by Henry Roi
A glance behind us showed me our tail was no longer a threat. The Crown Vic' was sunk in our ruts sixty yards back, trooper standing behind his open door with a radio to his lips. He snatched his wide-brim hat off and gesticulated with profanity. Blondie watched him too, hand to her mouth, eyes bright with excitement.
The trees were too thick to see through in some places, though weren't large enough to impede Broncostein. Small saplings, mostly hardwoods little bigger than my arm, went down under the massive bumper, lying flat along our trail, showing the impressive swath we cut through the vegetation. A tangle of Muscadine vines caught in the winch, stretching down from a magnolia my door scrubbed against, breaking, elastic force snagging the mirror right off the door.
We approached the top of the hill, a quarter mile from the road that now crawled with law enforcement. I pushed the gas pedal to its stop, front-end going over the summit, tires leaving the earth, autumn sky then big tree appearing through the windshield.
“Ah!” the girls yelled in chorus, wincing, taking the impact on arms that gripped the dashboard handle.
The tree, a magnolia larger than my waist, didn't possess quite enough mass to refute the Bronco's desire to bulldoze over it. It slowly toppled, bumper grinding up the trunk, shaving off thick slabs of bark, green wood scent mingling with the hydrocarbons of the furious exhaust. Super Swampers digging for more purchase, sliding us over the state tree's branches, roots splitting, giving way in jolts, top of the magnolia crashing on the ground in impressive fashion, taking down several lesser trees with it.
“Yeah!” I cackled in winning spirit as we cleared the obstacle, the three of us leaning forward now that we headed downhill. Weaved around a giant oak, ramping a rotted log, gravity lending us speed.
The girl-beast's eyes glistened with our feat, chest heaving in the black suit, forcing herself to take slow breaths. My girl looked much the same, riding along on all those same baffling chemicals our bodies produce when we're terrified and exultant and horny and ready to fight or run for our lives- in this case, all at the same time.
I had my own brew of hormones and neurotransmitters I was sipping on, drugging me with infinite, frightening euphoria, amplified by my sensitivity to the girls. I was walking the edge, confident I wouldn't slip, not fearing the certain death if I did. The thrilling, in-the-moment feeling… exquisite. Which is why the abrupt influx of panic was sooo fuck-you-very-much unwelcome.
Six disbelieving eyes stared out the windshield as I braked to gain perspective of our newest predicament. We were in a valley of sorts, between two large wooded hills. And at the bottom?
A stinking-ass swamp!
“How unfortunate,” I said.
“Fuck,” Shocker agreed.
It wasn't an old Cyprus-type of swamp, at least. It was a newer one. One with soupy runoff from the red clay hills, with patches of pond scum and broken drainage pipes. One that will probably be the hurdle we can't jump. There was no way around it.
I looked at Blondie. We communicated with a glance, opening our doors and jumping out, pine straw crunching, softening the seven foot drop. Quickly, with experienced hands, we knelt by the front tires and grabbed the slotted mechanisms in the center of the wheels, turning the Warn hubs, feeling the click that signaled the front wheels were engaged and ready to bust some turf.
In a moment of madness, perhaps from the 180º change from arousing confidence to deflated uncertainty, I could swear the Super Swampers were angry with me. The knobbies beetled like pissed off brows, Now you invite us to the party??? Like a petulant lover they accused, You're using me!
“Uh,” I said.
“High or low?” Shocker asked as we climbed back in, closed the doors.
“High!” I said, pushing the clutch in.
Shocker grabbed the transfer case shifter between her legs, pulled it back then over to 4-HIGH, a gear selection that engaged all four wheels without sacrificing speed.
As I revved the big block and prepared to test just how Super the Swampers actually were, pistols cracked behind us. Apparently our trail blazing wasn't any faster than a doughnut eater could run through the woods. The bastard had caught up to us, and brought his pals.
“Go!” Blondie yelled, ducking, covering her face. The back window shattered in a spray of glass shards that rained down on our heads.
I needed no urging. I launched us down the hill, racing toward the soggy bottom, frantically searching the terrain for the path of least resistance. And not finding it. “Straight into it, then,” I muttered, shifting into second, gaining momentum I hoped would carry us across the wide mud pit.
The speedometer hovered around 40 mph, an insane speed for this terrain, when Broncostein plowed into the business. Huge waves of soupy mud shot out to the sides of the Ford, spraying dozens of feet with great pressure, chunks of clay mixed with light brown water raining on the hood, roof, windshield completely covered, blocking any view. The roaring exhaust suddenly muted, and I knew the fat tail pipes were thrusting hot muck like jetivators under the surface.
Momentum slowed almost instantly, bodies thrown forward. I feared our heroic Ford was overmatched, but the tires kept digging and slinging, hood just under the waterline, 800 hp barge pushing through the Mississippi mud with mechanical determination.
The girls looked at the brown painted windshield with wide-eyed apprehension. Shocker yelled, “Turn the wipers on!”
“They're on!” I yelled back, re-checking the switch, fascinated by the deluge so thick we couldn't even see the wipers at work.
I rolled down my window. Flinching away from the spray the front tire slung back over the door, spatter covering my arm. Stuck my head out for a quick peek, squinting through the liquid dirt that instantly covered my face. Glimpsed the Finish line a hundred feet away.
Blondie found a shirt on the back seat, tossed it to me. I wiped my mug, white-knuckled clench on the wheel, concentrating on the truck's movement through the sludge, sensing we were sinking deeper, slowing. Not good… The speedo' said 35 mph, tires spinning powerfully in second gear, though we were moving maybe 2 mph. We could no longer see the hood. Water poured into my window, flooding the cab. I didn't care because we were about to be through it or stuck. Shocker squawked as water hit her butt, lifting up to shimmy in next to Blondie.
I couldn't believe we weren't stuck yet. The deciding factor, I think, was the locking differentials; most 4-wheel drives have gears that only engage one wheel in the front and one in the back simultaneously. Hard-core off-road guys put positive traction lockers in the differentials to make all four wheels spin at once. Broncostein had top-notch axles and gears, passionately maintained by a mud riding maniac.
Old man Tiblier… I owe him one… Even though he sold Blondie a warped cylinder head and claimed she did it. The dick…
We slowed even further, almost stopping, sinking, girls gasping, gripping the seat and dash as I panicked and banged the tranny into first, tried to push the gas pedal through the floorboard. Relief pushed us back in the seats a moment later, front-end elevating. We had made the other side, sloping upwards. Engine redlining, louder when the pipes cleared the mud, Bronco digging violent ruts five feet deep as it crawled out of the swamp. Feminine cries of victory rang in the cab, but I held off on cheering because we still couldn't see out of the damn windshield.
When it was apparent our ride was on stable terrain once more I chanced getting out to wipe the sludge from our view. I braked, found neutral and swung out on the open door. Turned off the wipers. Raked the shirt over the glass. Glanced behind us. About seven cops stood at the edge of the bog a football field away, pointing, arguing on ways to get around it. One spoke into his phone while staring at me.
“Expect company up ahead,” I told the girls, closing the door, gripping the wheel. The smooth hard wood vibrated strongly as the 460 idled. I found first gear and drove us into the trees.
“They'll be there soon if they aren't already,” Shocker said. Her brown ponytail str
uck my arm as she turned to my girl. “Ever play a damsel in distress to trick a cop?”
Blondie gave a wicked grin.
“Is that how you did it?” I said.
She nodded, still looking at Blondie. “I acted like someone had robbed me. I had borrowed a hat and jacket to disguise myself from the police chasing me and Ace. I –”
“Wait. Wait wait wait.” I barked a laugh. “ 'Borrowed'? You can't even say the word 'stolen'.” I nudged her with my elbow. “Come on. Say it. 'I stole a hat and jacket'.”
She didn't appreciate my imitation of her voice. When she looked at me a flash went through her eyes. I was reminded of a TV killer's shadow flickering past a lit up window, sensed by a trick of the eye. She growled, “I borrowed it.”
I stuck my tongue out at her. She blew out a breath, chuckled then finished her story to Blondie. “Cops were searching everywhere for us when we escaped MDOC transport vans. One got out to help some poor crying lady and got a big surprise.” She rubbed her right fist, laughed. “Broke my hand on his German tank head. But I did get his car and we got away.”
I had a cartoon grin. Jangling piano key teeth. I recall their prison break from the news. Because of her fame as a boxer and Ace's infamy as a Wikileaks hacker the story was huge. Two unidentified men, who I now know were Bobby and our coach, had assisted them. And by assisted I mean beat the crap out of four cops. In the end half a dozen cops had been assaulted. One hit by a car. Three had crashed their cars. And one had his car jacked by the Shocker.
Hell yeah. I looked at the girl-beast, nearly stopping to hug her.
The thick brush was mostly sticks, small deciduous trees with a few brown and red straggler leaves clinging here and there. They rattled loose as the Ford monster trudged by, deep piping bellow whipping up the carpet of dead pine straw. Ahead the trees thinned and ended suddenly, a concrete and steel business complex becoming visible. I revved Broncostein and launched us straight over the remaining trees in our path, knowing if any cops were in the vicinity they had plenty of warning from the 800 hp K.W. Cook special under the hood. No sense in trying to sneak around.
There were streets outlining the perimeter of the huge industrial area. Two-story concrete buildings with purposes unknown to me were on the immediate other side. I crossed to them quickly, tires coming out of the dirt, gripping the pavement with a bark, pinning us in the seats. Braked, turned, gassing it, hoping to find a spot to stash this behemoth. We had to get it off the road, asap.
“There! Left, Babe!” Blondie pointed.
Turned, shifted. On the side of some kind of gravel processing factory were two rows of dump trucks, a few cement trucks behind them. I chuckled as we idled by the first Mac; Broncostein's hood was higher. Made me feel like a heavyweight contender.
The exhaust loped and crackled off the huge trucks on either side of us. We parked, relatively out of sight. When I shut off the engine we stared at the dashboard for a moment, three gear heads sharing appreciation for the mechanical wonder that got us this far. The after effects of the roaring, emotional rush made me feel like I had been piloting a NASA rocket while slurping a cocaine shake through a fat straw. Our collective sigh was a little cheesy, so I shooed the girls out, climbing out on their side. Jumped down, turned to look one last time. The mud and vegetation stuck to the chassis and body was, quite simply, marvelous.
“We could take one of these,” Blondie indicated a dump truck.
I shook my head. “We'd be trading one giant, visible vehicle for another.” I patted a red Mac fender. “And this one won't ramp police cars or go through swamps.”
“True.” Blondie's lips pursed, turning wicked again, eyes narrowed in scheme. She looked from me to Shocker. “We'll go will your plan, then. I'll trick him, you clip him.”
Shocker nodded seriously. I let the girls call the shots on this one, following close behind their leather and Kevlar clad butts, trying hard not to become distracted. They carried their helmets, Shocker's hiking boots and Blondie's borrowed sandals touching the ground as light as ballerina steps, my Rockports not much louder behind them.
The buildings were concrete and blue sheet metal, some small, most very large. Around the office entrances were sidewalks lined with small flower beds, all empty. For whatever reason, the offices in this area were just as barren. Wide drives curved around and between the buildings, parking slots outside of the smaller ones.
The sun reflected off the Ford Fusion and Toyota Avalon we chanced upon. Squatting down and peering around the corner of a steel wall, Shocker stood above me as we watched the drive beyond the cars and whispered, listening for signs of approach with ears that still itched.
“Any minute now a patrol car will pass,” Shocker said. “They'll be spread out, so it should be only one car.” I nodded, impressed, remaining quiet. She turned and spoke to Blondie. “They need to see you in distress. But let them pass first so you won't be in view of their dashboard camera.”
A mocking bird landed on the roof of the Toyota, chirping. As if commenting on the beauty of it I told Shocker, “I believe you are a born criminal.”
She sighed, “Shut up.”
“I got this,” Blondie said, nonchalant. She handed me her helmet.
I watched her long legs and flexing, tight leather cakes as she jogged to the cars, ducked down between them. Sitting on her heels, she peered over the Avalon's door, then the Fusion's, checking both sides of the street through the windows. We didn't have to wait long. The radiator cooling fan of a Crown Victoria Interceptor whirred off the buildings to our right, V8 exhaust notes close behind. It wasn't in a hurry, which meant the driver was taking a careful look around.
Please don't have a friend, I thought.
As the black and white approached the Avalon, Blondie inched around the back of it, keeping the car between her and the cop. Shocker and I ducked out of sight, knowing Blondie would stop him before he got far enough down the street to see us.
Errrt! The cop hit the brakes. We heard the shriek of a wounded woman and his door open. We stuck our heads around to see the show.
“Please!” Blondie wailed at the cop, a tall blonde deputy sheriff that poked his chest out importantly. If Abercrombie made uniforms he'd be their model. “Please help! They took my bike!”
The deputy hurried over to the beautiful motorcycle chick that had magically appeared behind his car. He grabbed her shoulders to steady her shaky balance. “Are you okay? Tell me what happened.”
Blondie looked up at him from under hair pulled out in wild puffs, eyes glassy with emotional trauma. The girl could act. She suddenly screamed at him, grabbing his uniform. “You didn't see them?!”
“No. Uh –”
“That's because they're right behind you!”
The man jerked around, going for his gun. His eyes bulged at seeing the girl-beast an arm's length away. Her face was twisted in Destroy mode, all coiled scariness that momentarily stunned the man. I stood behind her holding the helmets, casually bored, the boyfriend tricked into coming along just to carry the shopping bags. “Hey,” I told him in a disinterested voice.
Shocker didn't give him the chance to clear his weapon from the holster, lunging in with a straight-right, blistering quick. I thought she was going for the lower abdomen, and clucked my tongue in surprise when I saw her knuckles sink into his wrist. The likely fractured, paralyzed hand dropped the gun in a metal clatter. Her left fist hit him a millisecond later, twisting shoulders and torqueing hips throwing a bombing hook that began in her thrusting left foot and ended after impacting on his open mouth, jaw wrenching sharply, making a sound like a cough suddenly cut off. The girl-beast's battle cry echoed throughout the quiet buildings.
Not wanting to be out-done, Blondie showed off her right-hand, left-hook combo. Before Shocker's blows fully registered on their mark she stepped forward with teeth bared, pushing hard off her back foot, right fist driving into the man's kidney, left-hook digging into his lower ribs a blink later, boomp-boomp! H
er battle expulsions were loud feminine breaths rather than roars of power, like a tennis champ pounding out a 120 mph serve.
He got served alright, I snickered in thought.
The attack from both sides with such ferocity and precision of strikes was too much for the pretty boy's nervous system. From the time he stepped out to help the “victim” to the time he lay on the pavement took maybe seven seconds. The two gorgeous fighters stood over him with balled fists, slightly open mouths huffing killer instinct, making sure the target was eliminated.
This was a scene I could watch over and over for the rest of my life.
“Stop giggling and get in the car,” Shocker told me, taking her helmet back. She walked over and leaned into the driver's side of the patrol car. Came back out holding a black pump-action shotgun. Handed it to me. Blondie grabbed the dropped pistol.
“What's this for?” I said, eyeing the weapon.
Shocker looked at Blondie, jerked her head at me like, Men, huh? She told me, “To make you feel less inept while I show you how to drive a getaway car.”
The girls tittered as they got in the front seats, shut the doors. I got in back, unable to suppress a sullen look. Lay the 12-gauge on the seat.
I had dragged the cop between the Fusion and Avalon. But he'll either wake up or be found soon. We had to get out of this area before that happens. Blondie and I stayed on the floorboards, Shocker driving us toward the complex exit like a deputy that had finished patrolling the area, in no rush, mild window tint enough to fool other cops of her identity from a distance. Another deputy circled a building far to our left. Shocker waved at them. The silhouette behind the wheel waved back, turned to go around another building, where an absolute swarm of law enforcement was massing for a grid search. I let out a breath, peeking out the back window, head low.
Shocker put her phone on the seat. Ace was on the speaker. “Get to Highway Forty-nine,” he said. “I have control of the lights south of the interstate.”
