Escaping Vegas

by Dennis Elder

  Jake, Sam and Boone continued walking silently. Nothing on their bodies, bikes or trailers would make any sound or give off reflections tonight. All they had to do was get to the top of the overpass, set up behind the concrete railing, sneak up on the guards and use their K-bark knifes on the unsuspecting men. Everybody was wearing black. They’d even darkened their faces. Jake was only there in case something went wrong.

  Chapter 109: Stupid

  The two ex-convicts standing guard on the Saint Rose Parkway huddled around their makeshift campfire. They’d been gathering firewood from some of the trees that surrounded the nearby Gold Coin Resort and Spa. The trees were drying out fast since the water pressure shut off, but the wood was still mostly green and was harder to burn. They both had M-16 rifles, which lay at their sides.

  “I can’t believe they didn’t pick us to go after those women,” complain the blond-haired man as he poked the fire with a long branch. His name was Jerald Holstein. But everyone that knew him in prison called him Griz, because of the four ragged scars that covered the right side of his otherwise handsome face. The disfigurement didn’t come from a grizzly bear attack, but from a rival gang that tortured him because of some past offense.

  “Stupid,” said the other man. His hair was long and unkempt. He had a thick moustache and heavy beard growth from a week of not shaving. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” continued the man known as Ricks. His real name was Richard Fellows the third. Fellows was a three-time child molester. Last time, he killed a little boy just before he got sent to prison. Both men were slight, around 140 pounds.

  “They put twenty fat boys on those bikes ahead of us,” said Griz. We coulda out rode everyone of um.”

  The fire continued to flicker. Griz threw another green branch on the center of the blaze.

  “It’s all politics man,” continued Griz. “Just cause those guys knew Claudio they got to go. Bet they won’t even make it half way.”

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” repeated Ricks.

  “It’s the same with the rooms,” said Griz. It’s who you know. You and I stuck up on the fifth floor when all those fat guys get the best rooms close to the ground. I’m tired of climbin those stinkin stairs every day.”

  “Just stupid,” said Ricks, as he spat over his shoulder and away from the fire toward the mini gun sitting against the South wall of the overpass. It was a handheld General Electric M134. One of the military techs figured out a way to power it with a simple 12-volt car battery that had survived the radiation storm. When one of the techs had guard duty earlier the previous week, they brought the gun down to the Saint Rose parkway over pass and fired it for fun at the Gold Coin Resort and Spa. After all the windows were shot out they got bored, and rather than carrying the gun back to the Bellagio, they left it on the overpass. Griz and Ricks had shot the gun only once. But at a rate of 4,000 rounds per minute their test shots were short ones. But they still had a good 2,000 auto fed rounds left in the box next to the gun.

  “I’m just sayin that it would have been smarter to send wiry guys like us,” whined Griz. “We’re built for that kind of thing. Not those fat guys.”

  A few seconds passed between the two men.

  “Stupid,” said Ricks one more time. “Just plain stupid.”

  Chapter 110: Three thousand feet per second

  Tyrone, Boon and Sam were within fifty yard of the convicts now. They could hear the low tones of their muffled conversation. Mark tagged Tyrone to lead the three many op. Tyrone was in front, then Boone, and then Sam. Just as they reached a point on the off ramp were they could see the ex-convicts’ firelight projected shadows but not the actual men, Tyrone turned back and gave the other two a hand gesture to put their bikes down. Sam and Boone obeyed. As rehearsed Boon would move to the right and take up a firing position to cover Tyrone and Sam as they advanced on the left with their knives drawn. Boon crept quietly across the two-lane off ramp and got down low on the right side of the ramp and started pulling his Bushmaster around to his shoulder, all the time trying to make himself as un-noticeable as possible. But before he could get the gun all the way around, a small glass fragment that had been working its way into Sam’s right front bike tire suddenly tore open the underlying tube. With one hundred pounds per square inch of pressure pushing hard on the puncture, the air hissed loudly and squealed like a stuck pig for a little over seven seconds.

  Griz and Ricks heard the sound clearly, jumped to their feet and pointed their M-16s toward the sound. Ricks noticed a dark shape first. Something was lying on the off ramp to their left.

  Boon was totally exposed. When he finally got his bushmaster around in front of him his finger accidently pulled the trigger and set off an unintentional burst. The bullets whizzed to the right of Griz and Ricks and ricocheted off the North overpass concrete wall.

  Sixteen miles North Ivan was about to capture Claudio’s second Bishop in a boring game of Chess. Out of 256 convicts he couldn’t find at least one guy who could play a decent game.

  Ivan turned his head toward the sound of the distant gunfire. His office window was wide open to let in the cool night air. But Claudio didn’t move. He was concentrating and trying to survive Ivan’s aggressive move.

  “You hear that,” said Ivan.

  Still Claudio didn’t move, but said nonchalantly, “Probably the guys just shooting at coyotes again.”

  Back at the overpass, Boon’s misdirected fire drove the two ex-convicts to the ground and against the South concrete wall.

  Jake watched the whole thing through the big Mac scope, but never had a clear shot. The two men ducked down behind the concrete wall before he could react.

  “Dam,” said Jake out loud. “Just put your heads up a little so I can end this thing,” he thought to himself as he squinted at the overpass.

  Mark let out the same curse at the same time Jake did. The sound of automatic gunfire brought the Major to his feet. Everyone else in the main group either sat up to stood as well.

  “What’s that mean?” asked Silva as he moved next to Mark. Everyone in the group was looking out into the dark, listening toward the North.

  Mark didn’t have the binoculars and tied pulling his bushmaster up and looking through the scope but there just wasn’t a clear line of sight to the overpass. He deliberately held the group back and out of the sightline for safety reasons.

  “It means the cat’s out of the bag,” said Mark cautiously.

  Ricks was out front and against the concrete wall. Griz was right behind him. Both clutched their M-16 rifles like they were life preservers. Griz stuck his gun slightly around the corner and pulled the trigger. The bullets went wild.

  Tyrone and Sam were armed with only a knife and their side pistols. Tyrone signaled to Boon to move back. And Boon complied, sliding as fast as he could backward.

  Griz looked back and saw the minigun on the ground right behind Ricks.

  “Grab the mini,” said Griz. “Let’s spray ‘um down.” Ricks smiled and moved back to pick up the minigun. Griz move with him and handled the box of ammo.

  When they moved, Griz’s head popped up an inch above the concrete wall for a split second and Jake fired his fifty caliber TAC sniper rifle. The bullet just missed Griz’s head and splintered along the top of the concrete wall hiding their position.

  Both the men felt a nasty spray of concrete across the left sides of their faces.

  “There are more of them,” shouted Griz. “Shoot down the on ramp. Then scoot forward and shoot again.”

  Ricks had the gun and kept his head down this time, pushing the minigun forward a few inches at a time. Once he thought he was in a good position, he held the gun across his left leg with his shoulder against the wall for support and fired a burst.

  Fifty seven 7.6 rounds spilled out of the minigun during the second-long burst. Thankfully the majority of the bullets went over the ramp’s East wall, but two bullets caught Boon in the right heal and left calf.

  Back at the Bellagio Ivan s
tood up suddenly. Even from a long distance he instantly recognized the distinct sound of a minigun. He had bought and tested several of them over the years before re-selling them on the black market.

  “That’s no coyote,” said Ivan.

  Claudio came to his feet too. He’d been in the military and knew the sound those guns made.

  “Yea,” said Claudio. “That’s a minigun.”

  Both men crowded the South-facing window. They had a clear line of sight back down I-15 all the way to the Saint Rose Parkway overpass, their Southern boundary guard station.

  “I’m hit,” half shouted Boon.

  “How bad?” said Tyrone back to Boon.

  “Two in the legs I think,” replied Boon.

  Another burst of bullets struck down the on ramp.

  When Mark heard the second burst he made a decision. He didn’t like it, but the sound of a minigun in the hands of the bad guys could easily overwhelm the four men Mark had sent forward.

  OK, everybody,” listen up,” said Mark. Everyone crowded close to Mark.

  Randy, me and Frank are going to sprint forward to the fight and give assistance,” began Mark.

  Doc immediately objected. “I’m going too,” said Doc. “You need me.”

  But Mark cut him off.

  “No way Doc,” continued Mark. “You know as well as I that unless we silence that minigun none of us will get through.”

  Randy and Frank were already on their bikes and ready to go.

  “Come on Major,” said Frank. “Time to go.”

  Mark turned back to Doc.

  “If we don’t come back, then you’re in charge,” said Mark. “Watch for the signal. If you don’t see it say 10 minutes after the gun fire ends, then you’ll know you’re on your own. If it were me I’d go back and find another way around to Utah.”

  Doc’s jaw was set hard and he was grinding his teeth. But he knew Mark was right and would follow orders.

  “Good luck,” said Doc, as the three men began riding hard toward the gunfire to the North.

  Everybody on the onramp, the good and the bad guys, were moving down the grade now. Ricks moved slowly. On two occasions Tyrone fired his handgun up the ramp, but it didn’t seem to scare Griz and Ricks. Both he and Sam started moving back faster and faster. The bursts from the minigun were getting closer and closer and they were getting worried.

  “We got no place to go man,” shouted Tyrone. “Best to make a run for it.”

  “But we can’t leave Boon,” said Sam.

  “I don’t think he’s alive anymore,” shouted Tyrone as another burst come with a foot of Tyrone’s head.

  Ricks confidence was definitely up. The big gun’s bullets plowed down the onramp. “Nothin could live through that,” he thought to himself. And with that growing confidence he straightened up just a bit and gave Jake the inch he’d been praying for.

  The fifty caliber bullet struck the very top of Rick’s head, across the crown. The bullet only cut a one inch gouge through the skin and underlying skull bone and the opening was only a half inch deep. But it was the velocity of the bullet that counted. At over three thousand feet per second the suction that followed the screaming bullet pulled out over a pound of Rick’s brains and sprayed them across the pavement behind him. His central nervous system shut down immediately and his breathing stopped. Ricks dropped the minigun and slumped forward and into the onramp’s pavement. Griz was behind him and had been carefully feeding ammo to the gun. But suddenly Ricks was on the ground with his head busted up. Griz was Ricks’ best friend. They’d been together for ten years. They’d murdered his best friend. The wiry 140 pound man lunged forward. He moved in a rage of anger. He picked up the minigun and pointed it down the on ramp.

  “Die your mother fu…” shouted Griz.

  But the little guy never got to press the trigger or finish his sentence. Jake put another fifty caliber round right through the center of the guy’s head, just above the ear. Sniper school instructors always say that a hit like that always explodes a man’s head like a watermelon.

  They were right.

  Chapter 111: Three quick blinks

  Mark, Frank and Randy pedaled as fast as they could. Randy was naturally the fastest rider and had pulled away from the other two men slightly. Mark wasn’t sure what was happening ahead. He heard the two shots from Jake’s sniper rifle. It should mean that the fight was over and the guards dead. But you never knew in a fight.

  “Best laid plans and all that,” he thought to himself.

  About a hundred yards before they made it to the Saint Rose Parkway off ramp, all three riders suddenly saw the all clear signal ahead. Three quick blinks from a flashlight.

  Doc had already moved the main group forward a little so they had a clear line of sight to the overpass. That was the plan anyway. Everyone knew what the signal was and was watching intensely.

  “That’s it,” shouted Doc. “Everybody mount up. Let move forward as fast as we can but stay together.”

  Everyone clicked on their battery powered lights strapped on their heads, ran to their bikes and started pedaling toward the overpass.

  Jake was halfway down the hill when he saw the headlamps on the Major, Sam and Frank cross his path.

  Mark heard Jake to his left as he ran down the hillside. Hundreds of small rocks were tumbling ahead of him and making a loud racket. Mark started to slow a bit, but then Jake motioned him to keep going forward.

  “Keep going,” I’ll catch up,” shouted Jake, still a good hundred yards away from his own bike lying on the freeway.

  Mark resumed his pedaling. He was anxious to get to the overpass, but he wasn’t sure what they’d find.

  Chapter 112: Boone

  Sam was huddled over something at the top of the overpass. The dying fire behind him provided some light. When Mark got close enough he realized that the shape on the ground was Boone. Sam was holding what was left of Boone’s body in his arms. Sam and Boon had always been close. It was apparent that Tyrone had been crying a little too. But the big man was all business when the Major rode up.

  “Boon?” asked Mark, as he stopped in front of Tyrone and Randy.

  “Yep,” replied Tyrone.

  “Anything Doc could do?” questioned Mark.

  “Nothin,” said Tyrone. “He’s tore up all to hell. Took a couple of bullets to the head. Must have been hit at least fifty times.”

  “Not Boone,” whispered Mark.

  “That mini gun just kept spraying lead down on us,” offered Tyrone. “Nothin we could do.”

  “Nobody’s fault,” offered Mark.

  They just kept pushin us back with that gun,” continued Tyrone. “Nothin we could do.”

  Just then Doc appeared on his bike. He threw down his ride and ran forward with his medic bag ready.

  “Anyone get hit?” shouted Doc between breaths. He had ignored his own orders and sprinted ahead of the group. Some of the others were just barely getting to the off ramp.

  “Boon bought it,” said Mark, turning to Doc and halting his progress.

  “But maybe I could…” offered Doc.

  “Nothing to do, Doc,” said Mark. “Tyrone said he was hit twice in the head. He’s gone.”

  Doc didn’t move. He didn’t know what to say.

  Mark turned to the men closest to him.

  “Nobody else needs to see Boone like that,” said Mark.

  The rest of the main body finally arrived. Everyone wanted to see what was going on. Mark, Tyrone and Randy stood in their way so they could not pass.

  “OK, everyone,” began Mark. “I got some bad news. We lost Boone tonight. He’s dead.”

  “What?” cried Jeremy from the back of the group.

  Jeremy had been riding with Boon since they left LA.

  “He can’t be dead,” said the boy, as he dropped his bike to its side and rushed forward. But Tyrone caught the young boy in his arms and held him tight.

  “You don’t want to see him right now,
son,” consoled Tyrone.

  “Boon,” cried out Jeremy again, hoping his partner would somehow reply.

  “He’s all cut up and you wouldn’t even recognize him,” continued Tyrone.

  Then Tyrone turned to the Major and asked, “I know we need to get movin, but can’t we give him a quick burial, Major?”