Devil's Run

by Frank Hughes

  “So you were gonna throw a wrench in the works. What was the plan?”

  “Security's tight up there. I mean really tight, so they felt safe. Can't get close to the buildings or the cable car, but for some reason this stuff, this construction stuff, was right out there in the open. And, man, I can tell you, lumber goes up like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Ken knew about an old hiking trail and an overgrown game tunnel they’d overlooked. It ran right under the perimeter fence. That was our way in.”

  “What about patrols?”

  “We had a local watching for two weeks, timing the rounds, marking the security areas, videotaping everything. Once I got there, I watched for two nights myself just to confirm. Third night, we went in.”

  “What happened?”

  He spread his hand. “We parked on a fire road just outside the property boundary, below the ghost town. Five warriors go in on snowshoes with night vision goggles.”

  “Where'd you get those?”

  “At Toys R Us, grandpa. Welcome to the 21st Century.”

  “Thanks for the tip.” My hands longed for the feel of his neck. “How did you communicate?”

  “Walkie-talkies. From Radio Shack” he added, as if I’d lost track of technology advances around the time of the telegraph. “We had fire gel for the lumber, sugar for the bulldozer’s fuel tank. Simple cigarette and matchbook timer to light off the gel. Like in that old movie, you know, where the guys are in the prison camp?”

  “So what went wrong?”

  He shook his head. “I have no idea. We were waiting at the rendezvous, on a ridge about a half mile from the van, monitoring communications and shooting video.”

  “Wait,” I said, “who is we?”

  “My local guy.”

  “Local? You mean a permanent resident? Who was it?”

  “Guy named Madigan. I’m only telling you ‘cause he’s dead now.”

  “Dead? How?”

  “Car accident,” he said, in a tone that made it clear he didn’t believe it.

  “When was this?”

  “Less than two weeks afterwards.”

  “Alright, go on with what happened that night.”

  “Ten minutes ahead of schedule, man, it was Mt. St Helens up there.” He made a blast gesture with his hands. “Boom. Explosions, fire.”

  “Did you hear anything from your team?”

  “Nothing I could understand. The radio transmissions were garbled. Then I hear shooting up there, on the mountain. All of a sudden there's a helicopter with searchlights sweeping the area. Cars with flashers coming up the fire road.”

  “You left.”

  “We ran like hell.”

  “We?”

  “Madigan and me.”

  “You didn't take the van?”

  “No, they spotted it before I could get back. The chopper was circling, beam right on it. I couldn't take the chance.”

  “How did you get away?”

  “Preparation, man. I've been doing this a long time. I knew every way in and out and I have people in Colorado. I just kept moving from safe house to safe house until it was okay to catch a freight.”

  As if to punctuate his story, a train whistle sounded in the distance.

  “So you never saw, or heard from, any of the five again?” I said.

  “No. I made my way here. Took me a month.” He smiled his annoying, lascivious smile. “Stayed with some lady friends along the way.”

  The door opened behind me. It was Epstein.

  “It's getting late,” he said. “Time you went back.”

  “You wouldn't want the Feds to get worried about ya, man,” said Roger.

  “I think they already know,” said Epstein. “Someone is watching from the hill.”

  “Let 'em watch,” said Roger. He uncoiled from the desk and dropped the chair back to four legs with force that rattled the floorboards. Then he got up and switched off the vibrator. He picked up the rifle, holding it casually at his side. He went outside and down the steps while Epstein held the door open. I followed him outside. The train whistle sounded again, closer. I could hear the rattling of the cars in the distance.

  “Did you get what you needed?” said Epstein.

  “I think so. Enough to know where to start looking for answers.”

  We went down the steps and started across the yard towards the warehouse. Roger was already at the snowmobile, inserting the key. He picked up the spare helmet, came a few feet towards us, then tossed it to me. I caught it one handed.

  “I gotta get mine,” he said, then turned and went into the warehouse.

  “You made that exception to your rules you never make,” I said to Epstein. “Thank you for that.”

  “These are unusual circumstances. Our cause is important, but no one is supposed to get hurt. I do hope you will remember to contact me if you learn anything.”

  “Count on it.”

  We stood facing each other as a slow freight approached, pulled by two diesel locomotives. The horn wailed again, now much louder. The tracks began to rattle and the wind carried the faint smell of diesel fuel and overheated brakes. A rush of air pushed through the yard and then the locomotives were going by. Once they passed, the sound level dropped from ear-shattering to merely mind numbing. About a dozen freight cars rolled by with a rhythmic clumping. Behind them were flatbeds bearing shipping containers.

  Roger came out of the warehouse, holding his helmet. He no longer had the rifle.

  I turned to Epstein and shouted over the noise. “So where are they watching us from?”

  There are moments where time seems to slow down and you see everything with startling clarity. The bullet hitting Epstein was one of those moments. At his temple, where there had been just thinning grey hair and pale skin, there was now a red hole, a perfect circle. His eyes bulged briefly from the pressure inside his skull, only to collapse back when the round exploded out the right side of his head, just above the jaw line. A bright red mist of blood touched my face.

  I somehow noticed all that, even though I was already diving for cover, rolling between two of the snowmobiles before Epstein's body hit the ground. I heard a metallic thud, followed by the sound of another shot. I rolled to the front of the sled and saw Roger standing against the warehouse, a stunned look on his face. He slid slowly to a sitting position, leaving a bloody smear on the metal wall. He may have been dead already, but someone made sure. A second bullet took away the top part of his head. His body jerked sideways and toppled over.

  I ventured a quick look. There were two of them halfway up the hill beneath one of the electrical towers. The spotter was already sitting on a snowmobile. The shooter was flailing away at a tower leg with the rifle. He tossed the mangled weapon aside and climbed aboard.

  I put my helmet on and jumped on the snowmobile, reversing away from the building and turning towards the trail. The killers' sled was headed away, up the slope, and the train blocked my way. If it didn't end soon, I'd have no chance of catching them.

  Two men in coveralls ventured out the door of the warehouse. One of them, an older man, had the Winchester. He looked at the two bodies, then at me, then back at the two bodies. He brought the rifle up to his shoulder and aimed it at me. I gunned the throttle and took the sled in a wide arc away from the tracks, towards the gate. When I got close, I saw it was not just closed, but padlocked. I continued my turn into a circle. The old man fired, missing me and hitting the trailer.

  This was not going well. I could only circle like a duck in a shooting gallery, hoping he didn't hit me before the train ended, which wasn’t happening anytime soon. The container laden cars were giving way to a string of five empties. Behind them were more containers. I looked from the train to the rotting wooden platform, whose sloping ramp might give me just enough height.

  The last of the empty cars was passing the platform. I redlined the throttle and took six hundred pounds of metal and plastic up the ramp and into the air.

  14.


  The flat wall of the approaching container was close enough to touch. I shut my eyes and braced for the crash. Moments later, the sled hit the ground, slewing back and forth in the mud and snow, rearing up on the left ski so high that I had to lean like an outrigger to keep from tipping over. I still had a death grip on the throttle, so when the sled righted itself it jerked forward so eagerly I almost rolled off the back.

  Once I was fully in control, I experienced a surge of juvenile exhilaration at having survived such a lunatic stunt. Then adult thoughts began to intrude. I had no plan and no weapons. What would I do if I caught up to these two murderous and presumably armed men? That line of thinking depressed me, so I concentrated on driving the snowmobile.

  The nuances returned quickly. A little body lean here, a little less throttle there, and the sturdy and powerful machine was soon eating up the trail. The snipers were no doubt feeling safe, convinced that the shock of the attack and the lucky break of a passing freight train would prevent any immediate pursuit. From the way they had discarded the rifle, I reasoned their main concern was not attracting undue attention. Probably they were traveling at a moderate rate of speed. Sure enough, I crested a rise and there they were, about a seven iron away, just turning into the woods on the same trail Roger and I had used. The shooter saw me and tapped his companion's shoulder. The driver glanced back before accelerating onto the trail.

  Daylight was fading fast and once I entered the trees it was as gloomy as dusk. My sled, more powerful than theirs, gained ground quickly. We dropped into a narrow valley where the trail paralleled a wide brook for about a hundred yards before crossing over a small bridge. There was a turn to the left and then the trail straightened into a long, steep incline. They were close to the top. I opened the throttle and the speedometer touched seventy.

  My memory of the earlier ride suggested the trail turned right at the crest and then ran for a few hundred yards along a ridge. If they were going to lay an ambush, this was the perfect spot. I pulled my feet out of the stirrups and slid down until I was almost prone on the seat. To see around the shield, I leaned my head out far to the right, swinging my legs off the other side as counterbalance. It was awkward and uncomfortable, but presented a much smaller target. I throttled back to take the curve.

  Their sled was turned sideways to block the trail and the shooter was aiming a pistol across the seat. He fired as I rounded the corner. The bullet blew a chunk out of the windscreen, leaving a little spider web of cracks near the hole. If I had been sitting up, he would have ten ringed me in the chest. Guess they no longer needed me alive.

  I turned off the trail to the right, banging and stuttering through several saplings. The pistol fired twice more. The rounds must have gone high, but I lost control anyway, striking a rotted stump that shattered into splinters. I found myself staring at an onrushing maple and yanked my head back just in time. The sled struck the tree a glancing blow and ricocheted off to the left, leaving a gaping crack in the hood.

  Bullets or no bullets, this was no way to ride through trees. I swung back to proper riding position just in time to steer past a log that threatened to rip the skis off. That was when the ground simply dropped away and I was briefly airborne. The right ski hit first on uneven ground. Dirt, snow, and dead leaves exploded around me. I wrestled the handlebars, managing to avoid a head on with a tree, but the left ski ran up the trunk, turning the sled on its side. I threw myself off to avoid being crushed. The sled slid about ten feet before stopping, the nose pushing up a wet pile of snowy leaves and forest debris.

  I'd gone off a rocky shelf about three feet high at a very bad angle. I was lucky I wasn't dead. So, like any reasonable person, I got to my feet and ran over to see if I could resurrect the sled, which lay parallel to the rock, skis on the downhill side. I put one hand on the console and one on the side. Pushing hard with my legs, and aided by gravity, I shoved the sled upright. Glass tinkled from the shattered headlight lens. The hood and bumpers looked like they'd been through a war. A macabre thought crossed my mind: it was a good thing Roger was dead, so he wouldn't see what I had done to his ride.

  The rock that caused the crash had also limited the snow accumulating in its lee. At most it was only about a foot and a half deep, so assuming the motor still worked I’d be able to get the sled moving without digging a path. When I hit the starter it roared to life instantly. I gunned it a few times to be sure and took off.

  I remembered that the trail they were using meandered a bit before curving sharply down to the right and into the clearing where Roger and I had frightened the deer. I took a more direct line, weaving around trees and skirting anything that resembled a hump in the snow, the already considerable chance of connecting with some hidden obstacle made worse by the growing darkness.

  Less than a minute later I plowed through some bushes and broke out into the open. In the dying light I saw the well worn trail exiting the trees below and to my left. Their approaching headlight was a bobbing wraith just inside the trees.

  When they entered the clearing I came in from behind and to their right. The shooter was holding the pistol in his right hand, resting it on his thigh. I made that my aim point.

  At the last moment, he saw me. It was too late. The battered nose of my sled struck his leg at sixty miles an hour. He shrieked with pain. The pistol flew out of his hand and was lost behind us. Both sleds slewed and skidded from the impact. Then we were racing side by side, maneuvering for position, smashing into one another. The shooter was a pro. Despite his obvious agony, he maintained control, reaching around the driver, fumbling for something. Of course: the driver had a handgun, too.

  The other side of the clearing, where it funneled onto the earthen bridge, was approaching. After that was a farm and the public road, open country where I'd have to veer off or be an easy target. If I was going to make a move, it had to be now.

  The bridge was a dark hole in the trees. I dropped back a little, egging them on. The driver gunned the motor and surged ahead. No matter, I knew my sled was faster. The shooter's hand came out of his partner's snowsuit holding another pistol. He turned and aimed. I accelerated and veered towards them. The shooter reacted instinctively, dropping his hand and attempting to pull in his injured leg. Instead of hitting them, I surged into the lead, a move that made me an easy target. There were only seconds before the shooter managed to lean around his companion and put one in my spine. My back muscles tensed in anticipation of the bullet.

  Then I was on the land bridge, where the trail was the width of one sled. Releasing the throttle, I braked and wrenched the yoke to the left. The snowmobile spun sideways and stopped. I let momentum carry me off, tucking and rolling when I hit the ground.

  There was nowhere for my pursuers to go. The driver had two bad choices and he split the baby, clipping the back of my sled before flying over the edge of the trail. I heard the whine of the track and a crash. The sound of splintering wood and tortured metal was followed by a rolling rumble, punctuated with big thumps, as the smashed machine rolled down the slope. It came to rest in the stream with a crackling of ice. Then there was silence.

  I lay in the snow and took inventory. All my limbs moved and I felt pretty good considering, but between adrenaline and shock you often don't know you've been shot until it is way too late. I sat up slowly and checked myself for holes or blood. When I was satisfied there was nothing, I stood up and took the helmet off, setting it on the wrecked remains of my sled.

  The sniper who shot Epstein and Roger lay just below me on his back. I made my way down the incline and knelt next to him. He was not in a good way. I gently opened the visor of his helmet, remembering it is best not to move anyone who might have a neck injury. The absurdity of that thought was not lost on me. After all, I had put him in this condition.

  Anyone who has ever used one of those timed public toilets in France knows that the one tool you should never be without is a flashlight. I used the small LED light on my keychain to examine his face. In the
pale blue glow, I recognized the man I’d chased in Newark. He looked at me and mumbled something.

  “Who sent you?” I said.

  His eyes took on a distant look, and seemed to lose focus. He said something again, so softly I couldn't hear. I put my ear close to his lips.

  “Hilfe,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “hilfe.”

  German. That was interesting. He made as if to speak again, but there was only a slow, rattling sigh. I leaned back a little and watched the life fade from his eyes. The sound of breath leaving for the last time gradually faded and died away completely. His body seemed to shrivel slightly. The house was empty, the owner gone.

  I sat back on my haunches and stared at the dead man. Three days on the job and three men were dead, possibly four, all by my action, directly or indirectly. Everything I'd spent years getting away from, thrust back at me again. Or had I embraced it? I told myself that all I had wanted was some answers, but I knew that wasn’t strictly true. I could have backed off when they spotted me following, and again when they shot at me, or when my sled crashed. I’d pushed it, determined that someone had to pay for using me as a stalking horse. Worse than that, I felt nothing. No remorse, no guilt, just the shakiness that comes after an adrenalin overdose. I was in the zone again. Job well done, Nick, very efficient. You bastard.

  Someone carrying a flashlight or lantern was moving up from the farm house. I didn't have much time, so I continued down the slope to where the driver lay. He was gone already, a massive dent where his ribcage ought to be. He was Caucasian, with short brown hair and nondescript features. I went through the zippered pockets of his snow suit. There was no identification, but plenty of cash, at least five hundred in various denominations. He had two spare magazines for a Heckler and Koch Universal Service Pistol, both full of hollow points. There was a map of the local snowmobile trails and the keys to a Hertz rental car, which according to the fob had been rented at the Albany airport. Beneath the snowsuit he wore nondescript slacks and a dark sweater that looked fairly new. There was nothing in the pants pockets and he wore no jewelry, except a TAG Heur military watch.