Hard Road: Deadly Horizon (Dark Plague Book 2)

by Bradley West

  Burns said nothing, but feared that if they did that enough times the troops would open fire. There was no way he was dying while Sal Maggio’s heart still beat. “Find Moffitt Library and let’s stake it out,” he said. “I’m supposed to meet Katerina and Norris there in an hour and a half. If they escaped and are on foot, maybe they’ll show up.”

  “You’re really naïve, aren’t you?” Muller asked.

  * * * * *

  Progress was slow because they had to lie flat whenever a flashlight swept nearby. Katerina crept past the last parked vehicle, a tow truck. Once she reached the corner, she took a right and felt along the wall, dirty hands becoming filthier. Her palm touched metal and her hand traced the vertical gap defining the door frame. “I found it,” she said in a low voice full of triumph. She wanted nothing more than to hear Specs’ gun butt crash into Norris’ temple, but why would the teacher’s pet do that?

  “Don’t just stand there, open it!” Norris said, still fuming from the fake hostage ploy.

  Katerina twisted the knob and gave it a yank. “It’s locked.” The tunnel door was unlocked during daylight hours on weekdays. She searched below the doorknob and found a protruding shackle, hasp and heavy lock. “It’s padlocked,” she said more loudly than she meant to. Her ears strained for evidence someone had heard her.

  “Outta my way,” Norris said, shouldering her aside. He confirmed her assessment but didn’t seem too upset. “Specs, it’s a big sucker. I’ll need a large pair of socket wrenches, at least a 1" and a 1 1/4". There’ll be a set in that tow truck. Take my headlamp but keep it covered.”

  Specs carefully set down the iced flask and reversed direction. At the truck’s side, he covered the headlamp with his hand and switched it on, using the gaps between his fingers to leak enough light to find the keylock insertion point on the external cabinet. He popped the lock with his Leatherman, raised the door and had a shine inside. No dice. He walked around to the opposite side and repeated the task, this time finding a plastic toolbox full of wrenches and screwdrivers. He walked back and presented his prize. “Here you go.”

  “What took you so fucking long?” Norris asked. He found the right pair of wrenches and held them up. “Put a light on these.”

  Katerina didn’t impress easily, but Norris broke open the shackle inside of four seconds. She resolved to be a bit more polite moving forward so he wouldn’t turn that strength on her.

  Once the three of them were inside and the door safely shut, Norris turned on his headlamp. “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “Follow me. The tunnel is thirty yards (27 meters) and then Valley Life Sciences is more than a hundred yards long. I’m guessing we want to exit at the other end.”

  Norris said to Specs, “Bring that box of wrenches and don’t drop the vaccine, either.”

  * * * * *

  Dirty Pete did a doubletake when he saw the light show and heard the fireworks. He gunned it back to the Berkeley Marina fuel barge and found Nails smoking a cigarette with the Guardies.

  Nails heard his brother before he saw him and knew the plan had changed. He’d already stashed the surplus cash in the saddlebags and had his vintage Fat Boy revving when Dirty Pete’s Harley Cruiser pulled to a stop. “The Guard hit our building! We have to get back.” The two fueled-up behemoths accelerated down University Avenue headed east and into the teeth of the storm.

  * * * * *

  Travis had hit the wall. It wasn’t just his multiple wounds and last week being sewn up ineptly at a veterinarian’s office, the two pints of blood transfused, the corrective surgery in Sal’s spare bedroom or the lack of proper food and sleep for almost a week. He’d been in the military for eight years, and the frantic mission cycles had left him addicted to his stress hormones. The DEA stint in South Asia had been a halfway house for a warfighter adrenaline junkie handling manageable post-traumatic stress. Since leaving the DEA in 2014, he’d married, fathered twins, gotten sued by the IRS, divorced and bottomed out into alcoholism before a resurrection in 2016. The last couple of years, he’d constructed a life not dependent on snapping bullets and fight-or-flight brain chemistry. Along the way, he’d also built a reputable business in Ride Out Security and its core client, the Biosafety Level 4 lab where Carla worked. He’d stopped the booze and the pain pills, and used meditation to reverse the brain wiring that had made him such an effective SEAL operator and DEA security expert.

  Starting this past March when Covid-19 first struck, his problems had been boredom, a plague-driven business downturn and the absence of meaningful people in his life other than his two little boys, his former stepdaughter and, on a good day, his ex-wife. They were down in Texas, either hiding in a bunker with Sally’s asshole new boyfriend, or worse.

  As of a week ago, his dream girl Carla Maggio was almost within his grasp. She’d recruited him to the Maggios’ cause and here he was again, pushing forty and down that fear/thrill hormone rabbit hole that made life so exhilarating when under fire and so unbearably dull otherwise. He didn’t know if his body could keep up this frenetic pace, but his nagging worry was that he’d save this woman and her family only to be dropped when they reached their destination. He and Carla hadn’t spent five minutes alone together in the past week, at least not while awake. When she’d asked him what was on his mind just now, it came as a surprise. “I’m really tired, and a bit beat up, but otherwise fine,” he’d lied.

  They sat on the tailgate of the new Silverado they’d stolen from Karen Vargo. “You’re awfully quiet,” she probed. “I was expecting more, well . . . energy since I’ve only ever seen you operate at full steam.”

  He didn’t know if she was mocking him, challenging him or genuinely concerned. His confusion must have shown because Carla locked those green eyes onto his and turned to give him a kiss that he felt all the way to his toes. She made it last too, and from the press of her body against his, there was more behind it. When they came up for air, she put her finger to his lips when he tried to speak.

  “Don’t spoil the moment. Listen to what I’m telling you.” Carla eased herself on top, careful to avoid his injured left side.

  Travis found himself on his back staring at the evening sky before a cascade of copper hair snuffed out the light. His eyes closed as her lips locked onto his for the longest time. As her erect nipples pressed through her blouse against his chest, his tension melted and his muscles relaxed, most of them anyway.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  BFF

  Friday, July 17, 2020: Berkeley, California; outside Winnemucca, Nevada; and Route 95 northbound, from twilight until night.

  Nails saw the flashing lights from the pig-mobiles blocking the road, reached into his vest and skinned the Uzi. He’d always wanted to do a full-on Terminator strafing run, and here was the opportunity.

  The retired Army sniper and National Guard reservist had Nails in his laser sights at three hundred meters, heard “Send it” through his earpiece and pressed the trigger. The 7.62 round hit Nails square in the chest, knocking him back like a tin can off a fencepost. The Guardsman’s rules of engagement allowed him to shoot only armed people. The second biker was unarmed, but there was still time for a fatal mistake and the soldier tracked him with keen interest.

  Dirty Pete was riding abreast when his brother dismounted at seventy miles per hour. He swung his Cruiser around in a tight U-turn and drove past Nail’s motionless form. If the bullet hadn’t killed him, the head trauma had as attested to by the spatter of brains and blood.

  Dirty Pete swore and throttled back as he looped around to face the aggressors and gathered his thoughts. He was two hundred yards from those cop cars. Just bug out. No, not yet. What would Norris do? He never left easy money behind. Pete cruised over to Nails’ wrecked Fat Boy and scooped the cash-laden saddlebags. The battered Uzi lay in the street and Pete wanted to grab that too, but as he idled the bike, the hairs rose on the back of his neck.

  An inbound cop car hit the siren and bore down. Pete revved
his engine and retreated at speed before turning off University and zigzagging down several residential streets. He stopped in an alley and cut the engine. He listened for sounds of pursuit but heard no one. He kickstarted his Cruiser and engaged in fifteen minutes of fruitless cat-and-mouse probes of the perimeter. The shadows lengthened, and Dirty Pete had concluded that any brothers still free would head out. With the Oakland warehouse blown up and their main clubhouse a Covid deathtrap, the hideout above Lake Tahoe was the last resort. He slowed at a corner and peeked around it to see if yet another black-and-white or Army truck sat down the block. All he glimpsed was a dark figure hunched behind a pile of curbside trash.

  “Souls?” Dirty Pete ventured and the man’s head whipped around. From a crouch, the Gollum-like figure turned and crabbed toward him in the fading light. Pete pulled his .45 M & P Shield and was a hair’s breadth from ventilating the bastard until he saw a familiar black vest and cropped head.

  The fugitive pulled up and showed his hands. “Pete? Is that you?” the short skinhead gasped.

  “Bails? Next time, say something. I almost scattered your shit.”

  “Fuck yeah!” Craig Bailey said. He was the smallest of the Souls but also the most loyal.

  “Climb aboard. Anyone else escape?”

  “I ain’t seen no one. I was on the way back from product drops when I saw the attack. I pulled up and fired till I went full Winchester, then rode off with bullets cracking past my head. One of the Joes shot out my rear wheel and I barely escaped. I’ve been running ever since. It’s quieted down; just a single shot a while back.”

  “That was Nails: a cop sniped him off his bike. Dead as fuck not twenty minutes ago. Hold on. We’re running to the Mountain House.”

  * * * * *

  Carla and Travis drifted off in each other’s arms, victims of cumulative fatigue and relief that the sex barrier was now behind them. He came around and absentmindedly stroked her hair, a brilliant red in the evening light.

  “Hooyah,” she said.

  “Hey, beautiful. Penny for your thoughts.”

  “I was thinking how happy I am to be here. I know how crazy that sounds, but work was a nightmare even before Covid-20. The lab’s an illegal biowarfare research operation and my boss was a kiss-up and kick-down type. After Henri and I broke up in June, I was on a bottle of wine-plus a night and Ambien, and lost a fortune gambling online. None of that mattered because life was meaningless. For all the horrors of the last week, at least I have a purpose.”

  Travis thought back to a week ago when he was packing Carla’s bags while the feds locked her down at work. While looking for her passport and spare cards, he’d seen credit card statements totaling more than sixty thousand dollars in cumulative charges in 2020. Carla had been betting poker heavily well before Henri split back to France. Travis kept quiet.

  Jaime cleared his throat as he approached, uncertain of how to interpret the tangle of feet resting on the pickup’s open tailgate. “Travis, if I’m not interrupting, we should talk about security.”

  Carla removed her head from Travis’ shoulder, allowing blood to flow to his tingling right arm. They separated and sat up, brains fuzzy and loins damp.

  “I’ve got to check on the others and make sure we’re ready to leave by nine,” Carla said. She hopped off the tailgate and walked away, not bothering to smooth out her clothes. Travis belonged to her and she wanted everyone to know it.

  “I’d like to scout ahead of the caravan in our best rig, the Silverado, with Yonten, Melvin and Johnny,” Jaime said. “Take the squad machinegun and grenade launcher, and run interference a mile or two out at the limits of our radios. That way we’ll have a better early warning system in place than we did before the state line.”

  “Johnny’s down with Covid-20,” Travis replied.

  “Not anymore. Tina says he’s fever-free and on the mend along with Erinn.”

  “What about Arkar?”

  “Still sick, but not life-threatening. Tina said to let him rest tonight.”

  “We’ll still need shooters to bring up the rear,” Travis said. “How about Tien, Carla and I take the Telluride and ride drag?”

  “Carla? She’s the caravan leader and you’re the deuce. We can’t have you together.”

  “The deuce? You voted me out as security head and you’re the new 2IC.”

  “Be serious, old man. You know you got this one.” Jaime clapped him on his good shoulder.

  “Okay. Move Carla to the green ’Bago where she can strategize with Sal. Derek and Tom can manage the supply truck, our slowest rig given all the barrels jammed into the back. Who do we have to pilot the hospital ’Bago?”

  “Either Zarni, Barb, Pat or Jeanie,” Jaime said. “I suggest you drop Barb. There are serious issues between us and she’s a bad driver at the best of times. Pat is distraught that Greg and Stephanie headed to Vegas with Tyson, and, based on the points on her license, I’d rule her out even if she were well.”

  “That leaves us with Zarni at the wheel and Arkar in the passenger’s seat,” Travis said. “Tina and Erinn can monitor Arkar’s vitals. Sal, Pat, Carla and the other fucking new guy, Kyle, can pile into the Horizon. Parcel everyone else out as you see fit.”

  “Sounds like plan,” Jaime said.

  “One more thing. When you have a chance, take Kyle through small-arms handling. We’ll need him to be able to point and shoot the next time things go tits up.”

  “You mean like later tonight?”

  “Precisely.”

  * * * * *

  The farther they ventured down the tunnel, the worse the smell became. “Specs, come up here,” Norris said. “Hand me the box with the Dark Cure. Take my headlamp and go all the way to the end. Find out if the door’s locked, and if so, from which side. Check for ventilation grills in the ceiling. Chances are the door’s locked and our only way out will be up through the HVAC ducts. You’ll have to crawl until you’re in the building, then come back to the other side and break another fucking padlock. Do you have a gun?”

  “Sure,” Specs said. He didn’t like where this was going, but Norris wouldn’t give a shit about that.

  “Don’t fire unless you have to; otherwise, we’re fucked even if you get away. We’ll go back a ways and stand where it doesn’t smell so bad.”

  * * * * *

  “How long do you want to wait, Elephant Man?” Muller asked.

  Elephant Man? Not an hour ago, Burns had offered Muller his Dark Cure sales revenues that could be worth millions, and his partner still insulted him. Muller had no decency, no class. One fine day in the future, he’d use the funds he’d steal from Muller to pay for his reconstructive surgeries. Laugh all you want, you psychopath.

  “At least until nine o’clock. You can’t expect them to be early.”

  “Every cop and Guardie in Berkeley is two blocks over,” Muller said. “They’ll widen their search and either question or arrest us. While we’re waiting, remind me why I need you? Seems I could just take the vaccine formula from Carla and sell it to a Pfizer?”

  “Because I know all the R & D heads, the strategy people and the senior managers in the pharma industry worldwide. I was the CEO of the biotech startup that produced the cure and I have the financial expertise to structure a royalty payout based on production, not sales, and enforceable in ways that keep us paid and alive. And that’s just icing. The real reason is that shysters have peddled fake cures to these companies for the last four months. Big pharma execs will only deal with people they know.”

  Catty-corner across the street and sixty yards away, the front entrance to the Valley Life Sciences Building sprung open. A muzzle flashed and the shot sounded, then another two reports, and they saw three people running with a light bobbing. Inside the building, a pair of flashlight beams played. One of the running figures stopped, turned and fired a shotgun several times in succession.

  “Motherfucker!” Muller exclaimed. “That’s my Benelli. That’ll be Norris.” He drew his Wa
lther and took two quick steps toward the fleeing trio.

  “Get the truck,” Burns said as loudly as his goldfish mouth allowed. “I’ll bring them to us.”

  Muller hesitated.

  “If Norris sees you coming, he’ll shoot,” Burns warned.

  Muller turned and ran toward the side street where they’d left the Ford.

  Burns now faced the unpleasant necessity of limping headlong into a firefight, holding a strange weapon and convincing his enemies to join up with him and an even bigger enemy. Burns hobbled down the steps and tried not to duck every time a gunshot sounded as he closed the gap. English charm to the rescue, one more time.

  * * * * *

  The five-vehicle caravan departed on time with Jaime’s advance party at the fore. Almost five hundred miles was a long way to drive without mishap in this strange and plague-ridden time. As per the arrangement, no one had entered their destination into a GPS or phone to frustrate pursuit and lower risks to the convoy should a vehicle or its occupants be captured

  Sal had printed the directions—including their targeted refueling stop “Depot #2”—on flimsy rice paper, one per vehicle. Anyone separated from the convoy knew that their salvation lay in finding or using a ham radio tuned to 3958 kHz frequency at 08:09 PDT/07:09 MDT every day for five minutes before powering off. “Listen first. Broadcast only if you didn’t hear any danger words,” was Sal’s admonishment.

  As for the present journey, most vehicles had a walkie-talkie with a two-mile line-of-sight range on a quiet night over a flat landscape. Johnny’s emergence from Covid quarantine meant more weapons and another cool finger on a trigger.

  * * * * *

  Specs fought with courage and skill, shooting a Guardsman and a rent-a-cop before a bullet dropped him on the slip road. Norris’ artful shotgun blasts kept their pursuers at bay. He knelt by his fallen Anglo-Indian comrade and felt for a pulse, then racked his weapon and came up dry. Goddammit! He drew his sidearm and recommenced firing, but a 9-mil pistol round didn’t have the same intimidation factor as a twelve gauge, and from the volume of return fire, more G.I.s had joined the fray.