by Bradley West
When the convoy had pulled up just after the accident, Travis was unwilling to stop and wait for them to complete repairs. It was better to keep moving, particularly since the advance team was certain they’d be back on the highway within a half-hour. That was twenty minutes ago, and Jaime was eager to catch up to the main body. Even with Travis riding point, they were under-gunned for what might lay ahead.
From Winnemucca came an unfamiliar sound, that of a vehicle running at high speed.
“Shoot! Take him out!” Jaime shouted as the vehicle drew near.
A state trooper’s car with only its parking lights on passed them going at least eighty mph (130 kph).
Melvin was the only one with a weapon in hand, and his M-4 remained silent. “Chill, brother. The cops are the good guys, right?”
“We have no fucking idea who’s in that car. We’re out of walkie-talkie range and our only shooter is at the front of the convoy.”
“We have Derek and Tom in the food truck at the back,” Melvin said. “They’re good.”
Yonten finished tightening the last lug nut. “Tire is on. Needs air.”
“What’ll we do with the flat?” Johnny asked. “The back’s packed and that screw lift will take too long.”
“Can you tie it to the roof rack?” Jaime asked.
“I can if someone helps me lift it.”
* * * * *
Muller saw Katerina’s play from a mile away. Norris and the wicked pixie had suffered a major falling out, with Katerina’s lumpy face the result. She also wasn’t nearly as edgy about not having any Dark Cure on hand—the evil bitch had inoculated herself. Hell, maybe she’d dropped the box on purpose just to screw Norris . . . no, she was too greedy for that. The details didn’t matter, so long as he got a few more blowjobs out of her attempt to win him back in case her move against Norris failed.
Norris was someone he wouldn’t mind seeing dead, but not as soon as Katerina wanted. If the Souls could muster a handful of bikers to help assault the convoy, that reduced Muller’s chances of catching a bullet. Once the vaccine was in hand, Norris and his grubby gang would be redundant. Upon further reflection, Muller realized that Carla Maggio was the actual target—if he had her, he didn’t need anyone other than Burns to cut the royalty deal.
Who in the convoy had to be neutralized before he could pry sexy Carla free? For starters, the wrestling coach who’d driven the pickup across the park and pointed a weapon at him, the big spic with the bloody head bandage, and, of course, Uncle Sal. But treasonous Melvin Robinson, the giant spade from Detroit, sat atop Muller’s deletion list.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Road Kills
Thursday, July 16, 2020: Berkeley, California; Douglas County, Nevada; night
The unlit black car hurtling past spelled trouble. Back on the road, Johnny crushed the gas pedal and flicked on the high beams. Jaime rode shotgun, tactical rifle and spare magazines at the ready. Yonten and Melvin cradled the SAW in the back seat, ammo box already locked in place. It would take fewer than twenty seconds to flip down the bipod legs, flop down behind the weapon and begin firing. Johnny was a past master of the M320 low-velocity grenade launcher. The 3M advance team had the tools to win the fight, but first they had to catch up.
* * * * *
The cop car adeptly forced the Horizon to a stop in the breakdown lane. Travis saw the pullover in progress through his rearview mirrors and had Tien on the walkie-talkie asking what was wrong. The former SEAL saw a dark silhouette outlined by the trailing sleeper ’Bago’s headlights and realized that they’d lost the Horizon. “Tell everyone to keep moving!” he shouted. “Don’t stop until they’ve passed us.” It was too late and the Forza pulled off as well, blocking their view.
Back in the supply truck, Derek heard the message and powered past the two RVs with the black cop car in between, pulling to a stop down the road next to the Silverado. As the Strubs exited the cab, Travis shouted, “Block the highway! Double back through the desert and line up targets.” The father and son scrambled back aboard while Travis swung the Silverado around and barreled the wrong way, lights out and eyes peeled. “On the back seat, pull out my helmet with the nods,” he said to Tien. Tien pawed around in the dark and came up empty.
The man in the black car didn’t waste time either. He knocked on the RV’s door with his gun butt and motioned for Zarni to open up. Erinn was minding a still-unwell Arkar in the back, and Tina, Jeanie and twelve-year-old Schway were asleep. That left the wide-eyed fourteen-year-old Kyaw as Zarni’s front seat companion. The door opened and a sturdy Hispanic man in uniform didn’t mince words. “Give me four vaccines and no one gets hurt.”
Erinn rushed up and stared down the barrel of a nine mil. Another man with a gun. Does it ever stop? “Sir, what are you talking about? You need to get out of here—this is a Covid-positive quarantine zone.”
“My two kids and their mother have Covid. I heard on my radio that a big blue motorhome had the cure. Hand over four shots and you’re free to go.” The man packed plenty of muscle on his early thirties frame. His words were harsh, but by his posture Erinn saw he wasn’t a natural bully.
Alerted by the commotion, Tina hustled forward and assessed the situation. “I’m Doctor Francisco. How can I help?”
“Stop stalling! I need four syringes of Covid cures.” The desperation sounded in his voice and showed in his dark eyes above a black face mask. “If I don’t have them in one minute, I’ll empty the RV and drive off with that little girl,” he said as he gestured at Kyaw.
Kyaw burst into tears and the assailant, father of a little girl, regretted his words.
* * * * *
Travis and Tien had parked the Silverado in another blocking position and hotfooted it past the green Forza, motioning for Carla, Sal and the other anxious occupants to stay inside.
Down the road, the Telluride’s speedometer topped 140 mph (225 kph) as the pursuers closed the distance at more than two miles a minute, but Jaime’s crew was still ten miles away.
* * * * *
In the back, Arkar was on his feet and had overheard enough. No stranger was threatening anyone in this convoy, especially the daughter of his dead best friend. He dropped and crawled forward, then rose to a knee and brought up his Glock 17 in a two-handed firing position. He squeezed off two shots from five meters away. The reports deafened everyone and smoke filled the motorhome. Arkar dropped his pistol, pushed Tina out of the way and drew his A-Klub as he reached the downed man. The Latino fireplug lay on his back, struck twice in the chest. Arkar swept the pistol out of the man’s limp hand and prepared to draw his heavy knife across the assailant’s windpipe when Tien and Travis sprinted up outside the RV’s open door and Travis signaled him to halt.
“Everyone okay?” Travis shouted. Most were too numb to reply, but he heard nothing to the contrary. He turned his attention to the gunman who was still conscious but fading.
With great effort, the wounded man spoke: “In the car.”
Fuck. The car! Travis turned and scrambled toward the trooper’s black sedan. Pistol out, he commanded, “Open one door at a time and throw out your weapons. Hands first, get out and lie face down on the ground.” Nothing happened.
Travis yelled for help, and Derek and Tom sprinted out of the desert while Tien joined him at the car. Travis caught himself thinking of Carla for an instant. Goddammit, just as my love life picks up, I’ll open a door and catch one in the face. He used his left hand to flip open the driver’s door and trained his nine mil on the front seat. “Empty!” he shouted.
“Papá?” a boy called from the back seat
Tina edged Arkar away and applied compression to the gunman’s chest wounds, but the unconscious man bled out before she could get an IV into him. Arkar’s hand-loaded jacketed hollow points had tumbled on impact and blown softball-diameter holes out the man’s back. Burma commandos weren’t adherents of “shoot to wound.”
* * * * *
Las Vegas looked more li
ke blacked-out WWII London than Sin City. It was two o’clock in the morning, but when had a clock ever mattered on the Strip? There were a couple of police cars on South Las Vegas Boulevard and not much else. Several casinos were open, judging by the generator-supplied lighting and armed guards stationed outside. Lightboards read, Essential travel only. Give way to emergency vehicles. Greg stole a glance at Steph and saw she was awake. For the moment, Tyson was sleeping, but he’d had a restive trip. “Honey, I’m hungry. Do you want to eat something before we go to the Children’s Hospital? If it’s even open, we might have to wait hours to see a specialist.”
“My baby’s hurt and you want dinner? What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m sorry, but I haven’t eaten all day and it seems like there’s a restaurant open down this side road. I’ll get something to go.”
Greg hung a right off the Strip onto Park Avenue and stopped across the street from a dimly lit diner. An idle police car, its roof lights flickering, colorfully illuminated two lawmen munching on sandwiches. A generator rumbled in the background.
“I’ll only be a few minutes. See if you can get a cell signal and call the hospital for an appointment. I wrote down the number.” Greg fumbled in his pocket and handed the slip to the angry woman.
“Leave the keys,” Steph said. “If you’re gone for more than five minutes, I’m driving Tyson there myself. Join us whenever you’ve finished.”
Greg knew better than to reply. He dropped the keys on the seat and pulled a single crutch out of the back seat. His left leg was stiff as hell; he’d sat the entire time save for a pee break and refueling stop three hours ago. With his back to Steph, he moved the pistol out of his cargo pants pocket and stuffed it down the front of his waistband, covering it with his untucked shirt.
Steph saw with a start that Greg’s phone showed a single bar, and dialed with sweaty hands.
Greg found a picnic table with only a single occupant at the other end. The rest of the tables were more densely occupied. He nodded to the seated masked man, who gave him a gracious wave and pushed a menu his way. Greg checked to see if his wife and the GMC Sierra were still there. The menu was mostly crossed out, with See Counter for Prices handwritten across the top in black marker.
Steph urged someone to answer the phone. She looked down at little Tyson resting with his eyes closed. It hurt her to see her baby shrink before her eyes.
Greg made a quick trip to the counter and returned with a metal placeholder and a numbered placard. He was numb after paying two hundred dollars for a pair of fried chicken sandwiches, fries and two bottles of water. Disturbingly, the patrol car pulled away and with it the last vestige of law and order. Within a minute, a man sprinted out of the shadows and grabbed a cheeseburger off a diner’s tray. The stunned customer hadn’t more than untangled his legs from under the bench and shouted in outrage when the thief had disappeared into the night.
Steph was oblivious to everything other than the phone’s ringing and her baby’s breathing. Finally, a recorded messaged declared that the Children’s Hospital of Las Vegas was closed because of Covid-20. Her eyes filled with tears of disappointment, but she realized that they may not have another working phone for a long time. She dialed 911 and no one answered, not even an answering machine. She had to compose her mind. Did she have access to Google and was it online? Yes, and yes. Who would answer their phones? A casino. She called the place across the street, Bora Bora and a real person picked up. Steph almost couldn’t speak she was so surprised. “Uh, do you have a room? Two adults and a crib?”
“How many nights would you like and what type of room?”
“One night. A standard room, any bed configuration.”
“A twin room with a non-prime view and crib will be . . . let me see now . . . twelve hundred dollars, plus state and city taxes, plus two resort fees. The total will be $1,584 including a twenty-dollar gambling voucher. To preserve water, we’ve shut it off: in the lobby, show your room key to collect a two-gallon container. The hotel has no room service or open restaurants, but in your room you’ll find a list of restaurants that delivered as of yesterday. We supply complimentary personal protective gear and disinfectant at check-in. You must wear a hazmat suit in the hallways and on the casino main floor. We no longer accept credit cards.”
“What do you accept?”
“Cash, eleven cryptocurrencies, gold, silver, palladium, cut gems and luxury watches. We have a registered gemologist on duty in the lobby and a licensed pawnbroker around the clock. We also have a few internet-connected computers to aid transactions.”
“Where can we park?”
“Valet parking is unavailable. We offer self-parking in our garage next to the T-Mobile Arena. Parking is two hundred dollars every twenty-four hours on and in-and-out basis. Armed guards patrol our parking lot and one of them will escort you and your luggage to the lobby. What name shall I book you under?”
“Ferguson, Gregory Ferguson.”
“And when should we expect you?”
“In ten minutes.”
“Checkout time is eleven, but given the lateness of the hour, I’ll extend you until two p.m.”
“Do you have a doctor on duty?”
“Yes, we do from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. but the wait to see him can be twelve hours. For safety reasons, he’ll come to your room. Would you like an appointment?”
“Yes, as soon as possible. It’s for my baby and—”
“It’s five hundred dollars for a house call, plus tax. Tips are optional. Shall I add an appointment to your bill?”
“Yes. And I’ll need ice.”
“You can buy ice in the lobby, but the floors only have electricity for one hour out of every three. There’s an ice bucket and tongs in your room. The ice may not be sanitary. Thank you for choosing Bora Bora.”
There was a knock on the driver’s door and Steph nearly jumped out of her skin. It was Greg, clutching fast food bags. She unlocked the doors and he hopped in after shoving his crutch into the back seat. “You won’t believe how much I paid for this,” he said.
“Yes, I will,” she said. “The hospital’s closed, but I booked a room across the street at Bora Bora, and a doctor’s appointment for Tyson. Maybe he can help us find a pediatrician or neurologist. The hotel garage entrance is next to the T-Mobile Arena, wherever that is.”
“Just down the road to the left. We’ll be there in under a minute.”
“Do we have twenty-five hundred dollars in cash?”
“Not even close. Maybe eleven hundred after our two-hundred-dollar meal. Why?”
* * * * *
The back seat of the dead cop’s car harbored a ten-year-old boy, his seven-year-old sister and a Hispanic woman who was the elder sister, babysitter or a young mother. The children blinked at the bright lights while Travis made a cursory weapons check. The grownup had a high fever with red blotches and was in rough shape; the kids looked better but coughed constantly.
“Where’s Juan?” the woman asked, her eyes searching beyond Travis and his blinding flashlight. “I heard shots. Where’s my husband?”
Travis saw Carla, Barb and Pat steaming toward them followed by a shuffling Sal. This clusterfuck was going to end up in another U.N. human rights tribunal unless someone seized the agenda. “Ma’am, what’s your name?”
“Rosa Garcia. Where is my husband?”
“Mrs. Garcia, you husband is dead. He hijacked one of our vehicles and held people hostage at gunpoint. We shot him in self-defense.”
“Lies! My husband’s a state trooper. He doesn’t hijack cars and threaten people!”
“He wanted Covid-20 vaccines and thought we had them. That’s why he acted like he did.”
The Telluride pulled up behind the hospital ’Bago and blocked the route north from Winnemucca. Travis watched as Johnny flipped up the front and back sights on the grenade launcher while Jaime scanned the road in both directions through a night-vision device. Yonten and Melvin had the SAW pointed down the way th
ey’d come. The entire gang was stationary and in the open. A single mortar and they’d all be— Get a grip: There aren’t any 81mm mortars in Nevada. It’s not the Battle of Fallujah.
Carla’s arrival jolted Travis back into the present.“Anyone hurt?” she asked. “We heard the shots.”
Travis brought her and the new arrivals up to speed. He could see Kyle making himself useful by pulling a tarp over the dead officer.
“Where’s Papá?” the little boy asked. His mother started crying and squeezed him and his sister tight, one arm around each. It wasn’t clear who was supporting whom as her husband’s death sank in.
Carla said nothing and headed for the Horizon. Travis knew what was coming and scrambled after her. Before she reached the steps, Travis caught her by the elbow. “Hold on a second. Can we talk about this?”
Furious, she whirled around at him. “Either we give that poor woman and her kids the shots, or you might as well shoot them here and now. They won’t last three days.”
Sal joined their group. “It’s impossible to save the world one life at a time. I’m no doctor, but let’s assume she’s highly contagious. If we give her a shot but don’t inoculate her children, what then?”
“She could still die, or she might recover,” Tina said. “Either way, her children are running mild fevers, have a few blotches and steady coughs. They’re Covid-positive and almost certainly will die without treatment.”
“We can’t afford to use three of our last eight Dark Cure doses here,” Sal said.
“Am I in charge of the peacetime convoy or not?” Carla asked. “If I’m not, let me know and I’ll leave the 3M here and now. I’ll drive Rosa and her children back to Winnemucca, set up centrifuges and donate my plasma. It may not be enough to save the mother, but it should be ready in time for the kids.”