Warrior (Freelancer Book 2)

by Irving, Terry

  Then Rick started to refasten his helmet strap. "We need to make tracks. I get the feeling that they’re not all that bright, but these guys won't go the wrong way forever; and we've still got a lot of tough road to cover before morning. We’re going to have to go over the Needles Highway."

  "Great. I was disappointed we missed it coming south. I’ve always heard it was quite pretty. All those sharp turns and exciting drop-offs."

  "Should be even more fun in the dark."

  The drive past the Custer Battlefield was quick and uneventful. As the road wound upward, there were more trees, pines and scrub mostly, and more turns. Rick was pushing the bike hard but far from its limits or his. They were doing about 90 on the straightaways and only slowing enough to hit the apex on the turns, using both lanes and then pushing the speed right back up.

  The next fuel drop was at a cluster of abandoned tourist cabins on the banks of Legion Lake. Rick pulled the bike in slowly, stopped at the beginning of the weed-filled driveway, and swung the front wheel slowly, raking the headlight across the peeling paint, broken glass, and trash. A single headlight flashed twice from next to one of the beat-up cabins.

  Rick returned the signal, cut off his lights, and rolled slowly forward. Slouched against an old Harley Electra Glide was a young man with long, straight, black hair and a bandanna tied biker-style over his head.

  Rick stopped and, for a moment, no one spoke.

  "Well, is one of you going to break down and say something or do you intend to just stare at each other?" Eve swung her leg off the bike saddle and bent to touch her toes. Straightening, she said, "Apparently you are. Why don't I just leave you to it? I need some privacy."

  Walking carefully between two of the cabins, she called, "With any luck, you'll have said 'Hello' to each other by the time I get back."

  The young man's face broke into a smile as he watched her disappear. "Man, it can't be easy living with that chick."

  "Nope, not easy. Definitely worth it, however." Rick stuck out his hand. "Nice to meet you."

  "No names? That's cool. I'm Johnny." The younger rider shook Rick's hand, then produced a rubber hose, gave it to Rick, and stuck the other end in his gas tank. "You can take everything in the main tank. I can make it home on the reserve."

  Rick sucked on the tube and shoved it into his tank when it began to siphon. Then he spat out the inevitable mouthful of gas. "One of these days, I'll get this to work without having to drink all this damn gas."

  "Yeah, that's why I let you suck on it. You headed up over the Needles Highway?"

  "Could be."

  "OK, I don't need to know. Howah, it's colder than hell up there so watch out for ice."

  "The Park hasn't salted it? They own that road, right?"

  The younger man spat. "Own it, shit. The Lakota took it from the Cheyenne in a fair fight back there on Battle Mountain. The government even said it was ours in the Fort Laramie treaty—until they found gold."

  "Any gold left?" Rick bent the tube over and pinched it so the gas stopped flowing and handed it back carefully. "I'm just wondering, you understand."

  That got him a sharp look and then Johnny laughed. "You're OK, white boy."

  "He's better than that." Eve came back from behind the cabin, buckling her helmet. "And I think we Cheyenne have a pretty good claim on these hills ourselves, so back your Lakota ass off."

  "Huh." Johnny slung a leg over the Electra Glide, "You got a kili woman there, wisachu."

  "She isn't mine." Rick closed the tank and restarted the engine. "She very definitely belongs to herself."

  "OK, don't freak out." Johnny leaned over and whispered to Rick, "But, if the road don't kill you, she probably will."

  Eve got on, and they pulled out.

  When they were far enough away not to be heard, Rick asked, "So what is a kili woman? Wisachu, I've already figured out."

  "It's hard to translate but 'tough chick' is pretty close."

  "Well, that's accurate."

  "Damn right." She tucked into his back. "Now, put some spurs to this thing, trooper. We're burning starlight."

  The Needles Highway at night wasn't the beautiful drive it was in the day. Driving was like cutting through dark cold water. Outside the cone of the headlight was pure black. Rick was forced to keep the big bike below 40 to make the tight turns and blind corners.

  Twice, he slammed on the brakes as deer eyes flashed yellow in the headlights. They just watched the bike come at them as he locked up the rear wheels and cursed. When the Ducati had finally stopped, they turned and ambled off the road. Once, red eyes flickered on the edge of the road—the sign of a predator—but they saw nothing as they sped by.

  They had the road to themselves and could take the straight sections of the narrow tunnels and ridgetop passages at speed. The cold air was slowly burning through their clothes, forcing them to crouch lower behind the small windshield and draw their legs into the tiny area of protection afforded by the race fairings. They kept talking, even telling stories at one point, making sure they stayed awake, and gauging how badly their dropping core temperatures were affecting judgment by the slurring of their speech.

  They were about two-thirds of the way across the mountain highway when their pursuers found them again. Two Harleys coming in the opposite direction, headlights blocked by solid rock until they were only yards away.

  The riders snapped their heads to the left when they saw the Ducati. One shouted, "That's them!" and the other reached into a jacket pocket, but Rick and Eve were past the next turn and out of sight.

  Rick's heart was pounding; it was just luck that he'd been in the right lane. He tapped Eve's wrist, she loosened the sudden death grip she’d taken on his waist, and the pain in his side subsided.

  Again, he wondered who these guys were. They clearly had enough people to run a search box with men in front of them as well as behind, and they kept showing up with reinforcements in new vehicles. It would make sense if they were state police, U.S. Marshals, or FBI, but these guys had been firing at the government bunkers back in Wounded Knee.

  Private investigators?

  The CIA playing an inter-agency power game?

  He shook his head to clear out the questions and picked up speed. Whoever they were, they'd be on his tail as soon as they could make U-turns on the narrow road—which wasn’t going to be quick with those huge Harleys. He was sure the Ducati was faster on a straight but on the turns, he’d be forced to drop down to their speed. He had to do something about them before someone new showed up.

  "I've got an idea," he said over his shoulder.

  "About damn time."

  "You know you could get off and walk if you wanted."

  "No, thank you. What's the plan, trooper?"

  "We're going to need to gain as much time as we

  can on them." He dipped deeply into a turn. "Wait, I'll explain when I get to a straight and I'm not trying so hard to keep us on the road."

  "Better talk fast. 'Straight' is a relatively scarce commodity up here." She pulled closer to his back. "Right up there with 'warm’."

  After fifteen minutes of pushing the bike deep into turns and powering out, staying carefully off the brakes by going up and down the gears almost constantly, they reached what Rick knew from his single glance at a map was the last of the narrow tunnels blasted through the granite spires. Now he knew there was time to talk, and he outlined quickly what he planned to do.

  Rick slowed down at the tunnel exit, made a wide turn, and parked the bike facing the way they’d come, just to the left of the tunnel mouth. Behind him, the road split, the main road branching off to the left and a parking lot opening to the right. There was a needle of solid stone dead ahead—only yards from the tunnel exit.

  He pulled off his helmet and put a gloved finger to his lips. There was no sound of their pursuers, no deep rumble of the big V-Twins echoing off the sides of the stone tunnel.

  "OK, let's do it," he said.

  Eve bega
n to dismantle the gear bungeed to the bike's luggage rack, pulling off the gas can to reach the backpack. Putting it on the ground, she opened the drawstrings on top and began taking out supplies. At the bottom was a metal box—the strobe that Pete Talltrees had given them. She handed it to Rick.

  Rick had unlocked and flipped up the bike’s seat, revealing the battery and, tucked in a small compartment to the side, a small tool kit and a roll of electrical tape. Slamming the seat down, he unrolled the cold plastic tool bag and used the screwdriver to remove the taillight screws. He used the tape to attach the red plastic taillight housing to the front of the metal box Eve had put on the ground.

  He flipped a switch on the back of the box, and a blazing red strobe light exploded off the tunnel walls. Satisfied, he turned it off and wound a couple of the bungee cords around it, then handed one to Eve.

  Eve had another bungee ready and quickly taped it to the on-off switch. She stepped back next to the tunnel and waited.

  Rick jogged back to the Ducati. Moving as quickly as he could, he scavenged a can of peaches from the backpack, opened it with a small opener stashed in a side pocket, dumped out the contents, and placed the can on the ground on the right side of the bike. Then he opened the oil plug on top of the engine, got a good grip on the handlebars, and slowly tipped the heavy machine over until hot engine oil poured out and filled the can. He knew the can was only big enough to bring the oil level down halfway on the dipstick—there would be enough for the engine. There wasn't any visible strain on his face, but he grunted as he raised the bike back up.

  Setting the bike up on the center stand, he took the can and threw about half the oil on the road back in the tunnel and then as widely as he could in a straight line leading to the wall of stone. The smell of hot oil was an affront to the crisp mountain air.

  As he headed back to the bike, he heard the first faint echoes.

  They had only about a minute.

  Sorting through the tool kit, he fitted the heaviest socket wrench with an extender, making it into a foot-long rod; then he twisted the spare sparkplug into its thin-wall tool and jammed that into the open end of the socket. Finally, he pulled a one-inch washer from his pocket, something he'd made in Elvis Iron Crow's garage. It was threaded on the inside so it fitted on the end of the sparkplug. Now, he had a foot-long steel club with about a pound of metal on the end and all that weight concentrated on the narrow edge of the washer.

  The motorcycles were getting louder. Rick reached over, stuck the motorcycle key into the ignition with his right hand, and grasped the end of the bungee cord with his left. Eve crouched and picked up her bungee cord.

  They waited.

  The tone of the motorcycle exhaust deepened as the two riders entered the tunnel. He picked up the bungee and, standing, pulled the boxy strobe toward him and up to head height as Eve mirrored his motions.

  The bikes were coming quickly—headlights flickering off the rock walls—but Rick waited until the last second. Then he turned on the bike's ignition, blazing the high beam of the headlight directly into the tunnel. Eve pulled the strobe's switch, and the red light began pulsing in the center of the tunnel.

  Rick could hear the squeal of tires on the asphalt for a second and then silence as they hit the oil. The first rider was already down and sliding when he came out of the tunnel. His partner, fishtailing desperately to stay upright, slammed into him, and then his bike was down. Both slid across the open space and smashed into the rock wall.

  Dropping the strobe, Rick grabbed his makeshift club and ran over to the pile-up. The men were moving, the first one screaming in pain as he tried to pull his leg out from under his bike. The second rider reached inside his jacket and Rick hit his right forearm as hard as he could, trying to put the edge of the washer right on the outside of the man’s arm.

  He heard a crack as the bone broke.

  Now they were both screaming. Eve turned away, looking pale.

  Rick said, "I’ve got to keep them from shooting at us—"

  "I know, damn it!" Eve interrupted, "It’s rough to see, but it’s no worse than a Sun Dance. Finish up and let’s get out of here."

  Rick circled and eyed the first rider. He probably had a broken leg and his left side was shredded where his jeans and denim jacket had scraped off on the pavement. Deciding that there was no point in taking chances, Rick pulled the biker’s right hand out and carefully broke his trigger finger with the weighted washer.

  "You motherfucker!" The rider shrieked. "Stephen will fucking kill you!"

  Rick pulled the ignition keys from both bikes, throwing them over the edge of the parking lot. He twisted the first rider's helmet so he could see his face. "Weren't you going to kill us anyway?"

  "We just want that fucking piece of shit medicine bag, god damn it!"

  The second rider was slowly trying to get his left hand into his jacket. Rick pulled open the heavy leather and took an automatic pistol from the man's belt. Checking that the safety was on, he put it down, and slid it over to Eve.

  In a matter-of-fact voice, he asked, "Right-handed or left-handed?" The man gritted his teeth and glared at Rick. Rick shook his head and said in a mock-regretful tone, "OK, but that means I’ll have to make sure. Sorry."

  Then he broke the forefinger on the left hand.

  Turning to the rider with the broken leg, he patted him down, removing a Colt Python from a shoulder holster.

  "Jeez, you sure you've got enough firepower? What the hell are you? A lost LURP unit?" Rick asked as he cocked the hammer, and then held it muzzle-down between the two men. "And who is Stephen?"

  The rider with the shredded jacket said through gritted teeth, "I ain't telling you shit, squaw-fucker."

  Rick reached over and gently tapped his broken finger with the pistol.

  The biker screamed and twisted.

  As he did, Rick saw where the torn denim had revealed bare shoulder. He grabbed the arm, dug out his Zippo, lit it on his thigh, and held it so he could examine the shoulder. Then, he turned, yanked the jacket off the other man's shoulder, and tore his shirt away.

  Both men had four black scars in a box pattern.

  Rick said, "What the hell is this? You guys in a fraternity or something? Or were you just branded so your boss could keep track of you?"

  "You and your prairie nigger girlfriend are dead. We'll kill you the way we did your buddy on Pine Ridge." The biker's eyes blazed with fury. "Took that fucker a couple of hours to die."

  Rick grabbed the man's chin and twisted his head so he could see his face. He held the pistol against his temple. "What did you say?"

  "Your buddy, the tall fucker with the rifle." The biker tried to spit in Rick's face, but the spittle ran down his chin. "We wasted his ass but not until we crushed his nuts and took off every inch of his skin."

  Rick's hand trembled as he fought the urge to kill the man. Slowly, he released his grip on the Colt and stood up. He raised the gun and aimed at the man's left eye.

  For a long moment, he just stood.

  Then he turned, lowered the hammer, and violently hurled the gun into the darkness. He said to Eve, "Give me the other one, too. These miserable bastards are not going to show up in my nightmares."

  She handed him the second pistol, and it followed the first over the guardrail.

  She looked at him gravely as he turned away from the two men and the twisted wreckage around them. "I would have killed them."

  "Sorry." Rick headed back to the Ducati. "Look at the bright side, maybe they'll freeze to death before anyone gets up here."

  "Maybe." Eve turned to follow. "But probably not."

  Rick looked back and grinned at her. "Yeah. God knows they don't deserve it, but I'll call for an ambulance as soon as we find a phone."

  "That's what I thought."

  "I've already got enough ghosts." He picked up the oily peaches can and threw it high into a crevice in the rocks. "Let's get this place cleared of as much of our stuff as we can and get the h
ell out of here."

  CHAPTER 14

  April 28, 1973, Deadwood, South Dakota

  Headlights flashed in back of the small wayside rest stop. Rick swept his headlight over an old sedan with the trademark faded blue of a cheap Earl Scheib paint job. When they got closer, he thought how much the driver resembled his car: both looked hard used and badly battered but still running.

  An older man, he had thinning hair under a Dodgers cap and heavy glasses with lenses like the bottom of a bar glass. From the lines on his face, Rick suspected he'd seen the bottom of more than his share of bar glasses.

  "You must be Iron Crow's buddy." The man's voice was low and scarred by years of cigarettes. "I don't suspect you need to know my name if you don't mind."

  Rick felt Eve swing off the back of the bike and he pulled it up on the center stand. "No, I don't mind." He got off and bent to touch his toes, trying to get some flexibility back in his tired body. He grunted when a spasm of pain shot through the webbed scars on his side. Eve had disappeared into a wooden outhouse in a clump of pines.

  "Gas can is back in the trunk if you don't mind. At my age, you don't need to be carrying heavy things around." He placed an unfiltered cigarette between his lips but began to cough before he could get it lit. "Hell, at my age, it's damn hard just to get out of the car."

  With a fair amount of swearing, the driver managed to light his cigarette with the car lighter. Then he turned off the switch and handed Rick the key. The car kept running, coughing and rocking, the engine dieseling even with the power off.

  "This car just doesn't want to quit," Rick said as he headed toward the trunk.

  "Nope. Just too old and stupid to know when it's time to take a rest. And don't you dare say it's just like its owner."

  Rick called from the back of the car. "Wouldn't think of it."

  The old sedan was still gasping and popping when Rick had finished refilling his tank and put the can back in the trunk. He gave the old man the key. As soon as the key was in the ignition, the engine stopped, and the night was quiet.

  The old guy laughed, relaxed in the cracked leather of the driver's seat, and turned to the serious enjoyment of smoking. As he tapped the ashes out the window with one hand, he offered the pack to Rick with the other.