by Theo Cage
“What was that all about?” asked Addie.
“That was a sawed-off twelve gauge. A big ugly shotgun. He was trying to shoot at my tires.”
“But you said they were bullet proof.”
“Sure, from a single slug. But tires are surrounded by hydraulic lines, air hoses and wiring. All kinds of delicate machinery. If he can get a lucky shot near the wheel well with the shotgun, he can take out our brake lines or damage the electrical system. Then we'd be in trouble.”
“So what's he doing now?”
“Mourning the loss of his paint job. And trying to figure how to get close to the front of my rig without getting pushed off the road.”
“He's going to wreck a hundred thousand dollar SUV to recover a hundred thousand dollars?”
“It's not about the money. Not anymore,” said Rice.
At that moment, I-90 swung to the south, following the Clark Fork River channel, and the SUV momentarily disappeared from view. Between the highway and the waterway was the old highway, running parallel with them.
Addie had her eye on the GPS. “We're about twenty miles from Mullan. Maybe we can shake them there!”
“I don't think we'll shake them. They'll just slow down through the town, in case anyone notices, and catch up to us again on the other side.”
“Did you order this truck with bullet proof glass or is that standard from the factory?”
“The trucker who sold this rig to me did long-haul into Mexico. He got tired of bandits stealing his load.”
“What was he hauling?”
“Tequila.”
“I could use one right now. Any left in the back?”
“Sorry. I needed the space.”
“What did you say you had back there, again?”
“Marijuana.”
“Since this is probably going to be our last day on earth together, don't you think I deserve to know something about you that's not a lie?”
Rice thought about that for a minute. “This isn't going to be your last day on earth. You're going to grow old and raise a dozen grandchildren. I, on the other hand, might not make it to sunset.”
“Might be a good time to get things off your chest.”
Rice was silent for a long time, his eyes on the rear camera.
“You're some kind of ex-cop or soldier, aren't you?” said Addie.
“You wish,” said Rice, just as Slugger pulled away from the pack of bikers and roared up beside the semi for one more assault. The passenger with the shotgun took aim at one of the back tires and fired two quick blasts. Rice held the steering wheel and scanned his gauges. No lights went on and the truck continued to roll straight and true. Then he cut over to the shoulder on the right and pulled back to the main lane, causing the trailer to fishtail over sharply, right into the rear quarter panel of the Escalade. Tit for tat. The flick of the semi's heavy tail pushed the SUV across the highway, the giant tires squealing on the pavement. Despite the highly modified springs and lift kit, only one tire left the ground. And the Mossberg was still poking out of the window, probably freshly loaded. And overtaking the Kenworth.
“Slugger has a problem,” said Rice. “His fancy truck is too high off the ground. One sharp turn and he will be airborne.” Slugger was almost even with the driver's door of the semi again, moving in for the kill. Rice cranked the steering wheel hard to the left, sending the truck rolling into the passing lane.
The Mossberg fired once before the side of the semi struck the Escalade. Rice heard the crunch of sheet metal and saw sparks fly. The Escalade veered away, then over-corrected, wobbled at speed, then twisted sideways and flipped through the air; not a lazy rotation like you might see in the movies, but a vicious high-speed roll. All of the forward momentum and weight of the Slade was instantly transferred into a violent tumbling motion that threw off body parts and glass and sheet metal panels and chrome attachments - all a blur of black and chrome in Rice's side mirror, finally plowing down into the blacktop and turning the shiny SUV into a battered, twisted, and smoking wreck.
Then Rice felt the pull on the wheel and watched lights flashing on the console - warnings he was not aware of before. An AIR BRAKES light was flashing red, and he could hear the hiss of pressurized gas coming from the left side. He could smell diesel as well. The shotgun blast probably hit a steel fuel line running along the left frame to the engine. Then the engine hesitated and coughed, and Rice realized the beast was dying. He checked his mirrors, knowing he only had about a thousand yards before the rig rolled to a halt. A turn off onto the old road loomed ahead, so Rice steered into the off ramp, coasting onto the gravel, old growth trees forming a tunnel around them.
The location on the GPS read Whiskey Gulch, a spot where the highways cuts through the valley with the Clark Fork River running parallel. They were in the middle of one hundred miles of empty Idaho highway.
Several of the bikers held back and surrounded Slugger's demolished Escalade; four others followed Rice into the turn off.
“Do we run for it?” asked Addie.
“No need,” said Rice, who had pulled a gun from the glove box and was inserting a new mag.
“You just killed their leader. Aren't they going to be pissed?”
Two of the bikers were off their bikes and walking towards the semi, one on the right, one on the left. The biker on the left grabbed the lock on the back and gave it a tug. “The problem with Harleys is they have no trunk. No place to keep a tire iron or a rusty wrench.” Rice watched as the biker swore and shrugged his shoulders, realizing he would need some serious tools in order to make even a dent in the truck's security system. The biker took out his gun, a Colt 45, and aimed at one of the locks.
Rice was drinking from a water bottle he kept in the side door cup holder, one eye on the side mirror.
“The locks are bulletproof. The only way in is with a plasma cutter.”
They both heard two shots.
“Why do they want to break in?” asked Addie.
“Curious. They must figure I'm carrying something valuable.”
“Are you?”
Rice looked over and put the cap back on the water bottle. “It doesn't matter, because they aren't getting in. The truck is too secure. And they're too dumb.”
“What about us?”
“Bulletproof steel and glass. Let's just wait until the highway patrol shows up and sees the accident on the highway. These hairy losers will disappear in seconds.”
On cue, two more Harleys entered the side road from the highway and stopped behind the trailer, out of view from the side mirrors, but clearly visible on the NAV display's rear camera.
Rice and Addie watched as the four men conferred, gesturing and pointing towards the Kenworth. The two got off their bikes and strolled up to the truck. One pulled a side arm out of his leather jacket and took several poorly aimed shots at the locks on the rear doors.
“You sure they can't shoot their way into the back?” asked Addie, adjusting the brightness on the color display.
“This rig was modified by a company out of Colorado that does work for the FBI and the military. The President's Tahoe for example. Bullet and bomb-proofed the entire vehicle.”
“So the Tequila story was just that - a story?”
“No. This started out as a long-haul truck to Mexico. I just had some modifications done. I had a lot of idle years to think about what the future might bring.”
“Was this one of them?”
Rice smiled. “No. Slugger and his scruffy army never came to mind. But it works all the same.”
Addie tapped the display screen with one finger. “I thought we were down to five.” Rice watched as four more bikes entered the side road.
“Reinforcements. There are probably more on the way. No one wants to miss the party.”
Addie gave Rice a look as if to say, You think this is fun? Rice handed her a fresh bottle of water from the center console.
“Drink. You need to hydrate. It might be a long night
.”
“I thought you said once the highway patrol finds the wreck, these guys will scatter.”
“Look,” said Rice, pointing to her side mirror.
A flatbed truck had turned into the busy side road, driven by two gang members. On the back was the crushed and demolished carcass of Slugger's Escalade.
“This gang is more organized that I thought. They cleaned up the accident.”
Behind the flatbed were a dozen more bikers, all wearing the Satan's Raiders colors, flowing into the narrow roadway like a hairy army of ants.
CHAPTER 29
Yakima Valley Memorial Hospital, Washington State
WILSON WAS SWIMMING UP, his lungs burning, his arms strangely numb and unresponsive. He could almost make out voices, sounding like they were dull and sleepy and he was under water. The liquid felt warm; as comforting as amniotic fluid, but something drove him up anyway. Some long forgotten promise nagged at him, made him want to cry out.
He opened his eyes and saw that he was in a hospital bed. He felt an oxygen tube attached to his nose, the pinch of an IV pulling at his arm. Then he remembered. He was plunging down the ravine when his van began to roll. He was driven into the steel dash with his forehead, then tumbled around in the back with the assorted detritus of his life: tent poles, a sharp-nosed shovel, a sleeping bag, a box of worn comic books. He saw Hellboy lurch past his field of vision for a few seconds, the primary colors of the cover giving him a few fractured seconds of hope. Then the crunch came and a shovel hit him in the head. Then nothing.
He pulled back the sheet. His legs looked fine. His left arm was in a cast and a thick bandage was wrapped around his upper chest. Ribs. He’d cracked a rib. Then he pulled himself up on the bed. No … more than one rib. It had to be more. The pain almost made him pass out.
He held his side and looked around. He was in a semi-private room and the other bed was empty. This surprised him. How could he afford a semi private? The mountain man! He must have done this for him. Wilson had to follow through and keep his promise. The hermit on the ridge had told him, if something goes sour, he had a simple instruction to follow.
Call the mountain man’s friends and give them the code. Don’t wait for anything.
CHAPTER 30
Whiskey Gulch, Montana
FOR SEVERAL HOURS, the bikers huddled in small groups; some talking on cell phones, sitting on their hogs, a few drinking beer brought to them by one of the gang members with a jacked-up pickup truck. Their ranks continued to swell as if a call-out had been broadcast, or tribal pheromones were on the wind, drawing in everyone with a gang affiliation.
Rice guessed the biker's most immediate concern was Slugger's condition. If he survived the crash at all. The bikers didn't look like they were in mourning, so Rice guessed Slugger had been taken to the closest hospital and was still alive. No one seemed at the center of the group, no one providing direction.
Rice was growing restless. It was early evening now, only a few hours from nightfall. He suspected the Satan's Raiders were waiting for the cover of darkness to make their move.
“Uh oh,” murmured Addie. Her eyes on the display screen. Bikers were throwing down their beer cans and joining a tight circle of men immediately behind the trailer.
“They think we can't see them,” she said. “They're up to something.”
The group split off into two teams, and both headed to the pickup truck that supplied the beer. One biker dropped the tailgate and started handing tools to the rest of the men. Rice estimated there were now about thirty of them lining up behind the pickup.
“That's a chainsaw,” said Addie. “What are they going to do with a chainsaw?”
Rice watched one biker put his hand on the pull starter and throw the saw to his side with his right arm. The saw growled into life with one casual motion. These guys knew chainsaws. He guessed people who grew up in the wilds of Washington State or British Columbia had lots of familiarity with wood cutting tools.
Within minutes, the air was filled with the irritating buzz of two-cycle gasoline engines. Addie had her nose up to the glass of the side window. Rice touched her shoulder and drew her back. He could see that several gang members were circling the eighteen-wheeler, all armed.
“Don't touch the glass. It's shatter proof, but if a bullet...” One of the bikers in front of the truck fired at the front windshield. There was a loud crack, then the sound of a bullet ricocheting into the air above the rig. “When a bullet hits, it can transfer its energy to whatever is touching. I've seen soldiers shatter all the bones in their hands doing that.”
Addie moved back in her seat and crossed her arms. She had seen two of the bikers hauling tree limbs and deadfall toward the Kenworth, then push it under with their feet. More were dragging freshly cut trees into the clearing.
“I don't suppose this truck is fireproof,” said Addie, her voice vibrating slightly.
Three bikers then began to fire into the windshield and side windows of Rice's truck. Every impact made Addie jump slightly. She had her head down in the seat; her legs pulled up. Rice leaned over and touched her shoulder.
“They can't break the glass or penetrate the doors or roof. You're safe.”
“And when they light all those trees underneath us?” Addie was yelling over the barrage of bullets. The bikers had decided that constant hail of gunfire might have a psychological effect on the occupants, or they were just letting their frustrations out.
Rice reached into one of the storage bins in the center console and pulled out a handset microphone, like the kind used on CB radios. He pressed a few buttons on the touch screen and adjusted the volume control.
“I need to speak to Slugger,” he said and they could both hear Rice's voice boom out from speakers hidden beneath the carriage of the truck.
The gunfire stopped. The bikers standing in front of the Kenworth had looks of surprise on their faces. They exchanged glances. Then one of the men yelled for someone called Vader. Rice watched one biker in the rear camera peel away from three others and lumber toward the front of the Kenworth. He was gigantic, round and fully bearded. At least six foot three or four, and weighing north of three hundred pounds. He had long graying hair tied under a red buff. He walked up to a point exactly centered on the front hood of the truck, took a wide stance and crossed his arms.
“Throw out the money. Or you'll be on tonight's dinner menu. We call it 'Blackened Trucker'. It's one of my favorites.”
“You're going to burn a hundred grand?” asked Rice.
“It will be worth it. We'll enjoy the video for years to come.”
“And what's to say you don't light a fire after we turn over the cash?” said Rice, his voice sounding like God on a telephone line. Even the chainsaws had stopped burping long enough so everyone could hear.
Vader looked over at the other men, some who were still hauling firewood. “Here's what I will promise you. Throw out the money, and the girl won't burn. That's the deal.”
“That's not much of a deal,” said Rice.
“It's the best you're going to get. You killed four of our men.”
Rice turned off the microphone and turned to Addie. “It's your call.”
“Are you serious? You can't bargain with these Cro-Magnons. You're a smart guy. I know you must have a plan B.”
Rice clicked the handset back on. “Where's Slugger?”
“ER in Richland. What do you care? You put him there.”
“If he knew how to drive, he might still be on the highway.”
“He's in rough shape. But when I deliver your head to him, he's going to feel a lot better.”
“OK. We'll give you the cash. But we need a few minutes to pack up our stuff.”
Vader whistled to the bikers in the trees, and the chainsaws started up again.
“Take all the time you need, asshole. The more time you give us, the bigger the barbecue.”
CHAPTER 31
Yakima Valley Memorial Hospital
&nb
sp; WILSON FOUND A PLASTIC BAG in a drawer in his hospital room containing torn jeans and a favorite tee he bought once at a Tragically Hip concert in Vancouver. The shirt wasn't going to work though and he felt like crying. Clearly they had cut it off his body, around his broken arm, when the paramedics picked him up. He had a vague recollection of being in an ambulance, the siren warbling distantly as he slipped in and out of consciousness. He was betting on a concussion. Double vision came and went, along with a buzzing in his ears, and brief bouts of dizziness.
He managed to crawl into his jeans using his good arm and tucked his dressing gown into his pants like a half-assed shirt. Every time he bent over or twisted, his ribs felt like they were being yanked out with tongs. He swallowed hard and tried to ignore the drone in his head that was drowning out his thoughts.
He had talked to the man on the mountain several times over the years about an emergency plan. What to do if he suddenly disappears or intruders show up? The two guys who’d pushed Wilson over the cliff were obvious examples of people who shouldn't have been on the side of the mountain that morning. They both looked like cops, both had buzz cuts and hard eyes. Wilson figured they were twins except one was beefier. They'd grabbed his bumper and heaved him over the edge like he was garbage going into the recycling bin. He hadn't seen a sliver of human emotion on their faces.
Wilson had promised the mountain guy - that was all he knew him as, he’d never supplied a name in all the years Wilson had played delivery boy - if something happened, he would get a message to an emergency contact. Wilson had a phone number and a code word. If he followed through, he would get $10,000. He liked the man who lived on the mountain and wished him no harm. Of course, the 10g's was a small fortune.
There were rules. No cell phone traceable to Wilson. Which would be easy considering Wilson's phone was now buried in a pile of crap in a VW Wagon lying upside down at the base of Crearie’s Wash.
