“Target locked,” his gunman confirmed.
“Missiles away!”
The camera drone showed two rocket trails heading towards the raised concrete roadway. They impacted almost simultaneously. Smoke and dust and flames rolled outwards. There was no way of knowing how much damage had been done. A few small lumps of concrete fell from the underside of the roadway and then larger chunks started to fall, splashing into the marsh below. The truck was heading straight into the explosion. I saw the wheels lock but the truck was moving too fast. Smoke poured from under the tyres as truck and trailer slid towards the cloud. It disappeared into the smoke.
A huge mushroom cloud of black smoke was rising into the sky, the top part of it rolling in on itself as it expanded.
More debris rained down from the damaged road but there was no sign of the truck. Had it managed to stop in time?
The cloud thinned and the fate of the truck was revealed. A section of the concrete roadway was missing completely – you could see sky through the gap. The truck had been brought to a halt. The front wheels of the tractor were hanging over the edge of the gap and it was tilted downwards. The weight of the trailer behind it was stopping it falling.
There were more cheers over the communication net. The truck had survived.
“The truck is safe but the road is gone! There’s a gap in the highway and I can see straight through to the ocean. The truck and its cargo are intact, but there’s nowhere for it to go. Unless that thing sprouts wings in the next couple of minutes, the race is over. It was a valiant effort by Team Quincy, but in the end, they were outgunned.
“The black gunship is swinging around, coming back for a victory fly-past, no doubt. And who can blame them? They stopped the truck and ended the race. We have to take our hats off and acknowledge the skills of the pilot and his gunman.
“What are they doing? Ladies and gentlemen, they’re going to fire on the stationary truck! There isn’t any need for that.”
“No!” a voice shouted. It may have been mine. Others echoed it.
The gunship was swooping in again. A single missile was all that was needed. It struck dead-centre and the truck exploded. Huge pieces of shrapnel cartwheeled outwards as the trailer disappeared in a ball of fire. The tractor was ablaze as it slid forwards in slow motion. It twisted sideways as it went over the edge. It fell, dragging the twisted remains of the trailer behind it.
“The truck is hit! It’s going over the edge. The truck is on fire and its falling through the air. What a sad sight that is.
“As the old Penwald 1600 hits the swamp below, we’ll come around for one last look to bid farewell to it and its valiant driver. So long, Floyd – you sure gave Clem Crawford a run for his money.”
Bobby-Ray was silent then, just showing the truck sinking into the saltmarsh. The flames were extinguished and steam rose from the hot metal. The water and weeds closed around it, embracing it and pulling it down. Even though I had expected it to end like this, I still had a lump in my throat. It was sad to see a truck go down like that.
“Yee-hah!” Crawford crowed out his victory. The rest of the chatter had died to nothing. People were taking in what they had just witnessed.
I sent Bobby-Ray a private message: ‘Don’t roll the credits just yet. I always have a Plan B.’ I didn’t want his cameras to miss it.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Clem Crawford’s Skylark came in to land close to the spot where the highway had been blasted away. I guess he wanted a good close look at the destruction he had ordered. The vehicles on the road slowed and came to a halt fifty yards short of the Skylark. There were two dozen or more of them including the news trucks. Skeet and I stopped behind them. This was as close as anyone could get to the freight depot that was meant to be the finish line. You couldn’t get there from here.
A big gleaming 4x4 pulled up beside us. A flunky got out and opened up the rear door so Dominic Flint could climb out. Flint didn’t even glance towards me. His face was stony. He obviously didn’t like to lose.
People climbed out of their cars and slowly edged forward, wanting to get to the broken edge of the road – but wanting someone else to go first to test that it was safe. We left the Trekker and the truck and made our way forward on foot. I had to get close enough to speak to Clem Crawford. There was still a minute and change until the deadline passed.
A rumbling of tyres made me look back over my shoulder. A shiny new pick-up truck on massive tyres. I didn’t recognise the pale skinny youth behind the wheel – he didn’t look like one of Crawford’s men. He looked away, pretending he hadn’t been staring at me. Perhaps he as just wondering if I was single.
“Watch out!” the Highway Patrolman warned.
The old station wagon ploughed into the back of the news truck and the front of it crumpled like an old cardboard box.
Carried forward by the momentum, the Highway Patrolman’s body tumbled over the top of his head, the neck snapped and the torso flew out through the broken windshield. The head, bodiless now, remained firmly clamped to the dash with its teeth.
Marshal Dimmock batted aside the deflating airbag, cursing loudly. He grabbed the Patrolman’s head and then pulled the door handle. The station wagon’s door fell off and clattered onto the asphalt.
Marshal Rufus T. Dimmock stood beside the wrecked station wagon. “Look what they did to my car!” he wailed.
The head of the Highway Patrolman, balanced in the marshal’s palm, rolled its eyes. “You’re worried about the car? It’s not even yours!”
The Marshal turned and spotted a young man who had recorded the station wagon’s arrival and who was now pointing a camera lens in his direction. He scowled. “Give me that camera. Don’t you back away from me. Stop in the name of the law!”
The young man was running. Marshal Dimmock set off after him, but with a stomach that size, running was not really his thing and the young man got further and further ahead. The Marshal stopped, drew back his arm and threw the Highway Patrolman’s head after the fleeing teenager. The head arced through the air.
“This is the police. Stop and raise your hands in the air. You have three seconds to comply!” the Highway Patrolman’s voice boomed out as his head spun.
The head missed the escaping young man by a country mile. It crashed down and bounced on the asphalt.
“Ow! Ow! Ow...” the Highway Patrolman said.
I walked over to where Crawford was standing at the edge of the broken road. I looked down. The truck was slowly sinking into the marsh. There wasn’t a lot of it left showing.
“You know that’s not my truck, right?” I said. I smiled when I saw a flicker of doubt on Crawford’s face.
“Your robot was driving it,” he said.
I shook my head. “That was a stunt double.”
Crawford’s face clouded – but then he looked at the other truck behind the parked cars. It was trapped on this side of the broken highway with no way to get across. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, “you didn’t meet the deadline.”
I put my arm around his shoulders and turned him so we could look back towards his freight depot.
“The thing about ‘Find the Lady’ is that the guy who runs the game always cheats,” I said. “It’s all sleight of hand.”
I pointed towards the yard where Crawford’s Skylark had been parked the previous evening. There was one of his white trucks sitting there now. The trailer on it was a tautliner – one of those with soft sides that could be opened like a curtain. Someone was standing by the truck.
“There’s the lady,” I said.
“No,” Crawford said. The colour drained from his face.
I nodded. I waved my arm and the distant figure of Harmony waved back. She pulled at the covering with Crawford’s name on it and the whole thing fell away. The crates of whiskey were clearly visible.
One of Bobby-Ray’s drones zipped off towards the freight yard for a close-up of the whiskey-laden truck.
“How...?” Cra
wford’s mouth dropped open.
“We drove the whiskey in there earlier this morning,” I said. “All of this...” I pointed to the wrecked truck that was disappearing into the marsh. “Misdirection.”
“You hijacked my truck?”
Harmony had hijacked his truck, swapped its cargo for the crates of whiskey, and then driven it straight into Crawford’s yard. She had the truck’s original paperwork, so she’d been waved through the gate without anyone even questioning her.
“We put your other missing cargo in that trailer,” I said, pointing down into the marsh. “Sorry about that. Can you claim on the insurance if you blow it up yourself? Probably not.”
Crawford’s face went an unhealthy brick red colour and he seemed to be shaking like a volcano ready to explode. His thugs formed a line behind him and drew their guns. Things were about to turn nasty and I couldn’t see an obvious way to defuse the situation. My plan didn’t extend beyond the swazzing him off part. I didn’t want to do anything or say anything that would provoke a reaction. If the thugs opened fire on me, innocent people might get hurt. And I certainly would.
Crawford’s head was moving like a slow-motion version of one of those toys with a spring for a neck. His lips opened and closed as if he was trying to form words. Perhaps he was silently cursing me.
I sensed movement behind me and thought it must be Flint’s men. But when I looked back it was Skeet and a bunch of ordinary people, some still holding their ‘Team Quincy’ signs or wearing ‘Q & F Trucking’ tee-shirts. I didn’t like the fact that they were putting themselves at risk for me. But at the same time, I did get a warm feeling from the thought that they’d chosen to be there and face the villain with me.
“They did it!” Bobby-Ray said. “Against impossible odds, Quincy Randall and his crew delivered the whiskey before the midday deadline. There’ll be more than a few folks raising a glass now to celebrate their success and I, too, salute them.”
More people were gathering on the other side of the gap in the highway, some of them standing cautiously on the broken edge and peering down into the marsh. Others were watching what was happening on our side. Whatever move Crawford chose to make, there were going to be a lot of witnesses. And it would be broadcast to the world – Bobby-Ray’s drones were hovering just above head height taking in the scene.
The seismic shifts of emotion that had boiled up inside Crawford were eventually expressed in a loud snort and a shake of the head. It was the sort of thing a dog does when a wasp tries to fly up its nose.
“Clem! How are you this fine morning?” Don Flint was striding towards us. His smile was bigger than mine. And now he did look at me. He shook hands with Crawford.
“You won,” Crawford said, acknowledging defeat.
“Pay up and look cheerful,” Flint said. “You’ve got to admit, Quincy gave us our money’s worth.”
Crawford couldn’t disagree with that. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a crisp one-dollar note. Local currency. He handed it to Flint. Flint held it up and grinned.
“All of that for a dollar?” Skeet said, shaking his head. “I don’t understand.”
“Those two have so much money that it doesn’t mean anything to them,” I said. “They did this for the fun of it.” I’d met men like them before – and stolen from a few of them.
“Quincy’s right,” Flint said, coming up behind us and clapping me on the shoulder. “It’s all about the thrill of the chase.”
“Not for me,” I said. “I do it for the money. Fifteen thousand dollars. Alliance. Cash on the barrel.”
Flint reached into his jacket and pulled out fifteen crispy new Alliance banknotes. He handed them over. “You earned it,” he said.
We shook hands and then Flint went back to Crawford so he could gloat some more. I wondered how often those two did something like this.
The crowd that had gathered on the other side of the damaged highway were mostly dressed like tourists enjoying a day in the sun. Short pants, brightly-coloured shirts, beach shoes. A shadow moved among them, drawing my attention. A big man wearing a long dark coat and a hat with a broad brim. The milling crowd parted, giving me a clear view of him. I recognised him immediately. O’Keefe. The bounty hunter.
I felt a chill despite the glaring sun. The shock of seeing him so close. The feeling that the Grim Reaper had finally caught up with me. You can only cheat death for so long. The only thing that was keeping him from me was a big gap in the road. I wasn’t surprised to see him. Not really. It was my own fault – this latest escapade had drawn way too much attention.
O’Keefe looked directly at me and smiled, touching the brim of his hat in greeting. His coat was thrown back so I could see the gun on his hip but I knew he wouldn’t try anything here. There were too many people around – and he had seen how the crowd sided with me against Crawford. He just wanted me to know he was close, that he had me in his sights. Bastard.
“You all right?” Skeet asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He was right, in a way I had. “I’m fine.”
When I looked back across the way, the man in the black hat was gone. He wouldn’t be far away. I’d be seeing him again very soon.
“We should go and find Harmony,” Skeet said. “Get the celebrations started.”
“You go,” I said. “I’ll catch up with you. There’s something I need to do.” I gave two of the thousand-dollar banknotes to Skeet. “This is your share. The truck is yours too.”
“You don’t want it?” Skeet asked, looking back at it.
“Once through the Badlands is enough for me,” I said. “Can I ask you for a favour?”
“Name it,” he said.
I gave him the other banknotes. “Four thousand of this is for Harmony,” I said. “Will you give it to her?”
“Well, sure, but don’t you want to do that yourself?” Skeet asked.
“I have to go,” I said.
“What about the rest of it?” he asked. “Your share?”
“I want you to use it to get Floyd fixed. Get him a new body. A proper one. Make sure he gets whatever he wants.”
“I will. But where are you going?”
“I have some unfinished business to attend to. All of this,” I indicated the chaos around us. “It has attracted a lot of attention. That was a mistake on my part.”
“It’s something bad, isn’t it?” Skeet said. “What sort of trouble are you in?”
“Tell Harmony I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
Whatever happened next was going to be between me and O’Keefe. I didn’t want the others to get drawn into it. Didn’t want any of them getting hurt because of me. Not even Floyd – though it would have been nice to have him watching my back. I would just slip away. Like a thief in the night.
Do You Want More Quincy & Floyd?
If you enjoyed Road Rage and would like to see more books about Quincy and Floyd, you can help make that happen. And you can help new readers discover this book. How? Just write a review.
You don’t have to write one of those awful ‘book reports’ like we did at school – just leave a star rating and a couple of sentences on Amazon or Goodreads. Or a short review on your blog. Or tell your friends about it on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, or wherever you hang out. Honest reviews and genuine ‘word-of-mouth’ make all the difference to independent authors.
Let people know what you liked about this book, and why they might like it too. And if there was something you didn’t like, you can say that too: constructive criticism helps me write a better book next time.
But please, no spoilers!
Thanks for being one of the outlaws,
PS: For the latest updates on Quincy & Floyd go to:
www.paultomlinson.org/outlaws
Also by Paul Tomlinson
O’Keefe and Quincy Randall. One of them is the most feared bounty hunter in the galaxy. The other is an outlaw with a price on his head. They're not destined to be best b
uddies – especially as Quincy has an old score to settle with the bounty hunter.
When O’Keefe finally corners Quincy, the pair find themselves under fire from assassins who want them both dead. The only way they’ll survive is if they set aside their differences and work together. What are the chances of that going well?
With trust in short supply, it’ll be every man for himself when it comes to the final shoot-out. Keep your head down because they’re not going quietly.
About the Author
Paul Tomlinson was born in Nottinghamshire and has lived there for most of his life. He is the author of a series of mystery novels featuring magician-turned-detective the Great Vicari; the humorous fantasy series Thurlambria, and the science fiction novel Robot Wrecker. His non-fiction works include Plot Basics (2017), Character Creation (2018) and three volumes in the Genre Writer series – Mystery (2017), Suspense Thriller (2018) and Crime Thriller (2019). He also compiled Harry Harrison: An Annotated Bibliography pub-lished in 2002.
Novels by Paul Tomlinson
Robot Wrecker
Who Killed Big Dick?
The Great Vicari Mysteries
The Sword in the Stone-Dead
Murder by Magic
The Missing Magician
The Thurlambria Series
Slayer of Dragons
Fortune’s Fool
Village of the Waking Dead (novella)
Dead of Night
Outlaws of the Galaxy Series
Battleship Raider
A Fistful of Trouble
Road Rage
Bounty Hunter
Wicked Racers
Starlight Robbery
Road Rage Page 34