by Bobby Akart
Ashby nodded in agreement. “Yeah, but we certainly paid for the privilege. Did you hear that price tag? A hundred billion dollars and debt forgiveness. We’re gonna survive the volcano only to be broke when it’s over.”
Jake pointed ahead to the Walters Road intersection. “Check out the roadblock down the street. It doesn’t appear that they want anyone near the base. Do you think they’ve instituted a curfew?”
“If they haven’t, they should,” mumbled Ashby as she studied the GPS device. “In less than two miles, hang a left on Highway 12 and then it’s a straight shot to Rio Vista where we’ll cross the Sacramento River.”
Jake leaned forward and looked at the darkening sky. “Damn. We’re so close but I don’t know if we should keep going after dark. Rio Vista is a pretty small town if I remember correctly. That might be a better place to stop for the night than Vacaville. It looks kinda shady around here.”
Ashby had noticed the men standing on the street corners too. Very few vehicles were moving around the town, especially compared to the large number they’d experienced on the interstate that day.
She looked up from the GPS and their suddenly isolated surroundings. “It appears to be only twenty miles. I say we go for it.”
Chapter 16
CA-12
Rio Vista Junction, California
Perez and the eight other inmates who’d escaped the prison intake at CSP Solano in Vacaville hid in the dark behind the fluorescent orange silt fences that lined both sides of Highway 12, a two-lane highway running east- west between the interstate and Rio Vista. They were surrounded on all sides by two-hundred-foot-tall wind turbines which rose out of the fields. The enormous, three-blade structures slowly turned creating a swooshing sound in the darkness.
After overpowering the understaffed prison guards at Solano, they commandeered the bus and crashed through the gates of the facility. Perez, who hadn’t driven a vehicle in over a decade, created havoc as they crashed their way out of Vacaville. A trail of wrecked vehicles blocked any police pursuit and they were headed south until they ran into a police road block near the Air Force base.
They scattered in all directions with the plan of meeting up at Highway 12. At that point, they could choose their route and method of transportation across the Sacramento River under cover of darkness.
The nine men rested while they devised their plan. Construction equipment had been abandoned by the roadside as word spread of government shutdowns across California. One of the enterprising prisoners was familiar with Caterpillar machinery and expertly hotwired a track hoe, a large excavator used for demolition and trench digging.
Another piece of heavy equipment at their disposal, although more mobile, was a two-thousand pound mini-excavator. Similar to a track hoe, the mini excavator performed primarily a ditch digging function. For Perez’s purpose, it would act as a barricade to block any vehicle that tried to escape their trap.
The men weren’t armed, and they still wore their red jumpsuits befitting their high-risk status. After the equipment was readied to move into position, they searched around the job trailers in search of any type of weapon. A variety of crowbars, claw hammers, and shovel handles fit the bill. They didn’t have any guns and instead relied upon the element of surprise, in addition to the fact California was a state that had implemented a series of gun-control laws preventing ownership to many citizens.
After they killed the occupants of the vehicles, or at least the ones they couldn’t use for one reason or another, they’d split off in different directions. Perez planned on traveling alone. He’d find a change of clothes, conceal his identity the best he could, and blend in with the traffic along Interstate 5 all the way to L.A.
Perez took a deep breath and exhaled. He allowed himself a moment to stand up and look up and down the road. The new moon, a criminal’s ally, coupled with the hazy sky, provided them an extraordinary amount of darkness. In fact, Perez became concerned their prey might speed down the highway and crash into the track hoe, defeating the purpose of the trap.
With the sounds of helicopters circling in the distance over Vacaville, there was no time to waste. He instructed his fellow inmate to position the track hoe across the highway to block traffic in both directions although they hadn’t seen any vehicles heading northwest toward the interstate. All the traffic was heading south toward the Rio Vista bridge and the other side of the Sacramento River.
That was his goal as well. He needed wheels, fuel, and another chance to reunite with his friends in Los Angeles—La Mara Salvatrucha, also referred to as MS-13, the most brutal international criminal gang in the Americas. Perez was a hero to his brothers at MS-13 and would be treated like royalty upon his return.
Tonight, he would fulfill a dream that he never abandoned despite his incarceration. He was going home.
Chapter 17
CA-12
Rio Vista Junction, California
Jake proceeded down Highway 12 when he came upon brake lights indicating traffic had stopped. Sitting up high in the motorhome, his visibility was better than the automobiles and pickup trucks that were stuck at a standstill ahead of them.
Ashby leaned forward in her seat to focus on the reason for the blockage. “This is nuts,” she began as she looked at the evidence of road construction on both sides of the road. The orange silt fences stretched up and down the highway while open ditches were precariously close to the shoulder of the road. “Surely they’re not working after dark.”
“I can’t imagine they’re working at all,” added Jake. He looked in his large side mirrors at several other cars approaching them in the distance. One of the cars parked ahead began to blare their horn at the obstruction.
Jake quickly calculate whether he could back up several hundred yards to the point where the construction began. He hadn’t backed a trailer in many years, much less a motorhome with a vehicle attached close to the bumper. He’d most likely jackknife the rig within fifty-feet.
As three more vehicles slowed to a stop behind the sandrail, Jake noticed two of the drivers ahead of them get out of their cars and begin walking toward the large piece of equipment blocking the highway.
Jake slid open his window to hear any conversation between the motorists. Then he heard the sound of the machinery starting up.
“Sounds like they’re up and running,” said Ashby craned her neck to see whether the track hoe was moving.
Jake glanced in his side view mirror. Another machine was lumbering out of the ditch and into the middle of the road, blocking the entire group of vehicles plus the motorhome with no means of escape.
“Ashby, it’s an ambush! Open your window and grab our rifles.”
“The window?”
“Trust me, open it!” Jake yelled. He turned off the motor and stuck the keys in his pocket. He immediately turned out the headlights and darkened the rear of the motorhome.
He heard a thump as Ashby collided with something. “Gee, thanks.”
“Shh. Hurry.” Jake studied the movement outside. Then he heard the screams.
Perez and the inmates emerged from behind the silt fencing and attacked each vehicle. The first two cars were easy victims as the drivers were caught outside, and off guard. Illuminated by the headlights, the overhead swinging motion of a club came down on one of the drivers while the other one was beaten with a hammer.
In the lead vehicle, a woman gathered her children and began to run into the adjacent fields only to be chased down by a man in a red jumpsuit. He pounced on the mother and beat her to death while the children screamed in horror.
Ashby handed Jake his M16 and he quickly readied the rifle. He turned to give her instructions.
“You stare at that door knob. If it moves even a hair, you shoot the door.”
“After it opens?”
“No, on the first movement. These things are nothing more than a tin can on wheels. Your double-aught buck will blow right through it.”
“Okay,” she said h
esitantly.
“And, Ashby. This is going to be hard on your ears. You have to be prepared for the noise.”
She didn’t respond as Jake ran back to the front seat and stared in the side mirror. The passengers of the cars behind them had been pulled out of their seats and were being administered a brutal beating by the inmates.
After they were finished, they began to move slowly toward the Bounder. One peeled off around the backside of the sandrail and Jake caught a glimpse of him in the passenger side window.
The other continued toward the driver’s side. He ran back to Ashby and quickly removed some duffle bags from behind the driver’s seat creating an opening to the side of the motorhome.
“You’ve got one coming your way,” he said in an urgent, but hushed tone. “I’ll track him and let you when its time.”
“Do you think they’re armed?” she asked.
“No, or we would’ve heard gunfire already. They’re the escapees. And desperate. Don’t hesitate.”
Ashby flipped the safety off of her Mossberg shotgun. She was ready.
Jake got into position as the man inched closer toward the driver’s window. He quickly glanced to the other side as the man approached the side door. He was almost to the door, just as Jake’s target was on the driver’s side of the Bounder.
Jake opened fire with a quick burst from his automatic weapon. The rounds blasted through the thin exterior and struck the escaped prisoner in the upper chest, killing him instantly.
Before Jake could turn to assist Ashby, she’d squeezed the trigger and the shotgun blasted a gaping hole in the motorhome’s door, removing the attacker’s arm in the process. Without hesitation, Ashby stepped down toward the door and pointed the barrel of the shotgun at the man who was writhing on the ground in pain. She racked another round and utterly destroyed the man’s head.
She began to get wobbly on her feet. Jake was concerned this might happen as the concussive effect of a shotgun within a confined space can cause immediate nausea and headaches. He took the shotgun from her and pulled her back into the main cabin.
Men were shouting at one another in Spanish, a foreign language Jake didn’t understand. He ran to the front and looked for activity. Two of the vehicles were racing in reverse in an attempt to get away. A sedan continued to block his exit.
There was more shouting and then suddenly, as if in choreographed unison, the lights and engines of the vehicles turned off. It was deafly silent.
“What’s happening?” Ashby startled Jake with the question. He quickly turned to her and glanced toward the hole in the door.
“They’re regrouping. I still don’t think they have any guns, which is good for us. The bad news is they can wait us out until they come up with a plan.”
“How’s your head?”
“My ears won’t stop ringing, but I have my vision back,” she replied.
Jake quickly found the duffle bag which held his extra magazines and ammunition for the M-16. He felt inside until he found what he was looking for. He dropped the partially spent thirty round magazine and snapped in a sixty round in its place.
Then, he found an extra magazine for his sidearm and shoved it in his hip pocket.
“What are you gonna do?”
“Go hunting.”
Chapter 18
CA-12
Rio Vista Junction, California
Jake didn’t have any good options. Clearly, the attackers, who appeared to be escaped convicts by the look of their red jumpsuits, were now covered with blood in at least two instances. He assumed another two got away in the vehicles which sped off a moment ago. Not knowing the language, it was impossible for him to discern from the shouting how many might be left, or what they had planned.
He tried to make an educated guess. Clearly a coordinated attack, they waited until they had nine vehicles trapped in their construction machinery gambit. Jake wanted to believe they’d only fight the least number necessary to accomplish their purpose. What they hadn’t counted on, was him.
Doing the math, there were two who drove away and two who were killed. That left five, give or take. If he and Ashby waited, their attackers would disable the motorhome first, and then surround it. If they had guns, or if they found a weapon in the stalled cars, Jake’s advantage would be lost.
He decided to press the fight. He handed Ashby the M-16. He’d given her some basic training on its use two days ago and she seemed comfortable handling it. The shotgun was too much for her to use in the close confines of the motorhome. Plus, without the benefit of the advanced optics afforded the military-issued version, Jake was better off with the shotgun which provided a larger spray pattern as he fired into the darkness.
Jake kissed her and gave her a stern warning. Do not hesitate to shoot at any movement, always using quick, three-to-five round bursts. He didn’t want her to run out of ammunition or cause a jam with the high-capacity magazine. If she did have difficulty with the weapon, her handgun was by her side. He instructed her to shout Yellowstone if she’d switched guns. This would be his cue to fall back and help her defend the motorhome.
Jake tested the handle of the Bounder’s door. Remarkably it worked, despite the gaping hole in the center of the only exit. He quickly stepped onto the pavement and gently pushed the door closed. The barely audible click was unavoidable.
His first stop was the vehicle behind them. Jake inched along the side of the Bounder until he reached the sandrail. Once there, he darted across the small opening and ducked down behind the rear, oversized wheels. Jake was making a huge assumption that the escapees were unarmed. Otherwise, his risky undertaking could result in their deaths. He had no choice but to follow his gut.
Walking quietly, heel-over-toe, he approached the passenger side of the Honda Civic. There was barely enough light to see that the car was empty. It had been running, however, and their attackers purposefully turned it off, like the vehicles to the front.
Satisfied that he was not about to be ambushed, Jake quickly pulled his .45 caliber pistol and shot out both rear tires. The Civic, a front wheel drive car, could be moved, even with both tires flat. But, it became useless to the convicts.
Jake’s goal was to break their spirit and force them into a mistake. With his shotgun raised and ready to fire, he moved to the left side of the Bounder, scanning the fields and the construction barriers for any commotion.
He knew they were watching him. Even in the dim light, his silhouette would be visible to them against the side of the motor home. The eerie, methodical turning of the wind turbines were the only sound reaching Jake’s ears, causing his breathing to match their rhythm.
What are they planning? Are they trying to lure him away? Why aren’t they coming for me?
Jake decided to confuse any onlookers. Without warning, he turned and ran in the opposite direction toward the disabled Civic. He circled around the rear bumper and emerged alongside the Bounder where he stopped short of the door.
“Ashby, don’t shoot,” he whispered until he heard her acknowledge him.
He darted passed the door with his sidearm raised and immediately shot out the right-side tires of the pickup in front of them. The gunshots rang out like the sound of a cannon.
This obviously stirred the convicts as they erupted in chatter. F-bombs were hurled from both sides of the road amidst their shouts in Spanish. He couldn’t understand them, but their voices gave away their locations. This was a mistake that Jake appreciated.
First, he felt that, under these stressful conditions, if the men were armed, they would fire wildly in his direction. No criminal was disciplined enough to hold their fire as Jake was destroying the prized vehicles they sought. Their lack of reaction confirmed the men were unarmed.
Second, despite their criminal nature, they were afraid to confront him because he was armed. Every bad guy knows that the only thing that will stop their violence is a good guy with a gun.
Jake’s actions were having the desired effect. The me
n would grow desperate to protect their investment. One more set of blown tires should do it. He stepped onto the shoulder of the road and away from the pickup truck. He quickly took aim and shot the right-side tires out of the next car in line.
“Puta!”
“Cabrón!” shouted another.
“¡Ándale, Ándale!”
Jake knew what that meant. He quickly holstered his pistol and racked a round into the shotgun. The first assailant leapt on the hood of the pickup and flew toward him like he was a deranged acrobat. The attacker’s chest exploded in blood as Jake dispatched him first.
Two men quickly circled the cars to the front of the pickup. Jake’s shot caught one man in the shoulder and spun him to the ground while the other kept coming. Jake had learned during his training that when in a rage, an assailant can cover twenty feet in just seconds. But, Jake was faster.
He loaded another shell in the chamber and shot the man in the legs, obliterating both knee caps. Then he heard shots ring out from behind him. He swung around and racked another round only to find a man sprawled dead on the pavement.
One of the escaped prisoners had circled around the back of the pickup truck bed to sneak up on him, but Ashby had moved to the front of the motor home and shot the man in the back with her pistol. She was employing the same method Jake used earlier to monitor both sides of the Bounder.
Jake saw movement on top of the motor home. “The skylight!”
The man raised a pipe high into the air and crashed it through the skylight on the top of the motor home. Ashby, never hesitated. She spun around out of Jake’s view and began firing her pistol into the roof. After several shots, the sound of the man’s body crashing onto the pavement near the driver’s window confirmed the kill.
Jake’s mind raced as he spun in all directions waiting for the next wave of attacks. He nervously created a body count. Two escaped, two initial kills. One roof. One on the hood. One behind him. Two on the side. Six-seven-nine.