by Naomi West
So, there we sat, looking out over the lot. And what should pull in, pretty much right on schedule, but the truck under the false name it was using? Just like Micah's guy had told him it would be.
I nudged Sydney a little bit with my elbow till I got her attention, then gestured with my chin out to the truck driver hopping down from the cab and heading our way. “There's our man,” I said.
“Yep,” Sydney said, her voice low with nervousness.
“You gonna handle this okay?” I asked.
She nodded, her breathing coming a little bit faster than normal.
I reached down and grabbed her hand, squeezed it. “It'll be okay, girl. We got everything we need,” I said, holding up my little purse I'd picked up at Target the day before. “Everything, alright?”
She nodded and smiled a tight smile. “Let's just get this over with.”
The man crossed the brightly lit parking lot and headed into the bathroom.
We headed over to the bathroom door set into the outside of the building and waited for him to come out. He only took a few minutes, but soon came out, still wiping his drying hands on the front of his shirt.
“Hey mister?” I started as we approached.
“Yeah?” he drawled in some kind of accent I couldn't place. Maybe northern, or Canadian? It certainly wasn't from around here.
“We, uh, I hate to impose,” I said, purposely pushing my nervousness, using it to my advantage. I was a teen runaway, after all, and asking a strange man to let me and my best friend hitch a ride. “But, well, see, we're trying to get out of town, to head up north you know . . .”
He smiled warmly, his eyes flickering up and down our bodies in a very unfatherly kind of way. More like creepy uncle, to tell the truth. We were just wearing jeans, but we'd made sure our shirts were a size or two too small.
“Y'all need directions or something?” he drawled after a while.
Sydney shook her head, giggling. “No, we was wanting a ride, far as you can take us.”
He looked from Sydney to me, and back again as he scratched at the back of his head beneath the trucker gimme cap. “Well, I don't know. We ain't exactly allowed to do that kind of thing, girls.”
“Even for us?” I asked as I took a step forward. “Promise we won't touch nothing in the truck. Not unless, you know, you want us to.”
“Well,” he drawled in that strange twang of his, “rig's right over there. Y'all ready to head out?” he asked.
Something about the man, and the way the word “y'all” seemed so forced in his mouth, made my skin crawl beneath my teenager attire. But, Sydney and I had a job to do, especially if I wanted her safe, and I wanted Efraim to pay. So, I nodded and we began to follow after him.
Sydney stealthily grabbed my hand as we headed out into the truck stop parking lot, with all its pitch black shadows, exhaust fumes, and oil-stained concrete. “I don't like this,” she whispered as we headed for his truck.
“Why should you?” I whispered back out of the side of my mouth. “The guy's a creepy-ass trucker who's looking at us like we come with the legs-and-eggs special.”
“It's not just that,” she squeaked back at me in protest as we went around a big tractor-trailer and came upon his truck. “This is too easy, Kaci.”
“Maybe we're gonna get a free lunch for once,” I said.
She made a face and pulled me to a stop. Uncle Trucker, too, came to a halt and turned his attention on us, his eyes shifting in the dim light beneath the brim of his gimme-cap.
I glanced from Sydney to the man, and back again.
I needed to keep character, even while having an argument. Which, surprisingly, wasn't that hard. I'd been right here just a few years ago, hadn't I? “Look,” I said, trying to stay as a teenage runaway, “we ain't never gonna get away from your asshole stepdaddy if we don't catch a ride outta here. Right?”
She frowned, glanced sideways at Uncle Trucker, then nodded.
“Now, come on and smile,” I said, giving her a little, halfhearted grin as I squeezed her hand, “the road ahead's rocky, but at least we gotta ride. Right?”
She grinned a little bit more and squeezed back. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Y'all girls ready?” he asked in that weird accent. “I'd hate to leave you behind because of scheduling conflicts.”
“Yeah,” Sydney chirped as we both turned to follow after him. “We're coming.”
Uncle Trucker led us to the truck, and we climbed up on the passenger side. I hadn't been in the cab of a rig like this in years, not since I'd run from my own real-life abusive stepfather and had to catch a ride south. It looked and smelled a lot like I remembered, like stale man and a hint of body odor, with just a bit of added truck stop food spice.
Yeah, just as gross as I recalled.
Back, behind the seats, was a little sleeper cab area with the privacy curtain closed off. Sydney and I, not wanting to get too far away from the man, stayed up in the front seat together, piled on top of each other like two kittens in a slightly ill-fitting basket. I didn't pay much attention to the back area, though, as we were both focused on Uncle Trucker coming around to join us.
As we settled in, I unzipped my little teenybopper purse. A pungent, sickly sweet smell filled the cab as I grabbed the chloroform-soaked rag I'd been hiding there.
“What are you doing?” Sydney asked as the driver crossed in front of the rig as he came around to the driver side. “It's not time yet!” she squeaked.
I hushed her as Uncle Trucker opened up the driver side and climbed in. He slammed the door shut behind him as he wiggled into the seat. “Y'all girls ready?” he drawled as he turned to face us.
The look in his eyes was wild as I stuffed the rag over his face. I didn't pull any punches either, because I knew he wouldn't. I crammed it down over his nose and face, covering as much of it as I could with the chemical-drenched cloth.
“Sorry!” Sydney yelped from behind me as the man grabbed my wrists and tried to pull the cloth away.
“Don't apologize to him!” I yelled back as I struggled to keep the cloth over his face.
Behind the curtain, there was the sound of a gun cocking back its hammer. “Alright,” said a man with a Russian accent so thick you could slice it, pulling aside the drapery and led with his big, shiny automatic pistol, “that's enough. Hands off Petra.”
Sydney screamed in surprise and fright, sending a chill up my spine. I tried to look around Uncle Trucker's eyes rolled back in his head, and he began to slump in the driver seat, but I didn't want to take my focus off him, or his grasping hands.
“Hands off!” the new guy screamed.
I glanced over at him. He was younger than Uncle Trucker, more thuggish. He wore an Adidas jogging suit, its bright white stripes shining almost as brightly as his handgun in the dimly-lit cab. I could tell, though, that he was less-experienced than the driver.
“Hey!” Sydney yelled, leaping at him from out of the seat.
“No!” I screamed as my best friend went for the man's gun.
The man stumbled back a little bit, and his finger must have slipped. The pistol roared, filling the cab with the smell of burned gun powder and the sound of a hundred peels of thunder. Sydney reeled back into the foot well in front of the passenger seat, still yelling, but now mostly in shock.
My ears were ringing, my blood was pumping, my heart was racing. Sydney had been shot! My best friend, just like my little brother, was lying in a pool of her blood in a strange place because of me! I screamed and leaped at the man, my chloroform rag held out in front of me like a deadly knife.
New guy looked at me, his face surprised as he, hunched over, took a step back.
I went for his face with the rag, trying to pull the same trick twice in a row.
He flailed with his pistol, catching me in the side of my head with its barrel.
My head exploded with lights and I tumbled to the floor of the cab, my vision fading as I heard Sydney's surprisingly low-pitched sobs. “
Oh god,” she repeated over and over as the man, maybe still surprised over what he'd just done, stepped over me and dragged Uncle Trucker out of the driver seat and took his place.
The rig rumbled and came to life at just about the same time as my world went black, allowing me to slip down into beautiful, wonderful nothingness. A sweet, sweet oblivion where I couldn't get anyone else I loved shot . . . or worse.
# # #
Micah
The muzzle flash lit up the cab of the tractor-trailer and the gunshot echoed throughout the truck stop. Me, Grin, and two F&B MC bikers were parked on the other side of the lot, watching everything unfold.
We hadn't given either of the girls a gun, specifically because of this. Which meant it had to have been the Petrov truck driver. My heart caught in my throat as I realized what must have happened.
“Holy shit,” Grin yelled beside me.
A few moments later, the truck rumbled to life and began to tear out of the lot. In the opposite direction of our planned ambush.
“Let's go!” I shouted, visions of Kaci hurt and bleeding out from a gunshot flashing in my mind as I kicked my bike alive and drove off after the careening semi. All thoughts of guns and profit were gone form my mind, shoved aside by my fear for Kaci and Sydney.
This was my fault, all my fault. I should have listened to Gov instead of my own stupid ego. I just wanted the job done, and I didn't give a damn about any of the people I was sending into harm's way. I'd made a gamble, and I'd lost.
Spectacularly.
Grin, the two other guys, and I whipped out onto the lonely highway, opening up the throttle and taking off after the truck. I sped up, outdistancing the rest and catching the draft behind the big truck, reducing my wind resistance. Once I'd gotten close enough, I cut to my left and came alongside the truck, close enough to touch the spinning, deadly wheels.
The giant beast of a machine towered over me like a diesel-powered beast of Hell that could chew up any in its path.
I realized if I wanted to pull this thing over and get to the girls, and the bastard driving the rig, I needed to do it from the inside. I opened up the engine and accelerated, pulling up alongside the driver’s side door.
My vision was tunneled, but my thoughts were singular and crystal clear: Get this motherfucker. I glanced up at the cab of the truck, at the guy, now without a cap on, frantically looking around him as we encircled his tractor.
Beside me, the trucker gunned it, moving it a little farther ahead. I wasn't sure about all his thoughts, only that he somehow thought he'd be able to outrun us.
Not a chance.
I glanced ahead, checked that there wasn't any traffic, then I shifted on my bike and got my feet beneath me. I'd been doing this kind of stupid shit since I was a kid, and old Jaws Marlow had put me on my first dirt bike, so it wasn't anything new. Of course, it hadn't gotten any less dangerous over the years, either.
But I didn't have any other choice. He might not have been able to outrun us, but there wasn't a chance we'd be able to force him off the road with just our bikes. That's what the plan with the broken down pickup across the road had been all about. But, with him heading in the opposite direction, we had about as much chance of stopping this thing as a one-legged man had of winning an ass-kicking contest.
With my feet beneath me, and one hand still on the throttle, I glanced over at the truck. It was just a few feet. I could do that, even with the face-ripping, skin-tearing, roadrash-inflicting asphalt racing by at almost ninety miles per hour.
I didn't hesitate. I couldn't. If the trucker realized what I was doing, he could just veer over and knock me from here to Hell, and then it'd be, “That's all folks!”
I leaped out, my boots kicking off the seat of my bike. My bike flew out from beneath me, veering off to the left at almost a hundred miles an hour. It hit the shoulder at the far side and went off into the bayou, disappearing in the gloom behind me as I sailed through the air, arms outstretched for dear life.
The world stopped for a moment, and I seemed to hang there in the air, my short, risk-filled life filling my mind. It had been a good life, I guessed. Not dedicated to fixing anything, or solving any big problems, but I guessed that I'd made my buddies' lives a little better while I was president of the MC. And, I'd had a shit load of fun doing it, too!
My hand met the truck handle and grabbed it tight, the chrome steel cutting into my flesh as the rest of my body followed and slammed into the side of the rig. I rebounded hard and almost went plummeting to the highway, just more meat for the grinder, but kept my firm grip on it as I flailed in the wind.
I desperately searched with the toes of my boots for firm footing as I hooked my arm around the side mirror and looked in the window at the young driver. I realized, then, that it definitely wasn't the same guy, that it must have been a trap set by Petrov. Beyond him, I could see Kaci's legs entangled with the original truck driver's and Sydney curled up on the floorboard in front of the passenger seat.
But, I didn't have time to worry about it. Especially not when I saw the big, chromed automatic pistol in the driver's hand. And its barrel was looking right back at me.
I ducked down low, getting myself out of its fatal path but managing to lose my grip with my boots, as the gun roared for the second time that night. Above me as I dangled from the creaking, wobbling side mirror, the glass cracked as the bullet sailed off, over my head and into the swampy countryside. I'd dodged the bullet, but I still wasn't home free.
The rig began to swerve, almost violently, slamming me against the door. I kicked out with my feet, regained my purchase, and crawled back up the window.
I watched from behind as the truck driver threw one of the girls off him with a shout. She came back up, pistol in hand, and I realized it was Sydney!
Now was my chance, while he was occupied. I slammed into the glass with my shoulder, fracturing the window out from the bullet hole in a fractal spiderweb. I hit it again, shattering it as the truck suddenly began to slow.
I wasn't sure what was happening inside, it was too dark and the jackass wearing the jogging suit was blocking my view. I reached in and wrapped my arm around his neck, yanking him back as I choked him. The gun in his hand went off again, like a cherry bomb, and I heard glass crack.
“Pull over!” I screamed in the man's ear. “Pull over, motherfucker!”
“Da!” he screamed back, and the truck screeched as the airbrakes engaged beneath us. We lurched together, truck and girls and the driver and me, as we came to a stuttering halt, rubber laying down beneath us on the asphalt.
I choked the driver out, shutting off his carotid artery and the blood flow to his brain, then reached inside and opened the door. I swung around the side and got another firm hold on the Russian driver and yanked him out onto the side of the road, his head cracking on the asphalt. I didn't give a shit if he got hurt anymore, though. I was about to do far worse.
My mind was on fire, my brain going a mile a second. I couldn't see Sydney's face, or even see if Kaci was okay. Were they dead? I had no idea for sure, but I was pretty damn sure they were.
I pulled out my pistol, a clean one that hadn't been registered, had no serial number, and hadn't ever been used in another crime.
Towards the back of the truck, I heard the rumble of the pickup as it came pulling up with Gov and the rest. The guys on bikes, Grin and the other two, had already come to a stop and started to unload the trailer.
My breath was coming in ragged gasps, burning in my chest with each inhalation. I flipped off the safety and looked down at the passed-out mobster. He'd killed them. He'd killed them both.
I double-tapped him, popped two bullets in his head. Out here on the side of the road, they were like big fire crackers popping one after the other, and his head just bounced a couple times on the concrete. Then, he lay still.
Gov came running at the sound of shots. “Micah?” he asked. “What's-”
“Kaci and Sydney!” I shouted as went to climb u
p into the cab of the truck. “These fuckers killed 'em!”
Inside the cab, neither of the girls moved. My teeth gritted, my eyes narrowed, I shook my head and went to grab the other trucker, the one they'd first approached. I grabbed him back the back of his shirt and pulled him up from Kaci, untangling his limbs from hers. I dragged him out, my body stronger than even I realized as the adrenaline pumped through my veins like PCP, and onto the side of the road.
The driver groaned as I dropped him there like a sack of manure, which was all he was to me. Human shit. Fuck this motherfucker.
“No!” Gov screamed, trying to pull me away from the guy. “Don't, Micah!”