The Rogue (Planets Shaken Book 1)

by Lee Brainard

  ***

  When the transporter emerged from the house five and a half hours later—it was 10:05 p.m. by Woody’s watch—he was staggering and looked burned-out. Great . . . just what I need . . . obviously been drinking and smoking pot . . . if we get stopped for a traffic violation . . . I’m toast. But there was nothing he could do about it. He forced himself to look at the bright side. In just a few minutes he would be on his own. No more sleaze-ball partner.

  Ghost looked at Woody and nodded toward the front seat. Woody shook his head no. He had climbed into the back seat while Ghost was in the house, partly to catch a nap and partly to make sure that he and his pack were together when the truck stopped to let him out. He had no interest in moving back to the front seat. There wasn’t enough room to set his pack on the seat next to him so he could slip out the door with it fast and easy. And there was no way he was going to sit in the front seat while his pack remained in the back. Ghost watched his response, shrugged, and climbed into the cab. Once they hit the street, Woody kept one hand on the door handle and one hand on his pack, ready to be out the door in the blink of an eye.

  Ghost continued east on South Shore Drive, got back on Donner Pass road, and turned south on Coldstream Road just outside Truckee. A little over a mile down the road, he stopped, executed a two-point turn, pulled onto the right shoulder, and nodded to Woody. Woody handed him the last one thousand dollars, then hopped out with his pack—his parachute bag strapped securely to the bottom. When he shut the door, the truck roared off—no goodbye, no wave. Woody shook his head . . . a cold-blooded man in a cold-blooded business.

  There was no time to waste. He didn’t want to take a chance of being seen on the road. Holding his pack in hand, he quickly walked down the hill. Once deep in the shadows, he stopped to put his pack on, then continued on his way, forded the stream, and climbed back up the hill on the other side toward the railroad tracks. When he reached the tracks, he crossed them and sat down on the other side. He needed a short break—more for emotional release than exhaustion. He ate his last Pink Lady apple, taking the time to savor its tang, sipped his last sports drink, then checked the straps that held his bag to his pack—they were tight and secure.

  He was finally starting to relax after a tension filled day. Nothing big to worry about until tomorrow morning, when he would attempt to hop a moving freight train. He stood up and began walking down the tracks, taking his time and—oddly—relishing the moment. The experience took him back to his childhood when he had often hiked on the tracks and picked berries in the thickets along the edges. The sky was moonless. For that he was thankful. It made him feel more secure for he was less likely to be seen. Somewhere in the distance, he heard a coyote yip—a sound that he found comforting. About two miles up the rails, he came to where the stream passed under the line. He cautiously made his way down the steep bank near the trestle, then pushed his way upstream looking for a place to make camp. About a hundred and fifty yards upstream, he found a dense thicket of pines well away from both the tracks and the nearby road. Perfect.

  He quickly strung his tarp, laid out his bedding, and started a small fire. Then he grabbed a few flat rocks that were suitable for balancing his pot. Before long, a kettle of water for chili-mac and a coffee pot of water for hot cocoa were perched over the cheering flames. While he waited for the water to boil, he waded out into the stream and took a brisk splash bath. Might be a while on the train before I have access to a bath or a shower.

  With a hot meal in his belly, Woody decided to stay up a little longer. He had managed to get some sleep in the truck and wasn’t as exhausted as he had been earlier. He stirred the coals, added a few sticks to the fire, and watched the flames burst into life. As he sipped his hot chocolate and watched the flames dance, he grew philosophical. Life sure knows how to throw a guy a curveball . . . a month ago I was just a few years from retirement . . . now my retirement funds are gone . . . likewise my possessions and savings . . . at least I have hot cocoa and a warm sweater . . . and somewhere to go. Many a man has far less than that.

  There was one painful thought, however, which he could not assuage . . . Sally. Ever since she had arrived at Caltech five years ago, he had secretly admired her. During her first two years, they had suffered a few tiffs. Since then, they had developed a strong relationship that was easy and friendly but had never gone further. He found himself wishing that something had worked out between them. She was talented, intelligent, and attractive . . . and had a magical way about her. Being around her was like sunshine, intoxication, and dessert in one package. He sighed.

  His thoughts turned to worrying about her. She probably shouldn’t have given him permission to go on his camping trip. Her higher-ups in Minoa would likely have forbidden it—at the bidding of the FBI—if she had asked. But he had an inkling that she would say yes if he asked, completely on her own initiative, and she did. Now he felt guilty, like he had exploited her. Regardless of whether she had suspected that he might run or was just allowing him to go fishing, she was probably in hot water. He wasn’t much of a praying man, but he turned to the Father in heaven. Look out for her and keep her safe . . . and . . . he hesitated . . . he couldn’t pray for it . . . though he wanted it . . . he had to let it go. He spread his coals, poured a kettle of water on them, and went to bed. Tomorrow was a big day.

  65

  Near Donner, California

  Monday, June 24, 2019

  Woody’s watch alarm went off at 5 a.m. and he rolled out of his bag groggy . . . too little sleep and too much sugary hot chocolate. He fired up his stove to boil water, then got dressed and broke camp. He wanted to be waiting beside the tracks at the curve by 6 a.m. in case the train was early. Within twenty minutes he had broken camp and was sitting on a log eating breakfast—cinnamon oatmeal with raisins, and his pot was on the stove, the hearty scent of fresh coffee wafting in the gentle morning breeze.

  At 6:05 a.m. he was hunkered down in the trees below the tracks, waiting. It proved to be a long wait. Not longer than he had anticipated, but harder. His legs started to cramp up, forcing him to stand. His guts were churning—was it a bug or something he ate? Or perhaps he was just nervous about hopping a moving train. It had seemed like a brilliant idea when he first thought of it. Now it seemed dangerous. There were too many unknowns . . . too many things that could go wrong. But he had no choice. It was hop it or hoof it, and he definitely wasn’t going to hoof it.

  At 6:57 a.m. the train whistle blew in the distance, faint and haunting. The moment of truth was near. His heart jumped and his pulse picked up . . . he started mentally preparing for his risky endeavor. Eight minutes later the train entered the hairpin curve, going faster than he anticipated—maybe seven miles per hour—a fast jog . . . on gravel no less. He picked up his pack and stood, ready. After the engines had passed, he scrambled up the bank to the tracks and started looking for a car that offered both ladder and shelter.

  A string of flats carrying shipping containers and trailers passed, then several empty gondola cars, then eight closed boxcars—nothing suitable for a wannabe hobo to find shelter from the elements and concealment from railroad bulls. Then a grain car passed by and he noticed that there was a small porch on the back along with a porthole opening that led to a cubby hole. The next car was the same kind. He determined to make it his target and started jogging down the tracks—his pack heavy in his right hand—trying to keep his speed close to that of the train. His legs throbbed with pain, a combination of old age, his old femur injury, and bruises and scrapes from his rugged jaunt across the Sierran wilderness.

  The rear ladder crept into his peripheral vision. He turned slightly, tossed his pack onto the porch, grabbed the front rail with both hands, swung his hind leg up onto the first rung, and started to pull himself up—that wasn’t so bad. But the train jolted as he was attempting to move his right hand higher up the rail, causing it and him to swing wildly away from the car and his feet to slip off the rung. He fell backward and
started to spin . . . holding on for dear life with his left hand . . . coming completely around and slamming his butt hard into the third rung and his calves into the first. In desperation he threw his right arm upwards and backward, frantically reaching for the rear rail . . . thankfully he found it. Gingerly he tucked his feet back up on the first rung—calves throbbing.

  He perched in this awkward position, stunned. Think I’m gonna have to do this a little differently next time. His arms and shoulders ached from strained muscles and his backside was bruised. Gonna feel this for a while . . . haven’t hurt like this since my rugby days in the city league. He was in a predicament. He couldn’t stay where he was and he couldn’t easily turn around. This is ugly in every color it comes.

  After a moment of reflection on his quandary, he crossed his arms behind his head, placing his right hand on the front rail and his left hand on the back rail. Then he slipped his left foot behind his right leg and moved his right foot as far forward as he could, turned as far inward as he could. He shook his head, frustrated. This is as awkward as a cat in a blender. He steadied himself, then tried to stand up slowly. He didn’t get very far. Rats . . . not a lot of room to work here . . . but I need to get turned around before my arms and legs give out. With a guttural “Aaargh!” he executed a hazardous twist . . . and . . . it worked . . . Hallelujah! . . . he was still perched on the train rails . . . and he was facing inward. He cautiously moved his hands up the rails, adjusted his feet on the bottom rung for better footing, and leaned his head on the rung in front of his face to rest for a moment.

  Adrenalin still rushing in his veins, he climbed around the right side of the ladder and sprawled himself onto the deck, landing on his pack and banging his head on the bulkhead. Talk about adding insult to injury. He lay there for a minute contemplating the situation . . . that would have been a miserable way to die . . . laying on the tracks . . . missing both legs . . . and bleeding to death.

  With a groan, he grabbed his pack, shoved it inside the porthole, and crawled in after it. Then he dug out his coat for a cushion, put on his stocking hat and pulled it down over his ears, more to mask the noise than anything, and cozied up next to his pack, hoping to sleep for a little while. The past few days had been grueling, physically and emotionally, and he was sleep-deprived—in drone mode as they used to say in Special Forces. After a few minutes, his eyes grew heavy. The rhythmic clickety-clack was almost soothing. His last conscious thoughts were whimsical . . . on an adventure fit for a boyhood novel . . . on my way to Montana . . . sweet Montana.