The inside of the garage was very different from the weathered and dilapidated exterior. Clean and well lit, with a long tool bench down the length of the right wall and a rack of power tools down the left, it would have fit right in at Pit Road in Daytona or Gasoline Alley in Indianapolis. Rick noticed that, on the inside, the garage walls were strong with no gaps. Obviously, there was an element of camouflage in the construction.
There were two hydraulic lifts but only one was in use. The car up in the air was painted a scalding red and looked dangerous just sitting still.
"GTO?” asked Rick.
"Yeah, that's The Judge." Iron Crow ran his eyes lovingly over the length of the sleek body. "Moves like crazy once you get it out on some blacktop." He laughed and turned back to the tool bench. "Of course, there's not all that much blacktop out here on the rez, so I'm rigging the shocks and springs to give it more ground clearance. Car like this can't really go fast on dirt, but at least I can keep it from killing the passengers before they can get it on a highway. Now, tell me about Pete. Where did you see him and when is he coming out?"
Rick didn't say anything. After a second, Iron Crow gave a long sigh. "Yeah, that's what I was afraid of. Just figured there might be a chance. What happened?"
Rick told him the story of the past two nights. The old man rested against the tool bench; the dark eyes never left Rick's face, and the lines in his face seemed to deepen, every vestige of the humor Rick had seen just moments before fading into stone.
"He told me to give you a couple of messages," Rick concluded. "Said thanks for all your work in 'Nam and to tell his dad to come by and pick up the Buick."
"The Buick, huh?" Iron Crow turned back to the bench and began idly to put a set of wrenches in order by size. "He didn't have any damn Buick. He found a '55 Roadmaster somewhere in Saigon and had it dragged out to Bien Hoa. Presented it to me and expected me to fix it—said it was perfect except for the bullet holes across the driver's side door.
"But hell, there are hardly any parts anywhere for those old Buicks. Sure as shit weren't any over there. It never got off cinderblocks, but he used to get in, lean back, and smoke whenever he was waiting for assignment. Said he could hear the radio playing. Frank Sinatra, usually."
He placed the last wrench down on the bench with utmost care and turned back to Rick. "Whenever he took off on a particularly dangerous mission, he'd tell me to make sure his Dad got the Buick. I'd say it would be waiting for him when he got back."
"OK…” Iron Crow paused, swallowed, and then continued. "OK, clearly he was telling me to treat you the same way I treated him. What do you need?"
Rick felt that saying anything sympathetic would be a mistake. Iron Crow would grieve alone. "He gave me something to deliver."
"What?"
"Can't say."
"Who's it going to?"
"Can't say."
Iron Crow gave a short laugh. "Well, that's helpful. Can you at least give me an idea how far you need to go?"
"About three or four hundred miles tonight," Rick waved at the GTO. "I'm more used to motorcycles than this kind of big iron. I'd probably put that right into the ditch on the first turn. You know of a bike I can borrow?"
"Hey, you're forgetting that out here you could easily go a couple of hundred miles before you'd have to turn at all, but, yeah, I think I've got a two-wheeler back here somewhere." Iron Crow headed toward the back of the garage, pulled aside a pallet filled with crates of motor oil—Rick noticed the pallet was on wheels—and revealed a hinged steel panel closed with a hasp and padlock.
The older man looked back and smiled. "We used to steal ponies to prove our courage. Now the young men like to 'borrow' a good motorcycle. From the outside, the walls just continue. No one notices that there's a separate space back here."
He reached in and flipped a light switch, then duck-walked through the low opening, Rick following. On the other side was a small narrow space, as clean as the rest of the garage.
Two motorcycles were up on rocker lifts. One was a classic Harley, a Sportster with the chrome touches and leather fringe of a classic. The other wasn't anything Rick recognized, a mean-looking orange and black with one big cylinder pointing straight ahead, and the other straight up. "What's this?"
"This is Ducati's answer to the Japanese superbikes." Iron Crow rubbed his hand along the bench style seat. "Top speed of 125 and enough torque to pull the front wheel up in fifth gear. I put a custom race fairing on it, and some tank padding for your chin in case you want to get flat at top speed, but the rest is stock."
"Never seen one before." Rick crouched to get a better look at the engine. "Pretty slick."
He stood up. "How does it handle?"
Iron Crow stood on the rocker pedal and lowered the bike to the ground. "Here, see how it feels."
Rick threw his leg over the seat and grasped the front grips. "Nice. More solid than I'm used to with anything Italian."
"Yeah, that's the part that Ducati really got right. This is the first inline twin 750 Ducati made and, by rights, it should be a piece of crap." He leaned down and buffed an invisible speck of dust off the front fender. "Taglioni, their chief engineer, is a goddamn genius. It's not only faster than hell, but it has great handling, good brakes, and these Pirellis hold on the road like glue."
Rick grinned. "OK, I'm sold. Can I borrow it for a couple of days?"
"Sure. But I think we're going to have to do a bit of logistical planning if you're going to make it to Lame Deer in one night."
He waved his hand as Rick began to shake his head. "I know. I know. I don't know anything. Nevertheless, that's where you're going, and from what I hear, you had better hurry. Tribal Council is meeting tomorrow night."
Iron Crow began to calculate in his head. "That's about 300, 350 miles as the crow flies and more like 400 if you'd prefer to stay on asphalt. Are you going to leave your passenger here? Less weight, more miles per gallon."
"I don't weigh enough to worry about." Eve's voice came from the other side of the wall. "Anyway he's going to need someone to keep him from falling asleep."
The two men looked at each other. Rick shrugged and Iron Crow laughed.
"I'm not even going to try and argue this one," he said. "Now, my boy used to race before he joined up." He saw the look on Rick's face. "No, he's in the Navy on a submarine somewhere. Good sonar op from what I hear. Maybe it's because of his spirit animal—cetan nagin—the night hawk."
"That means we've got a full set of leathers he left up in his room." He measured Rick with a look. "Don't think they'll fit you, but they'll slide right on your eavesdropping friend out there."
There was a disgusted snort from the garage.
Iron Crow continued, "You've got the leather jacket, and I think I can fit you into some of my chaps over your jeans. Don't argue. The Black Hills will get damn cold tonight. Do you know what route you're going to take?"
"Figured I'd just go back the same way we came down." Rick tapped his forehead. "For once this bear-trap memory of mine will be good for something besides the nightly 'Midnight Movies' replay of Vietnam."
"Total recall, huh?"
"Cinemascope and 3-D Surround Sound. You?"
"I was a REMF, remember? I just had to patch up the bullet holes, clean the crap out of the flight suit, and refill the tanks." He paused. "Speaking of which, this bike may be 'super' but it ain't magic. You're going to need gas."
"Guess there aren't too many all-night stations up in the mountains."
"No, there aren't and if someone is on your tail, as I assume they are, the ones that are open are going to be the first places they'll look. No, we'll have to do it the way they chased buffalo in the old times. The hunters would have fresh horses waiting for them along the way, and they would jump from one horse to another without touching the ground. Now, at the big rodeos, they call it Indian Relays, and the tribes compete over bragging rights." He laughed. "You wasichu think you invented the Pony Express. Hah."
Eve was seated cross-legged on the oilcans. If Rick didn't know better, he would have sworn she looked smug.
He certainly knew better than to mention it.
CHAPTER 11
April 27, 1973, Pine Ridge Reservation, South Dakota
The road ran straight until it disappeared into a horizon smeared with red and orange interleaved with bands of blue. The bike felt as solid as a rock, but Rick knew the odds—the first 30 minutes on a new motorcycle were the most dangerous—so he kept the speed down to 60. Since there were no other cars on the road, he was bending curves from side to side—trying to find the limits.
"Hold on," he said over his shoulder. He felt Eve's arms tighten around him as she curved to his back. He slammed on the brakes and let the heavy machine slide to a stop.
"That was interesting," she said. "Was there a reason for that, or is there a stop sign 20 miles ahead?"
"Just finding out what she wants to do in a crisis."
"She?"
"Yeah." He took off again, letting the rear tire throw a bit of smoke this time, and then pulled the engine all the way up to the red line before shifting. He blew past 60 miles per hour in second gear and backed off the gas. He took it up to fourth gear still trying to get used to the odd one-up, four-down gear shift and let the engine settle to a steady purr. "Funny. All my other bikes have been male. This one is undeniably a woman."
"I'm waiting for the bad jokes. Hard to handle? High maintenance? Or simply Italian?"
He laughed. "No jokes. It's just a feeling. Be glad she hasn't told me her name yet."
"What did I do wrong?" She put her chin on his shoulder. "Fell for a man who identifies the sex of his transportation. Just promise me you won't leave me for Gigi here."
"Gigi? That's her name?" he asked in mock surprise.
"Why not? No crazier than anything else we've done."
"OK, Gigi." Rick drew back on the throttle, "Let's see what you can do."
The coarse brown grass that stretched in all directions seemed to divide and blur like water around a speedboat as the needle crept up to 75, 90, 100, 120. The V-twin engine was loud but nowhere near straining, and the bike felt solid on the flat and well-maintained blacktop.
Rick bent forward to bring most of his body behind the small racing-style windshield, resting his chin on the pad. As he did, he could feel Eve shift back a bit and tighten down. Her head was resting sideways on his back like on a pillow. He could feel the tiny increase in speed as her helmet moved out of the wind stream.
Riding a bike with a racing fairing felt like being inside a cylinder of oiled glass knifing through the buffeting turbulence of the air around them. There was just enough force against his chest from the air blast through the cowling to hold his torso up, and the position wasn't nearly as tiring as he expected.
A yellow highway sign came into sight, breaking the endless stretch of road and the rolling grass on both sides. He brought the speed down to 75, still concerned about how well his reflexes were meshing with the temperamental machine.
"With Gigi." He smiled at the thought,
The sign showed a curve to the left, the first since they'd left Oglala. As they bent into the turn, the sun came out from behind a bank of clouds on the horizon and blazed red into his eyes. They were heading just enough south of west to put it right in the center of the highway ahead.
Shapes appeared in the distance. Rick blinked and squinted, trying to focus through the shifting haze of red sunlight and deep shadow.
He couldn't be certain but kicked down a gear and opened the throttle just in case. In his experience, it was generally a bad idea to slow down when going into an unknown and possibly dangerous situation. Speed and quick reflexes were a better combination than caution and disk brakes.
As the Ducati surged and the speedometer crept over the 100 mph mark, he heard the crack of a rifle—clear even inside the bubble of calm air.
Then another.
He didn't feel any pain, and the bike didn't slow.
He figured they must have missed.
"Hang on!" he shouted and twisted the throttle to the stop. Eve’s arms and legs locked against him. The engine was screaming well into the red zone, and the bike's torque—even in third gear—felt like a rocket sled.
The shapes became pickup trucks on either side of the road. He had a brief glimpse of men swiveling—trying to keep the motorcycle in their sights as it flashed by.
The sun finally set, and the road cleared, straight and empty.
The empty part was good, but the straight road meant that he would soon be, effectively, a motionless target for the men behind him. Even this bike wasn't going to outrun a bullet.
He backed off the throttle enough to gain some steering traction and began to cut curves across both lanes of the road, counter-steering against the intense forces of inertia that pushed the bike back into a straight line. After a couple of swooping curves, he touched the rear brake and dropped down a couple of gears, adding some more uncertainty to his path. He could feel Eve pull even tighter against his back, trying to make them one body and one movement.
Ahead was another yellow sign. Grinning like a fool, he cut into the apex of the right turn from one edge of the road to the other and back out. When the bike was again upright, he took it up to 110.
"You OK?" he asked over his shoulder.
"Now you ask." Her voice was calm. With her mouth so close to his ear, she didn't have to shout. "I couldn’t see much and this helmet is blocking most sound. What happened?"
"They were waiting for us."
"Be nice to know who 'they' are."
"Yeah. 'Who are those guys?' might have worked in the movies but it's a pain in real life."
"On the other hand, let's not stop and find out. OK?" She loosened her grip and shifted into a more comfortable position. "I'm willing to live with uncertainty."
"No argument. I've never felt the need to meet someone who was shooting at me."
"They were shooting?" He could feel her body stiffen, then slowly and consciously relax. "You didn't mention that little fact. I'm covering your back, you know."
"You and a ten-gallon can of gas," he said. "Hey, could you reach back and check the cords? Hate to lose it."
"At this speed? No, no, and hell no." Her helmet twisted, and her right arm slid back from his waist. "Seems to be there. By the way, we're being followed."
"I know. That's what these mirrors are for."
"Don't be a jerk."
She put her hand back around him and settled back into her tuck. "So now what?"
"Now we dance."
She gave him a squeeze. "OK, trooper. Go ahead and dance."
He kicked down into fifth gear and opened the throttle.
It was full dark when they reached Oelrichs, a T-intersection with a small gas station decorated with half-buried whitewashed tires—apparently to keep cars from driving on a tiny strip of grass and flowers.
It was closed.
As they turned north, Rick could see lights behind him—still comfortably far away but they'd been closer every time he looked. This road was busier than the stretch from Oglala, and he'd had to bring his speed down to 75. It seemed to be the unofficial speed limit on these endless stretches of desert highway.
After the fast dash across the flatlands, it felt like cruising. He straightened his back and alternated stretching his legs in front to relieve the stiffness. Eve took her hands from his waist and began twisting from side to side.
"Feeling a bit stiff?” he asked.
"Well, the parts of me that can still feel, feel stiff. I've lost all contact with quite a few parts of me." She wriggled into position against his back. "On the other hand, the last time I could feel my bottom, it hurt, so by and large, I don't miss it."
Her voice turned serious. "What's next? You may not have noticed but those guys are still back there."
“Yeah, and I'll bet there's a pay phone at that last gas station," he answered. "So they could be moving people in ahead of us. It's time to do something sneaky."
"Oh, good." She pulled in a little tighter. "'Sneaky' is my second favorite way I've seen you act."
"What's your favorite?"
"I can't remember, but I think it had to do with the parts of me that I can't feel any more."
Suddenly, headlights flared in front of him. He snapped his eyes to the white line at the right side of the road to keep from being blinded and used peripheral vision to track the oncoming car. The idiot had his high beams on. Rick flicked his own high beams with his thumb, but there was no dimming of the lights bearing down on him, and now, he could see the bastard was crossing into his lane.
"Hold on!" he shouted and swerved over to the right almost into the gravel on the verge. The lights moved right as well. There were only seconds left.
He snapped off his lights, braked for a second, and cut left. The rear tire skidded and almost broke loose, but he dropped down in the gears, opened the throttle, and felt the rubber grab the asphalt. They were still moving to the left when he snapped past the oncoming pickup, and there was no time to get back before they hit the edge of the raised road.
The ground dropped out from under his wheels, and he locked his knees on the tank to make his body one with the bike so it would fly straight. A sudden jerk and a snap from the front end and then they slammed down—bottoming out the springs on front and back—and bounced up again—throwing him into a standing position on the foot pegs.
He thumbed the lights on but saw only a rushing picture of short grass ahead. They hit again, and this time he brought his weight down hard on the saddle and kept them from going airborne again. Carefully, he worked the brakes and slowed enough to bring them around in a wide turn so that they were heading north again.
He flicked on his high beams and then cut the lights off again. They were off the road and in some sort of field, flat ahead, and that was all he needed to know. He put the bike in first and took off.
Warrior (Freelancer Book 2) Page 7
