursuit components. A minimum of two vehicles and at least three, but preferably four, personnel are needed to man it. The first Wyoming roadblock, set up in Carter County, followed this pattern.

Florescent orange colored cones narrowed traffic to one lane while battery-powered portable illuminated signs stated, "All traffic must stop. Slight Delay." The barrier itself sat on a bridge spanning a rapidly flowing forest stream.

There were no side roads for several miles on either side of the bridge roadblock. Visibility was almost a half mile to the south and about half that to the north. A County Sheriff Ford Explorer faced south and a GSA Cherokee, assigned to the Drug Enforcement Agency, pointed north on the opposite side of the bridge. The state highway crossing the bridge was lightly traveled except during shift changes at the area's numerous drilling and work-over rigs.
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The first few days the checkpoint was in operation, eleven drivers, mostly drillers hauling their crews back to town, were cited for having open containers in their vehicles. Anyone familiar with the oil patch knows there is a long-standing tradition of having a drink or two on the drive home after having worked a grueling 8-12 hour shift. This tradition most likely dates back to the beginning of oil-fields themselves. This practice, however, had been outlawed in Wyoming some years previously. Needless to say, it had been for the children.

Neither the drillers, who drove and never drank while doing so, nor their crews, took kindly to the rude stops and searches of their vehicles. The $300 tickets were thought to be no less than highway robbery.

Georgetown is the principle town of Carter County and in its many bars and cafes, irate drilling crews loudly voiced their displeasure. Many were the threats, some quite graphic, made against the roadblock and those who manned it, but idle threats being a staple of oilfield society, local law-enforcement made only casual note of them.

Terry and Mike, oilfield welders, were never heard voicing any threats or talking about the roadblock at all. That topic of conversation they kept completely to themselves.

"You know, Terry, if that roadblock ever got lit up, half the oil patch would be called in for questioning."

"You are nuts on, Mike. You would not believe some of the shit I've been hearing. Yes, you would believe, you've been hearing it, too. What we have here is an opportunity too good to pass up."

Mike smiled broadly. Terry knew his friend would enjoy this every bit as much as he was going to.
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No roads or trails led to Terry and Mike's destination. It took the pair over an hour, pushing through heavy growth, to reach their firing location, a small clearing 200 yards upstream and ten feet higher than the roadblock.

"You know, there must be at least ten or twelve Rock Creeks in Wyoming." Mike idly commented.

"That may be true, but after we get done today, this one here is going to be the most famous one."

Terry's response made Mike want to laugh, but they were too close to their target to permit himself that luxury.

"What a great place. We can see every inch of their stupid roadblock and we have the high ground, not only physically but morally." Mike was on a roll now. "I know we've gone over this, but one more time. We only shoot at the vehicles. I fully expect those clowns to run as soon as we start. After they get the shit cleaned out of their drawers, they're not going to be in a big hurry to get back to fucking with people they had no business fucking with in the first place."

Terry and Mike wanted to avoid collateral damage even more than they wanted to avoid physically injuring or killing the roadblock custodians. They patiently waited until no traffic was present and it was then they opened fire.
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At 200 yards, Yugoslavian SKS rifles are perfectly adequate. Purchased for under $150 each via private sales, they were equipped with cheap but satisfactory Chinese made 4 power scopes. The Russian made 7.62x39mm ammunition is not noted for its accuracy, but very much so for its reliability. With these rifles and ammunition, the eclectically-armed duo systematically wrecked the resented roadblock.

The tires went first, then sights shifted to the engine compartments. The two deputies and one of their federal confederates ran as fast as they could to the treeline, covering the several dozen yards in record time and keeping right on going deeper into the forest. The other fed foolishly hunkered down behind his increasingly gunshot gutted GSA.

Terry laughed at the departing deputies. "Asses and elbows! Asses and elbows! I knew that was all we were going to see of those jerk-offs."

Dan chimed in, "I can't believe that one dipshit stayed in the kill zone! It wouldn't surprise me a bit if he lets loose over the top with a quick magazine."

Neither Terry nor Mike were surprised when the federale did just that. Their 7.62mm fire was answered by a distant popping and a buzzing flurry of .40 caliber bullets flying wide and high over their heads.

Unlike his out-of-control counterparts at Waco a generation before, this jazzbo immediately found himself receiving return fire, and highly accurate at that. The DEA agent lost heart as glass, bullets, and sundry pieces of his rapidly-disintegrating car landed all around him. In a total state of panic, he vaulted the bridge railing.

When the agent hit Rock Creek, he found out why that rapidly flowing stream got its name. The knowledge did him no good. A broken neck prevented his exiting the cold two foot water, and his roadblock days came to a watery Wyoming conclusion.

This is just like one of those Hollywood gangster movies, Terry thought, as mirrors, light-bars, and headlights all flew to pieces under the unrelenting pounding of Russian steel and lead projectiles.

Mike hollered out a line from an old W.C. Fields movie, "The re-sale value of those cars is going to be nil." When the firing stopped, neither the Explorer nor the Cherokee were economically repairable, and never again would they be misused by those who abused power and authority.

Terry and Mike were ecstatic as they hiked the several miles back to their vehicle, this being the most exciting and fun-filled day of their entire lives. In addition, their trip out was easier than the trip in, as they had much less to carry, having left their smoking hot SKS rifles alongside the cooling piles of expended steel cases. The rifles were not all that valuable, and were, to say the least, a lot more incriminating than they had been before the roadblock removal exercise. While no one likes to have his vehicle shot up, police are especially touchy in this regard. Besides, there were plenty more rifles where those two came from, and better ones.
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The two deputies and the surviving fed, remained laying in the woods for a good ten minutes after the final round impacted into one of the power window motors on the GSA. While pretty sure the shooters had not intended to kill them, they had the distinct impression that had they stayed behind the cars and returned fire, they would now be wounded or dead. That poor fool stayed and look what it got him. While the trio had no idea exactly what it was their partner got, they were sure it was nothing they wanted.

The three finally got up their courage. The remaining DEA agent led the way, hoping to find his missing partner. All that was found of him on the bridge was a pile of his .40 caliber brass.

"No blood. Maybe he managed to get away," hopefully commented one of the deputies.

The three all hollered and hollered the missing man's name, but silence was their only answer.

Silence also was on the speakers of their ruined radios.

"Damn! They really fucked these up," the senior deputy exclaimed. "We got a couple of choices right now. Our relief ain't due for a couple of hours, but I expect someone will notice our radios are out, get worried, and come check on us. So, we can wait here until they do, or we can go look for our partner, or we can chase after them trigger-happy psychos."

There was unanimous agreement the last choice was definitely not the wisest one. The deputies decided to flag down the first vehicle to come along and return to town for assistance and the DEA man opted to try and find his missing partner.

When the Sheriff and his entourage arrived at the mutilated roadblock, quite a crowd of gawkers had already gathered at the scene. By this time, the surviving fed found his partner's carcass hung up on a snag about 120 yards downstream. He was face-down in the water which obviated any need to check for a pulse.
The lawman, at first, believed the nasty gash on the back of his dead partner's head was a bullet wound, but closer examination indicated otherwise.

Why didn't the silly son-of-a-bitch come with us? his partner sorrowfully pondered. On the other hand, if those yahoos hadn't started shooting at us, he wouldn't be dead in the first place.

Sadness turned to anger. All we're trying to do is protect the public from terrorists, criminals, and crazies. None of the peckerwoods around here, except for the sheriff and a few others, seem to appreciate that. For all our hard work and dedication we get resentment, hostility, and now this, the DEA man soliliquized in his head. He became even angrier as he noticed the snickering and joking crowd of onlookers pointing at the ruined cars.

My friend was killed doing his job and these morons seem to think the whole thing is just a big joke. Unable to keep his thoughts to himself, the agent approached the Sheriff.

"Just exactly what are you going to do about the party goers?" he demanded.

"I'm not going to do anything about them. They're not hurting anything and they're having a real good time. You don't live here and you don't ever have to run for re-election, but I do. I've gotten more than a few complaints about this roadblock, but I've ignored them because I have always worked well with you guys. But when the people around here get unhappy enough to start shooting, well then, I have to take notice. I have to weigh whether or not what we're doing is worth the cost. Nothing good would come out of riling these folks up while they're enjoying themselves. Even if it is at our expense."

The sheriff could not help but notice how difficult it was for the DEA man to hold back his anger.

"Oh don't worry, those assholes can have their fun for now. We got this whole circus on camera and those who look like they are getting the most pleasure out of what happened here will be held to account, one way or another. Now is just not the time. Why don't you go on in with the ambulance and call who you need to call. You just let me and a couple of deputies go and check out where those sons-of-bitches did their murdering from. We will find out who they are and we will fix them real good."

The fed was too drained to argue so he complied with the sheriff's suggestion.
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The sheriff, a deputy, and a Department of Criminal Investigation (DCI) agent currently assigned to the Northcentral Regional Drug Task Force, were quite surprised to find the two SKSs.

"I doubt we'll get anything off these rifles," the DCI agent commented. "The shooters wouldn't have left them for us to find so easily if they thought we would. I wouldn't be surprised if they left them like this as their way of telling us something. Like, we have a whole shit-load of these things."

The deputy chimed in, "These SKSs are as common as cowshit in a stockyard. I read once that 4 or 5 million of those things were imported over the years. We have about as much a chance of rounding them all up as we do of keeping the oil-field trash sober."

The sheriff gave his deputy a disapproving look but changed the topic.

"I don't really give a shit why they left these rifles here. The real question is, who the fuck shot up one of my cars and caused the death of a fellow officer? Was it druggies? Was it gun-runners? Maybe neither. My hunch is it was some liquored up rough-necks who took the roadblock personal. Some not very civic-minded motherfuckers who feel their right to drink on the way home from work, and come and go as they please, is more important than protecting this country from terrorists and criminal low-lifes."

The sheriff had become visibly agitated by now. He fought to keep control.

"Well, they picked the wrong county to pull this kind of shit. They certainly picked the wrong sheriff to fuck with. I will have their asses."

The deputy and the DCI man nodded their approval as they set about taking photographs, making diagrams, and gathering evidence.

***

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Just go here and place your order -- and don't forget a few extra copies as post-election party favors.

Everyone loves a good story, don't ya know...

Alea iacta est.