by Theo Cage
“No, Slugger, no way. I'll get it for ya. I almost had her today.”
“You almost had her?”
“Yeah. They were right here. The kid who robbed me? He was about to give me the money.”
Slugger laughed. He loved it when people lied to him. That made everything so much easier.
“Frank, I told you the first day we met. Never bullshit me and everything will be cool. You remember that?”
“The guy was about to hand over the hundred grand. He was this close.” Frank held his thumb and forefinger about a quarter of an inch apart.
Slugger took his Louisville and pressed the rounded blunt end into Frank’s face. Frank stopped talking - not surprising, considering how hard it is to speak with the working end of a baseball bat wedged into your skull cave.
Slugger held it there for a long time, watching the sweat running off Frank's cheeks. Then Slugger popped the end with his fist, the tip smashing into Frank's front teeth, breaking off a few. Frank yelled out in surprise and put his hands to his face. But he didn't say anything. Losing a few teeth was a small price to pay for pissing off Slugger Zeleos.
“You should be more organized, Frank,” said Slugger, cleaning off the end of the bat on the grass. “The key to an organization is to follow a plan. Always, and with no exceptions. Kapiche?”
Frank nodded, his hands still over his bleeding mouth.
“Follow a proven model - that's the secret to success. I should write a book. Wouldn't that be a page-turner?” Frank just blinked. Now he was no longer certain where this was going, and he felt his stomach drop. Slugger leaned back and took a solid swing at Frank’s right knee. There was a resounding crack and Frank went down howling.
“Step one. The right knee. It's a rare dude who can remain standing after a righteous swing to the kneecap. And hurts like the Dickens, too. Although, I have seen people take it like a man a few times in my career. But don't feel bad, Frank. Now, step two.”
Then Slugger swiped down with the bat, an overhand swing over his shoulder with the tip of the bat striking the left knee square on the patella. This time there was no loud cracking sound, just a brutish grunt from Frank. The knee was now bent in on itself, sickeningly angled the wrong way. Frank rolled over on his side, tears now freely running down his face. Slugger’s lieutenants remained stone faced. They’d seen all of this before. Like a rerun.
“Now what was step three again?” Slugger pulled out his smartphone and swiped the screen a few times. “Oh, right.” He tucked the phone back into his back pocket. This time he used the baseball bat like a golf club. He wiggled his riding boots into position in the tall grass and licked his index finger to get the wind direction. He swung the Louisville like a sand wedge - a shallow arc, under and up. The bat's face struck Frank's right elbow, not exceptionally hard, but the bundle of nerves there sent a shock of pain into Frank's brain that was so intense, he lost control and voided his bladder. A dark stain spread across his crotch, which at that point was probably the least of Frank’s worries, but it troubled him none-the-less.
“Slugger! I'm sorry,” he gasped, sucking in air that made him remember his broken teeth. “You were right. The trucker took the money. Addie has an accomplice.”
“Accomplice?”
“Some guy in a blue Kenworth…”
Slugger squinted. “So the money’s in some semi? Rolling down fuck-knows-where and you didn't tell me?”
“He's mine Slugger. I'll find him and make him pay. He's mine.”
Slugger was just raising the bat again. “Nothing's yours, Frank. Not anymore.” And the bat came down so fast this time the lieutenants could hear it slicing through the air.
CHAPTER 25
Couer d’Alene National Forest, Idaho
RICE HAD OFTEN IMAGINED what he would do if the FBI or the CIA confronted him on the highway. He had thought through a dozen different scenarios - armed conflicts, agents boarding the trailer like pirates dressed in cheap suits, rocket launchers, helicopters, even F16's. But a gang of bikers?
Rice had studied outlaw gangs at Quantico as part of the FBI's agent training program. Years ago he had been asked to participate, but never took the training that seriously, guessing he would never have to deal with that segment of society. Most of them were out-of-shape drug users anyway and a decade or two older than the average agent. Their weapons stash typically consisted of antiquated guns known more for looks than takedown power. They radically over-rated their skills and influence. Yet here he was, rolling down a stretch of highway just south of Couer d’Alene, with seven dedicated full-patch members of Satan's Raiders on his tail and out for blood.
“Are you just going to ignore them?” asked Addie, her head blocking the passenger side mirror.
“You're going to stay down.” Rice had the police radio turned on; no one had reported anything yet, but that was only a matter of time. One biker was almost certainly dead and more would follow if they didn't stop harassing him. There was only one thing he did remember from the agency course. Bikers never back down. They have too much personal pride and reputation locked into their outlaw persona. They fought to the last man - usually without good reason. Ego and testosterone bundled up in a wild unwashed bag of unfocused rebellion.
Rice expected the next move would come from the front and he was right. Three hogs lined up a few yards in front of the massive Kenworth bumper and slowly reduced their speed. This was supposed to intimidate him - force him to slow down. So Rice did the opposite. He shifted to a lower gear and pushed down on the accelerator. The Kenworth blurted out an explosive diesel note and blasted black smoke out the stacks. Fair warning, Rice thought, moving up quickly on the motorbikes.
Two of the riders sped up, but the biker on the right decided to stay committed to a dismal tactic. Rice’s front bumper hit his rear wheel and fender, the Harley bobbled, then spun sideways, and the driver and bike disappeared noisily under the truck. Rice steered his rig so that the wheels wouldn't strike the bike, but the driver wasn't so lucky. At least one leg was pounded into the asphalt by the massive truck tires. The body rolled and flipped and came to a tangled rest on the shoulder. To Rice’s surprise, no one stopped for him.
Now Rice had a problem: a biker body on the side of the road. And when the police came there would be an in-depth interrogation. He wasn't sure he could survive that kind of scrutiny. It was approaching evening, which helped, and most drivers would only see what was in their headlights. But now the highway was littered with Harley carnage.
Addie saw Rice staring into the side mirrors. “That black Yukon has been on our tail for miles,” she said. “Looks like Federal tool. I know the type.”
Rice didn’t ask her how she knew the type. Besides a posse of bikers, he now had a tail. How did they find him? They could have scouted out the area before they came up the mountain. But then they would have had a roadblock set up on 410 and this would all be over by now. He’d be sitting in the back seat of a feebie wagon with nylon cuffs on his wrist and ankles.
Maybe the guy in the Yukon was a hired gun. Not a Fed. Full denial. That made sense. Widen the operation and people need explanations. Kreegar didn’t want to leave a trail or have to explain himself to anyone. That meant the people on his tail were ex-something. CIA or DIA or special services. Their only allegiance to a paycheck. Cynical. Probably in a hurry. That was good.
What didn’t jive was how the guy was dressed. If Rice was an independent, tracking a suspect, he’d be wearing jeans, a fleece jacket and a well-worn baseball cap. Driving a Dodge Ram. He wouldn’t be wearing a sports coat and a white shirt with a tie. Might as well wear an FBI tat on your forehead.
And if the Feds are following him, why aren’t they pulling him over? Because they’ve been instructed not to. Or they don’t even know why they’re following him. Just waiting for orders.
“What are you hauling in this rig anyway?” she asked.
“Only ten tons of the finest weed known this side of the Rockies,” answered Rice.
“Well, that explains why you’re being followed,” she said.
CHAPTER 26
Near Kellogg, Idaho
RICE COUNTED EIGHT DISFUNCTIONALS remaining, two out front only a few feet from the massive front end of the Kenny. Suicidal he thought, or on drugs. His ten tons against two corpulent ex-cons. All this rolling along at about ten percent over the double nickel.
Beside him in the passing lane were three more Satan’s Raiders, spaced out along the length of tractor and trailer, blocking any other vehicular traffic from getting close.
And behind the semi were three more. They might have thought they were protected by Rice’s blind spot. They didn’t know that Rice had cameras on both the rear and sides. The bikers in the back were close. That bothered Rice. They seemed fearless the way they zipped in and out. Or exceptionally stupid.
Right now, they all were just travelers rolling down the interstate. But soon, very soon, things would change.
Rice turned and caught the attention of the biker closest to his driver’s door. He gave him the scram sign and moved his lips to say back off. The grey bearded gang member grinned and gave him the finger. So Rice moved over slowly into the passing lane. The biker didn’t budge. He gave Rice a hand signal for roll down your window. Rice shook his head. Then heard Addie ask.
“What are they doing?”
“They’re rounding us up. They want the money. And probably you.”
“Screw them,” she said. “I don’t care if you run them over.”
“Really?” Rice said. “That might attract some attention. We’re on a major freeway.”
“So what do we do?”
“We ignore them. They’re harmless so far. Unless you need to stop to pee. Then it gets complicated.”
When Rice looked back, greybeard had his gun out, a shiny chrome .44 in his left hand, waving in his direction. Only one hand on the throttle. A south paw.
“That’s not good.” Rice said under his breath, but thought maybe it was only an idle threat.
Then his side window shattered into spider cracks, the boom of the gun a fraction of a second behind. Rice held the steering wheel in an iron grip.
“He shot. He shot at you,” said Addie.
“No worries. The glass is bullet-proof.”
“Who cares? All he has to do is shoot out your tires.” Which is exactly what greybeard tried next. He steadied his aim and fired into the front wheel well. Rice throttled up and slid a few more feet away and the biker fired again, directly into the tire. Two shots this time.
“Tires are Kevlar, moron,” Rice said to the biker.
Greybeard looked at his gun, stared at Rice, then lost control of his bike. The Harley plowed into the chopper in front of him, weaving madly, the bloated back tire slapping the front of greybeard’s bike. The older biker’s ride flipped over on its side and greybeard was instantly down onto the pavement, chunks of leather and chrome studs exploding into the air. His body spun a few times on the road, already looking lifeless and disjointed, and then disappeared behind them.
Rice shook his head. “I hate distracted drivers.”
CHAPTER 27
Near Kellogg, Idaho
RICE HAD VISUALIZED HIS ESCAPE along the I90 countless times, while lying on a hard wooden homemade bed with a thin army mattress, the wind whistling through the poorly-chinked walls of his cabin.
He fantasized about a long march to D.C. for revenge, each mile more dangerous than the one before. But he always saw the first part of the journey as preparation. He would learn to get a sense of the rig as he wound his way through the sparsely populated wild middle of Idaho. Then, as he bore down on the more populated centers like Chicago and Minneapolis, he would have mastered the cranky ten tons of steel and rubber he was driving.
What he never expected was a confrontation like this so soon.
Rice had reduced the biker threat by two, but the remaining soldiers hardly seemed to notice, and were closing in on him inch by inch. He discovered, by accident, they also had a clean-up crew. In the distance in his rear view mirror, Rice caught a glimpse of a battered pick-up truck that had pulled up to one of the bodies, two men throwing the carcass into the load bed and quickly driving away.
Someone had given this highway attack considerable thought. And they had soldiers to spare.
Rice looked over at Addie, who was chewing on a fingernail, her eyes on the side mirror. “This is all about the money Jessie stole?” he said.
Addie didn't react, her eyes still on the bikers behind them. They appeared to be locked into some kind of escort pattern, but Rice couldn't imagine where they thought they were all going together.
“They want Frank too,” she said.
“They've got Frank. He didn't have time to leave the parking lot. Just be happy you're not with him right now.”
“Then they want the money.”
“How much are we talking about?”
Addie pulled up the backpack and started going through it, counting as she checked each tied bundle. “Wow. There’s more here than I thought,” she said. “Could be as much as a hundred K.”
Rice said nothing, his eyes on the road. The bikers were regrouping in the distance, using hand signals. No way were they giving up, he thought. Not with that much money at stake.
“Do you know who leads this gang?” asked Rice.
Addie looked at him and her face sagged. “They call him Slugger. He runs the weed business in the Mount Rainier area. And up into British Columbia. He's Russian-Canadian. He's got quite a reputation.”
“What kind of reputation?”
“Bodies buried in the backwoods. Likes to beat his enemies to a pulp with a baseball bat.”
Rice raised his speed by ten miles an hour to see what kind of reaction he would get from his escort. The two riders in front sped up, constantly wary of the three yards of chrome bumper vibrating behind them. Everything else was status quo for the moment. No one was shooting. No one was attempting to board.
“Sorry I got you involved,” said Addie, looking down at the backpack full of fifties.
“Don't be. Just grab onto something.”
Rice gave Addie two seconds to reach for the grab bar above her head and then hammered the brakes. The truck lurched, and the air release screamed, and rubber burned into the blacktop. They both felt the immediate impact at the rear of the truck. Two of the closest bikers couldn’t react in time and collided with the rear of semi. Rice saw one leather-clad body launched into the air on his side, shiny bare head bent down, heavily inked arms akimbo. The biker crashed onto the pavement like a discarded doll. All Rice could think was a helmet might have been a good idea.
Addie saw the second bike roll, a third rider plowing into a fallen Raider before he even had time to strike the pavement, both of them sliding along the shoulder in a shower of dust and gravel, the bikes down on their sides.
“Two down on my side,” said Addie, as cool as a ten-year Marine. Rice shook his head.
“We're down to five,” said Rice, accelerating. “We've been lucky. This road is relatively deserted this time of year. But sooner or later a Highway Patrol or a curious bystander is going to call this in.”
“Most people - normal people - would want that to happen,” said Addie.
Rice shifted down into a lower gear and revved the engine. “When the police pull us over you might have a hard time explaining all that cash in your backpack.”
Addie looked down at the filthy bag at her feet. “Why don't I just throw the money out on the highway? Then they'll have what they want and they'll leave us alone.”
“Because then we won't have a bargaining chip. And they might want more than the money.” Addie looked over at Rice with hooded eyes. He knew she understood.
CHAPTER 28
Past Kellogg, Idaho
A DARK SHAPE, a shimmery blot on the landscape in Rice's side mirror, slid sideways into the passing lane and rocketed towards them. A black SUV with enormous t
ires, lifted high off the road surface, was racing toward them.
“That's Slugger's Escalade,” said Addie. “I saw it once in Frank's parking lot.” As the truck drew closer, Rice felt as much as heard the deep thrum of its subwoofers, a sound that reminded him of carpet-bombing he had experienced in the Tora Bora hills of Afghanistan. Boom boom boom. Just below the level of consciousness. Instead of armaments, this gang leader was using subsonic sound to soften up his enemy.
The Escalade drew up beside Rice's eighteen-wheeler and the two escort bikes on the driver's side pulled back in a perfect display of synchronized maneuvers. The music, the pumping bass notes, were so loud now that the cracked window glass in the semi's driver's door was rattling in the frame. Rice couldn't see into the tinted interior to make out who was driving or how many men it contained, but he smiled anyway.
“Is that the Slugger battle cry?” he asked.
“That's Staind. Heavy metal.”
“It's catchy,” said Rice, joking. “Maybe he thinks that high-volume bass will blow out my tires.”
“Or maybe he's just deaf,” said Addie.
Rice watched as the passenger side window on the Escalade slid down, and a double-barreled shotgun slid out. He recognized it as a Mossberg twelve-gauge autoloader. A monster gun.
Rice knew then what was going to happen and hit the brakes again. The Escalade shot past them, braking hard, then maneuvered back beside the truck's front wheel well. Rice cranked the steering wheel over and veered sharply into the passing lane. Slugger's driver was quick enough to anticipate the move and dodged to the left, over onto the shoulder. So Rice moved over again, this time ripping into the side of the SUV. The Escalade bounced over the blacktop edge on the left, wobbled, but finally corrected and then disappeared back behind the rear of the trailer.
Rice checked the highway ahead. The two bikers were still up front, side by side, just out of reach. The rest had moved back behind the semi, like a greasy string of black pearls, swaying through the turns.
