Tear It Down

by Nick Petrie

  “Get what you can,” Peter said. “If they start shooting, get the hell out. I’ll distract them.”

  “If you can get a round through one of those firing slots, it’ll bounce around pretty good. Maybe do some harm.”

  “Sure,” said Peter. “But let’s not fuck around too much. This is a residential neighborhood, and these assholes have homemade pipe bombs. Better to let them chase us the hell out of Memphis before anyone else gets hurt.”

  Lewis gave Peter his wide, tilted grin. “A little less conversation, a little more action.”

  Then he slipped away like a shadow across the sidewalk. He was in good cover behind the Chevy, but exposed briefly in the brightly lit space before the Yukon. He opened the Yukon’s rear passenger door and floated inside.

  As Peter watched, an oblong gray lump the size of a loaf of bread with a sizzling red tail flew in a low arc over the top of the firing box.

  It hit the asphalt, bounced once, and rolled toward the Yukon.

  Peter felt his heart in his throat as he ran toward it, shouting, “Lewis, incoming.”

  55

  Peter was still in motion beside his Chevy when he heard a crump and the heavy Yukon rose on its springs.

  It didn’t fly tumbling into the air, consumed with fire, like it would have with an IED made from the kind of big repurposed artillery round that the insurgents had been so fond of. Still, the big SUV gave a good hop, the rear tires just leaving the ground.

  Peter felt the heat and push of the blast, but most of the force was deflected by the steel undercarriage of the Yukon and the front of his Chevy, so he kept his feet. The Chevy’s front end dropped as its tires blew out.

  The world had turned momentarily silent, so he didn’t hear the sound of the shrapnel, but he felt it slither through the air beside him, whatever they’d packed inside that gray wrap to turn a basic pipe bomb into a true antipersonnel device. The high curb, the steel rims, and the density of the Chevy’s engine compartment were the only things that had kept the shrapnel from slicing Peter’s flesh into ribbons.

  He didn’t know if he’d been hit and he didn’t care. He was still mobile. His ears rang. He smelled gas. He pressed his boots into the concrete and leaped toward the Yukon.

  Its back hatch rose, and the plywood cover for the hidden weapons compartment flew out and crashed against the Chevy’s front bumper. Inside, Peter saw Lewis crouched in the cargo area, jamming pistols and spare magazines and boxed ammunition two-handed into an open leather duffel.

  Peter knelt at the back of the Yukon and fired three-round covering bursts at the rust-red beast, alternating from the view ports in the cab to the firing slots in the steel pillbox on the back. His heart racketed in his chest. His rounds kept missing the gaps in the armor, the ricochets sparking orange in the night. The stink of gasoline was stronger, the punctured tank leaking nicely now. Gas pooled at the curb.

  “Lewis,” he shouted. “Time to move.” He could barely hear the sound of his own voice. Another pipe bomb would ignite the gas for sure. He peeked over his shoulder. Lewis was still stuffing the duffel. Peter couldn’t see any sign he was hurt. “Lewis, move your ass.”

  “Take these.” Lewis tossed Peter a pair of combat shotguns and hopped out into a crouch, his 10-gauge in one hand, the duffel in the other. “I think the rear differential saved my ass.” He was shouting but Peter could barely hear him, his ears still ringing.

  A gun barrel poked through the pillbox’s firing slot. “Go go go,” Peter shouted as he shoved Lewis around the Yukon. The shooter pulled the trigger on full auto, clearly not worried about running out of ammunition.

  Peter and Lewis dropped flat on the sidewalk, hoping the high curb and the chassis of the Yukon, sunken now on four flat tires, would protect them. From the sound, Peter could tell the weapon was an M16 or M4, not the big M240. He was grateful for that, even as the Yukon’s glass spiderwebbed and fell, and loud high-velocity rounds turned the door panels to Swiss cheese. Peter wanted to check Lewis for injuries but now was not the time. The smell of spent powder and gasoline was intoxicating.

  Lewis shook his head as he tightened his grip on the duffel. “Man, I liked that car.”

  Peter got the shotguns in one hand and the HK slung on his back, ready to travel. “Hate to break it to you, but that’s not a car anymore.”

  There was a short pause as the resident asshole racked a fresh mag.

  Without discussion, Peter and Lewis launched themselves to their feet and sprinted through the gap toward the big armored Mercedes, fresh rounds stitching the concrete at their heels as Peter hit the locks and the remote start on the fob.

  “Who’s driving?” He was still talking too loud.

  “Why you bother asking when you already know the answer?” Lewis ducked inside, over the center hump, and into the driver’s seat, towing the duffel behind him. Peter followed him in with two shotguns and his HK. He heard rounds hitting the driver’s-side glass as he saw the back of Lewis’s white shirtsleeve turning red. The oversized head of a roofing nail stuck out of Lewis’s right tricep.

  “Lewis, you’re hit. Hey.”

  “Leave it.” Lewis threw the Mercedes into gear and put the hammer down.

  The heavy SUV accelerated away from the curb and down the street.

  Peter turned to look behind them and saw the rust-red behemoth making a labored U-turn in the intersection, a man standing up in the armored bed. “Any bets on who’s driving?”

  “The older brother, the one on disability.” He shook his head. “You trust that Brody? I really don’t like leaving that kid back there.”

  “We didn’t have much choice,” said Peter. “I think Brody’s okay, for what he is.” He stared out the back window, watching the red truck finish its turn. “Here they come.”

  “I liked this idea better when we were on offense,” said Lewis. “What’s the shortest route to the damn freeway?”

  56

  Left here.” Peter had a map up on his phone.

  “This thing has some juice.” Lewis eased up on the gas to keep the red pickup behind them.

  “Once you hit Watkins, head south toward Memphis proper. There’ll be an on-ramp to the right. We want I-40 West, that’ll put us on the big bridge over the Mississippi.” Peter looked over his shoulder again. The rust-red pickup turned the corner behind them, lurching under the burden of its heavy protective steel.

  “Sounds good. Lot of open space, no houses.” Lewis grinned. “We need to, we can always jump over the side and swim for it.”

  Peter reached over and plucked the roofing nail out of Lewis’s arm.

  “Ow, shit. You asshole.” Lewis clapped his free hand over the injury.

  “That’s right, honey, apply pressure,” Peter said. “It’d only hurt more if we waited.” He tore the sleeve from his T-shirt and tied it around Lewis’s arm. “That’ll have to do for now.”

  “Florence fucking Nightingale,” Lewis muttered.

  South on Watkins, the road mostly empty, Lewis flew through a green light, slowed for a red to let the rusty beast gain ground behind them, then picked up speed again. “Here,” Peter said, pointing.

  Lewis hit the long on-ramp that would take them through a wide sweeping curve to join the freeway. The speedometer was steady at eighty, slow enough to keep the red pickup in sight behind them, although it was gaining.

  Lewis eyeballed the rearview. “So what kind of armor we got on this thing?”

  Peter’s platoon had spent a short period assigned to diplomatic protection, so he’d ridden in armored civilian vehicles before. Uncle Sam had favored Suburbans over Mercedes, but the technologies were the same. “Depends what King was willing to spend.”

  “Brody called him paranoid. So I’d imagine King bought on the higher end, given how he fortified that little ice cream shop.”

  “Agreed,” Peter sa
id. “So we’re probably looking at high-hardened steel outside, with ballistic fabric inside the doors, under the carpet, and above the head-liner. Laminated bulletproof glass for all windows. The gas tank and underbody will be armored, too, because none of the other stuff does you much good if the vehicle won’t drive.”

  “Tires?”

  “Run-flats, probably with Kevlar protection. You get fifty miles or so once they’re punctured. They feel all right? Anything off with the steering?”

  Lewis swerved back and forth in the lane. The freeway merge was coming up fast. “Seems fine,” he said. “The car is heavy, you can feel it, but it’s not a boat.”

  “Well, it’s not a tank, either. It’s designed to let the occupants survive an initial attack, then get the hell out. The glass is the weakest point.”

  “We could outrun ’em, easy.” Lewis glanced at the rearview again. “That’s a decent newer truck, plenty of power, but it’s still a pickup carrying at least a thousand pounds of steel, maybe twice that, depending on the thickness.”

  “I don’t want to lose them.”

  Lewis grinned. “I know you don’t. So how we gonna do this?”

  * * *

  • • •

  The interstate was busy but fast, three lanes of traffic moving at or above the speed limit. Not surprisingly for a major freight hub, there were a lot of long-haul tractor-trailers.

  They had about a mile to the next freeway merge. Peter could see the giant glass Bass Pro pyramid to their right, and the iconic curved trusses of the Hernando de Soto Bridge lit up beyond it, an elegant giant M across the Mississippi.

  Lewis eased the Mercedes forward, weaving through the other vehicles, trying not to show its power or acceleration too dramatically. They’d need that to come as a surprise.

  “Stay in the left two lanes, that’s our route.” Looking behind them, Peter saw the red truck picking up speed in their wake, faster on the freeway than it had been cutting corners on city streets.

  A man’s massive head and shoulders rose up from the armored bed to crouch over the top of the cab. From a hundred yards away, Peter couldn’t see what he lifted onto the roof. A long gun of some kind. Then Peter saw the figure flip down the bipod barrel support.

  “That 240’s coming out,” he said. “Get something between us, fast.”

  Lewis goosed it to cut right in front of a big Peterbilt, but not before the machine gun began to fire with a heavy thump thump thump. They took four hard rounds to the armored tailgate and two more starred the back glass before Lewis got out of the way. The gunner was undisciplined, having fun with his toy, no surprise. Tracer rounds flew past, glowing electric pink in the half-light of the nighttime highway.

  It wasn’t easy to aim effectively from one fast-moving vehicle to another, especially when the target was taking evasive action, even on a good road with a rapid-fire weapon. Unlike some of the talented turret gunners Peter had known in Iraq, who’d seemed to float above their bucking Humvees like Muhammad Ali, this asshole thankfully didn’t seem to have a lot of practice.

  His wild rounds found targets anyway. To their left, a sedan’s rear window exploded into shards and the driver slammed on the brakes. Tracers flew like angry, turbocharged fireflies across the barrier into oncoming traffic, but the Mercedes was moving too fast for Peter to see the damage. The gunner corrected as the Peterbilt dropped back and a work van’s rounded rear took on holes like an industrial-sized colander before a tire blew out and it slewed sideways, colliding with a little tin-foil hatchback.

  Peter imagined the wrecks piling up behind them. Civilians, drivers and passengers, injured or dead.

  Peter wasn’t pulling that trigger, he was the target.

  But it still felt like Peter’s fault.

  Then he saw holes stitched across the long silver box of the semi-trailer ahead of them, marching backward toward the armored Mercedes.

  “Get us out of here,” he said. “This isn’t working. They’re willing to kill anyone just to put a few rounds into us.”

  The interstate had forked for the merge, and their section narrowed to two lanes. Lewis slid to the right again, this time into the narrow breakdown lane and out of sight. The speedometer was at ninety, then ninety-five, the rumble strip howling. They flew down a long line of semis, red brake lights coming on as the other drivers noticed the headlights coming up fast on the wrong side. The freeway began the long curve toward the river.

  Then the rust-armored pickup swerved into the breakdown lane behind them with a clear field of fire. The rear window starred twice more and they felt the hard impact of yet more rounds on the rear hatch. It was getting difficult to see anything out of the back.

  “Shit.” Lewis hit the brakes and slid left, tucking the Mercedes between two big trucks.

  “Stay here,” said Peter. Lewis matched speeds with the semis. Peter put the 10-gauge on his lap and hit the button to roll down the window.

  Nothing happened.

  Of course, he thought. The laminated glass was too thick, and there was too much soft armor in the door panels, for the windows to go down. Obviously, there was no skylight.

  So much for his attack plan. How the fuck was he going to fire back?

  “Slide over half a lane, make us a little harder to see. Then grab my belt.”

  “Fucking jarhead.” Lewis rolled his eyes, but did as Peter asked.

  When he felt Lewis take hold, Peter opened his door six inches with the shotgun in his hand and waited. Wishing for a helmet or a firing port or a grenade launcher as the hot stink of the roadway washed through the car.

  He remembered that Lewis’s right tricep was the one that’d had the roofing nail in it.

  The red truck came up fast. Peter leaned out, trusting his weight to Lewis’s punctured arm, and fired at the gunner’s head and shoulders still hunched above the cab. The buckshot sparked off the steel, but Peter had no idea if he’d hit anything vulnerable. The gunner dropped down behind the thick, rusty steel. Peter had time to rack the slide and fire twice more at the driver’s small view port before the red truck dropped back out of sight. He’d managed to obliterate the other pickup’s side mirror, but didn’t think he’d done any other damage.

  Still, he’d returned fire, which felt better than it had any right to feel. And the red truck’s ruined rearview would help when the time came.

  Lewis went left, escaping the slowing convoy of semis. A merging highway added another lane to work with.

  Peter pulled up his map again. He found something that might work. He peered out the starry but still intact rear windshield to see the red pickup coming up behind them again.

  Then they were on the Hernando de Soto Bridge, the view ahead framed by the complex geometry of steel girders studded with bolts. The Mississippi River a dark void to each side.

  “Coming up,” he said. “Three miles.”

  57

  Albert had the A/C cranked up high but it was still warm as hell inside the pickup.

  Between all that heavy quarter-inch steel plate they’d tack-welded in place, and the speed they needed to keep up with that rich man’s car, the pickup’s engine was running hot. Albert could feel it cooking through the firewall.

  Part of the problem was the sliding window open to the armored bed of the truck, which let the air-conditioning escape. Judah Lee used the window to shout orders, like a general from his horse.

  Which made Albert what, exactly?

  He leaned forward to peer through the narrow viewing slot they’d cut in the steel tacked across the windshield, watching the sleek black Mercedes SUV cut through the traffic ahead of them. Albert was keeping up with it, somehow, because of the thick traffic or the big V8 engine in the pickup. Sometimes he could even gain on it, although the pickup didn’t handle how Albert would have liked at that speed. It was slow to brake with the heavy load they were ca
rrying, and it leaned and lurched with each lane change.

  Something else to make Albert sweat.

  He kept thinking about the hog corral, set up back at the farm. It had seemed so simple. Borrow some money, start a business.

  He’d never imagined it would come to this.

  When Judah Lee opened up with that big gun, the bipod perched on the cab roof, the whole driver’s compartment thumped like a drum beaten by a wild man. Albert felt his excitement at the speed turn to fear.

  When Judah’s stray rounds hit the wrong vehicles, shattering glass and puncturing their thin skins like so much paper, the other drivers slammed on their brakes or slewed sideways. Albert had to slip and slide like a demolition derby driver to make it through the crash course of cars too damaged to run.

  He wondered for a moment, as he frantically worked the pedals and spun the wheel, if the other drivers were okay. But just for a moment.

  Albert was too busy trying to survive to worry much about anyone else.

  That black Mercedes didn’t seem to feel a thing. Judah had hit it at least a dozen times that Albert could see, but aside from some white splash marks on the glass, the big gun hadn’t seemed to make a dent. It made Albert want to catch up, to make that big expensive car hurt the way Albert was hurting now. His hip, his leg, his head.

  When the big shaggy guy leaned out of his open door with that shotgun and fired three blasts from twenty feet away, Albert slammed on the brakes and just about shit himself. It took him a minute to realize that none of the pellets had made it past the steel plate or found their way through the viewing slots in the windows. The windshield and side window were still in one piece.

  Then he looked out the small square left-side viewing slot and realized his side mirror was gone. He was blind on the left. And the center rearview was blocked by the high armor plate at the tailgate. And he was still going eighty miles an hour.