Dead bodies litter the floor; three are thrown out the door – having blocked the entry at the time of the blast – and three more men are scrambling around on their knees outside. Frantic, they are pointing their guns in random directions, shooting where they think someone may be. The ringing in their ears keeps them from hearing anything at all, even each other shouting out their ideas. Then, running for the back of the building, in search of some cover, all the while reloading their handguns, shooting more rounds to their rear, just to cover their exit, she almost laughs letting them go. She wipes down the weapons with an alcohol soaked rag, walks a half block east and takes Tiny’s bike out from there.
Seventeen men inside and three outside doubles the number of dead. She posts the recordings of video, along with the audio from the meeting inside, on the Facebook account of the owner of the second phone, via the Wi-Fi at the Petro Truck Stop on I-10 east. She turns the phone off and soon, it takes a ride in the sleeper of an old cab-over Pete.
She had pretended to be a lot lizard – a truck stop prostitute – dressing the part well – wriggled her way over to a rig that had pulled in for a fill up. She climbed into the passenger side of the cab saying she could provide the guy a real good time for fifty bucks, but she had little intention of giving up the goods. The truck had a scripture passage and a cross on the door, another cross on the sleeper door, the grill, and more than one K-LOVE bumper sticker. With a flip of the wrist, the phone went into the corner of the bed, before the door could close, just as her butt hit the seat. He graciously rejected her advances and sent her on her way. Nine hours later, when he pulled into the TA Truck Stop in Slidell, Louisiana, he picked out a spot for his nap, crawled into the sleeper, and as he put his hand under his pillow, he found something that did not belong to him. He turned it on, thinking that he may send it to its owner, but in a few minutes, he could tell he wanted nothing to do with the phone or its owner. He stepped out of the cab, tossed the phone in a trash bin, and climbed back in for a rest.
It seems as if he has just dozed off and the concept of rest is just beginning to get real, when there is a knock on his door, the flash of red and blue lights all around the truck, and a voice shouting, “Show me your hands, and slowly exit the truck.” He reaches forward to let the window down with one hand in plain view. He eases his face out the window, where he can be readily seen. He reaches outside the window to open the door, never letting his hands leave the sight of the man who does the shouting. As the door opens, his feet step out, keeping his wrists on the door, hands through the window, and as he stands there, one man climbs in the other side of the truck and puts the muzzle of his rifle against his head, while another one pats him down for weapons. “Is there anything in any of your pockets that may hurt me if I put my hands in there?” His head shakes, his whole body quakes, his very core retches a little, then falling on his hands and knees, he vomits on the man’s shiny state trooper boots.
They will ask what he knows about the phone, where it came from and he can only guess. “She had ratty hair, small – maybe medium sized, trim but tough – high boots, short skirt, too much lipstick, too much eye shadow, maybe thirty, maybe twenty; I don’t know. You know how these girls age in that line of work? Besides, she was only in my cab for a moment.” He was trying not to sound too condescending about her career choices, him being a deacon at a church back home, but he obviously did not approve. “She wore a vest and no shirt under it.” He noted that, “Considering how disheveled she looked over all, her torso seemed quite clean.” He admitted noticing how fresh she looked under her vest, especially her belly, just below her breasts. Every other part of her screamed out, street urchin and truck stop whore, but not that. It took nearly three hours at a police facility before Dixon arrived.
When the phone came online again, the SAPD received notification, by their tech division; the FBI was already called in. After all, with twenty dead, and now forty, this is too big to keep them out. The feds agreed to allow Dixon to be the liaison for the team, and he flew via federal airways to New Orleans. The FBI provided the interrogator for the driver. When it was all over, the driver continued on his way. The feds even called his employers to let them know that he had been delayed helping them with a very sensitive case. He was hauling wine from Cali and the reefer continued working, as expected, so he was confident there would be no harm to the cargo, just a delay. Dixon and the fed head back to the Petro Truck Stop, to pick up the video surveillance from the fuel depot, and to see if the lot lizard could be identified. Sometimes a cop can get lucky with a single frame of film.
When the law dogs get to the Petro, there are already a couple of cops and a fed onsite, looking at the video tape – actually digital – searching out the truck, then the cab, and finally, the girl. The cameras were recording from the far corner of the lot and from the main plaza building, as well as the array that watches the pumps. They found the truck; saw the driver pumping fuel on his company card, washing the door windows for grime, thumping tires, topping off the tank. He puts the hose away and walks around to the driver side to climb in. As he does there is another figure walking up the other side of the truck, headed for the passenger door. Wait! Back it up to see where she comes from. She has tons of hip motion in her walk, strutting her stuff as she comes into view, crossing the first part of the lot in her hooker heels. She steps up on the cement island, on which stand the pumps, she bounces gingerly onto the step of the truck, opening the door, and landing inside, just as if she knew what she was doing, just as if she had jumped into more than a truck or two in the past.
When asked, the Petro crew working said that they had not seen her. One of the guys said that she was definitely not one of the regulars, and the guy working the main check out the night before said, “No, dude! I never seen her before, but I would love to get into that Pavement Princess; if you know what I mean.” Everyone knows what he means. He had taken more than a few work breaks with a truck-stop trollop, and he is enamored with her walk. It is almost like that Julia Roberts street-walker saunter from Pretty Woman.
They only got a few frames from her front side at all; most with bad angles, too much hair in the way, insufficient light, etc. The facial recognition software didn’t have enough info to get a match, but did narrow it down to nearly 30,000 known felons, ex-military, police personnel, and crime victims. They would have to do better than that if they are going to catch the bold and dangerous villain terrorizing their streets; and this woman, whoever she is, may not even be part of their problem. She may have just taken a little money to dump the phone. “Square one here we come,” thinks Dixon.
Meanwhile, back in Southtown, there were seven big bad biker men driving down Roosevelt at 10PM, slowing to a stop at Military Drive, when the tanks of all seven bikes exploded. The bodies were blasted pretty much in half, as the weakest point of the tank is the surface facing the belly of the rider. The explosions were devastating, shattering windshields in the cars behind them, parts and pieces of everything landing on anything for nearly a hundred yards.
One of the guys, a particularly rough and tumble guy named Dog, tatted up front and back, down his thighs and sleeves. He had “Hell Ride” tattooed on his knuckles, a leather jacket with his colours bonded on, and an attitude to match. Well, his upper half landed on the windshield of a minivan about three vehicles back because he was wearing a sort of back brace, to help recover from a disc surgery a few weeks ago. It scared the sanity out of the family in the van. The torso hit the van, and on the glass was Dog’s face – right in the middle of the windshield – blood splattering out the bottom of the torso all over the hood and bumper, with his broken arms extended in what seemed like a giant embrace. It almost looked like a loving hug, except for the part where his face was distended in agony; even his mother wouldn’t know him. Still momentarily alive, his eyes glance at the driver and front passenger, blinking tears and sobs as he slides from view, past the wipers, to the pavement below.
The father
of the family was driving and he fainted straight away, allowing the van to roll over Dog’s body. Meanwhile mom, the front passenger, began screaming and flailing, turning to run out of the van but without opening the door or releasing the seat belt. She was just spasming against the window in the tension of the belt, turning and slapping, or pounding on her unconscious husband. The kids just screamed as they jumped up and down in their seats until they ran out of energy. The eldest son vomited and the youngest just started sobbing.
There are pieces of bikes and bodies littered everywhere, taken to CSU for examination, and most are released for burial in a few days.
The detonator is a small radio-controlled unit, about the size of a common board game die, and the explosive was a binary compound that the lab boys had never seen. Seven minutes after the explosive signature is loaded into the NCIC database, in an attempt to search for previous uses, there is a call from Washington. They demand to know where the signature had been discovered, under what circumstances it had been used, if the amount used could be verified, and what was the devastation radius. The local lab is forthcoming as they can be; not having a lot of answers, but the feds say that someone will be on their way soon.
Bright and early the next morning, when the federal bomb nerd gets there and examines the remains of the bikes, he discovers that there is about a tablespoon of the compound used on each bike. It had been bonded to the detonator with a simple piece of packing tape, and attached to the bikes with about four tablespoons of JB Weld, locking it in place. With the help of a small piece of case hardened steel about three inches in diameter, it also shaped the charge to blow right through the frame below the tank, through the tank and through the driver. In the course of events, the fuel was set free of its container; aerated, and detonated, causing a giant fireball at each bike. This made it look like the fuel was the explosion. “The fuel tank was just the fireworks,” says the bomb expert.
“How many of these could there be out there?” asks Captain Reynolds.
“Hard to say,” says the nerd. “There’s nearly a hundred pounds of it missing from inventory.”
“And how much was used here?” asks Dixon.
“Best guess?” asks the nerd. The Captain and Dixon nod together. “Quarter pound.”
“Holy shit!” says Dixon. “What could be done with a hundred pounds?”
“Well, if the technician knows how to use it – and I think this one does – he might be able to bring down just about any building in the city. But that’s not what you’re looking for. And maybe you shouldn’t be looking for them at all.”
“What are you saying?” asks the Cap.
“I’m saying that someone with tremendous skills is taking out the worst biker gangs in San Antonio, and maybe you should let them.”
“What about innocents?” asks Dixon.
“Have any innocents been hurt yet?” He pauses for effect, looking at Dixon and Reynolds. “In the first attack there was a trailer that blew to hell without damaging any trailers next door. The next explosion was a device on a limo, and the kids in the back seat weren’t even hurt.” He looks at the two men and notices that there are distinctly different reactions. “For all you know every one of those bikes has a device like this on it, ready to blow whenever they get close enough to the trigger mechanism.” The Captain looks curious and Dixon looks a little worried. Hmm.
“So, what you are saying is that, whoever this is, they should be left alone to clean up our streets?” Reynolds says. “And we just let it happen?”
“You just let it happen until you can figure out who it is and why. Then, maybe after the number of drug dealers, rapists, and murderers is reduced, maybe after fear takes its toll and some start running away . . . maybe then you find the killer. But if you do, you have to decide if you want to tell anyone.” The Captain’s eyebrows go up. “After all, wouldn’t you like your city to be known as the least welcoming city to drug dealers and miscreants from around the country and beyond?”
A female uniform came into the lab at that moment, “Captain!” she shouted. “There’s been another incident, and there’s this.” She hands the Captain an initial incident report and he reads the important parts, aloud.
“Thirteen . . . 281 under Nakoma . . . there’s a survivor.” The Captain looks up at Dixon, in anger that his city is being torn apart, but also because there are bad guys going down and his police force isn’t a part of it. “Get out there Dixon. The survivor has been taken into the emergency room at Northeast Baptist. Find out what happened, and if he saw anything. And for now, everything we know about these devices and the details belong to you, me, and the spook . . . GOT IT?
“Yes sir.”
“By the way,” says the captain, “the limo where Big Tony was killed?” he says, waiting for attention. “Well, according to OnStar, the Mrs. called and reported the car stolen. OnStar stopped the car upon owner request and reported the theft.”
When Dixon arrives at the hospital, he finds that the survivor is a badass named Bear, who’s six foot five and three hundred pounds of repugnance. He’s being detained at the hospital because there are numerous warrants out for him on traffic violations, but no one has wanted to execute any of them due to his size and disposition. But now, until the case is locked-down, he is a survivor of the attack and the closest thing to a suspect the SAPD has. There is a uniform inside the room and one in the hall.
Dixon dismisses the guard from the room as he arrives to question the detainee. “What happened?”
“Get me outta here, asshole,” he says, raising his hand, displaying the shackle that binds him to the bed. “Isn’t that what we pay you for?”
“Not this time.” Dixon is blunt and unemotional in appearance, even though Bear scares him a bit. If Bear could see the fingers twitching on Dixon’s left hand, he would know that Dixon is terrified of him, and he would have greater control of the conversation.
“Back to the question, Bear! What happened out there?”
“I don’t know, exactly. We were headed into town – toward downtown, ya know? There was a couple squads of us, driving in formation, two lanes wide, when a chick blew through the formation from the rear, and I thought she was driving Tiny’s bike. I was riding in the second to last row when I saw her flip us off.” He is in obvious pain as his eyes bug out a little and his free hand moves toward his hip.
“So what then?”
“The hand she used to flip us off disappeared and reappeared with her thumb on a button, and I knew that could not be good, so I dove off my bike. I didn’t know if she was wearing a bomb vest or what, but I knew that I wanted to stay as far away as I could.”
“What about your bushido, or machismo, or whatever it is you guys have?”
“There’s plenty of machismo splattered on the highway at Nakoma.”
“So, you saw what happened?”
“Part of it is in flashing snapshots because I was bouncing and rolling, but I saw all of the bikes explode at the same time. There wasn’t a second’s time between them all. Just booooom!” he says, with one hand displaying a motion for the explosion as the “boom” continues. “She never even turned to look back.”
“Did you get a look at her?”
“Blonde . . . tough rider . . . steady . . . tall I think.”
“Did you get any idea of her age, weight, clothes?”
He closes his eyes a moment, replaying the events in his head. “She had knee high boots, blue jeans that fit her, medium weight, maybe 130-140, green flannel shirt . . . and Tiny’s colors.” His eyes slam open. “She killed Tiny!”
“Maybe.”
“I saw the video from the trailer and his colors were nowhere to be seen. I checked. You gotta get me outta here. If she knows she missed me . . .” He began struggling to get free of the chain and leave the bed, but in a moment the pain is too intense. He screams and reaches out to Dixon; but Dixon backs away. The nurse comes in, reaches down beside the bed, pick up the morphine drip con
trol, and press the button, releasing a measured dose of relief to the Bear, and he quiets down, lay back, and sobs as he becomes unconscious in pain, relief, and drugs. The alkaloid is taking effect.
“What’s wrong with him?” asks Dixon
“His hip is broken, and his femur.” She continues to flutter about the bed, checking his stats and assuring his comfort as Dixon turns to leave.
He stops at the nurses’ station for a minute to see when Bear is scheduled for surgery, and while he is there, a code alarm goes off, right in front of him. The nurse at the desk takes off in a flash, running down the hall to grab the crash cart, then to Bear’s room. Upon entry, she screams, so Dixon runs to the doorway. The uniforms have not returned from coffee – restrooms – whatever they have been doing since he got there. Dixon has not made certain that the room is guarded as he left. But as he turns, he sees the nurse that bolted from his presence, laying on the floor, with a veterinary tranquilizer dart in her butt. Bear lay on the bed with five more in his feet and chest. The shower is running in the bathroom, and upon inspection, Dixon finds the tranq rifle laying in the running water.
The Warriors' Ends- Soldiers of the Apocalypse Page 9