by David Archer
“Go, Sam,” Denny said. “We'll be right behind you, mate.”
Sam twisted the throttle and let the clutch out and the motorcycle shot through the doorway. There was only one roadway leading out of the mine, and they already knew that the truck and all of Heinrich’s people had gone south. Sam opened the bike up and let the knobby tires dig into the sand.
Overhead, the sky was cloudy and thunder could be heard rumbling in the distance. Sam spotted a lightning strike to his left, but it was up on the mountains. As long as it stayed up there, he wasn’t going to worry about it.
Off in the distance, he could see a dust trail and figured it had to be his quarry. He opened up the bike and gave it all the speed he dared on the loose sand and gravel, and could tell that he was slowly gaining on the cloud.
The road bore to the east, but the dust cloud was to the south. Sam watched for an intersection, someplace the truck and other vehicles might have turned off, but he decided he must’ve missed it. He was just about to turn around and go back when he spotted the dry wash, one that looked like it was headed almost perfectly toward where the dust cloud was going. Without even thinking about it, he rode down the bank and took off along the wash.
The first raindrops hit him a moment later, stinging like tiny bees when they hit his face. He looked up again at the clouds and realized that they were moving rapidly in the same direction he was going. He remembered what Douglas had said about flash floods in the washes and started looking for a spot to climb the bank. He could follow along beside the wash just as easily, he figured, and cut down the risk from whatever rainstorm was hitting the mountains behind him.
Getting up the bank, however, was going to be a lot more difficult than coming down it had been. Sam had never been much for hill climbs and wasn’t sure how to handle the powerful motorcycle on the sand. He kept going in the wash, but continued to look for someplace to get out of it.
TWENTY
The speedometer on the motorcycle said he was doing a little over sixty-five miles an hour, but the gravel, sand and loose rocks on the bottom of the wash made it dangerous to try going any faster. He was hoping that the trucks were having problems of their own, because he figured they were about to make it through the ranch itself into the old ghost town, Rockville. He wanted to get there before they did and find a way to at least stop the truck.
Suddenly, the roaring sound of the engine seemed to change. Sam glanced at the speedometer, but the bike wasn’t slowing. A quick glance in the rearview mirror told him that what he was hearing wasn’t the engine changing tone, but the roaring, hissing sound of a debris-laden wall of water that was trying its best to overtake him.
Ignoring the way the rear wheel was dancing from side to side on the loose surface, Sam cranked the throttle as wide as he could. The speedometer climbed, passing eighty miles an hour, and Sam struggled to keep the bike upright. In the mirror, he could see that he was pulling away from the flood, but he still didn’t see a way to get out of the wash.
The rain began falling harder and the floor of the wash started to look muddy ahead in spots. He was just about ready to try running up the bank, preparing himself for a crash landing on the desert, when the wash made a gentle curve and he spotted a way out. Up ahead, a small wooden bridge crossed the wash, and there was a wide spot where some of the bank had washed away beside it. He downshifted quickly, dropping his speed to just over forty miles per hour as he got to the slightly less vertical slope, and leaned hard into the bike. The wheels dug in and he hit the gravelly ramp just as the water full of brush and branches came rushing past him.
He got about fifteen feet of air and managed to stay up on his wheels when he came down. Looking around frantically, he tried to spot the dust cloud, but the rain had gotten far ahead of him and was settling it to the ground. He locked his eyes onto a mountain that was in the same direction as where he had last seen it, then opened the throttle up again.
Up here, out of the wash, the desert was thirsty. While the rain was falling harder, it was soaking right into the ground without turning it into mud. Sam dodged around rocks and cacti, but kept his heading locked on that mountain top the best he could.
Five more minutes passed as he raced along, and suddenly there were buildings ahead. He had made it to Rockville, the ghost town, coming across the desert so that he had shaved several miles off the journey. He slid to a stop beside one of the buildings, keeping the motorcycle out of sight of the road that passed right through the middle of town, then unslung the machine gun from his back and crouched down. As far as he could tell, nothing else had driven through in the last few minutes. The road was wet and muddy in spots, and there were no fresh tracks in it.
He only waited a couple of minutes when he picked up the sound of the diesel engine. Sure enough, he had beat the trucks to the ghost town and braced himself for the confrontation that was about to take place. If he got the chance to shoot Heinrich, he would, but the most important thought in his mind was to stop that truck. Without it, there was no way Heinrich could get those bombs anywhere that would do him any good.
The clouds had made it dark, even though it was still not quite noon. Between the clouds and the rain, the truck had turned on headlights and they came into view. Sam braced himself and waited until the truck was in between the buildings, then aimed his weapon and squeezed the trigger.
The windshield of the truck disintegrated under a ten round burst, and the driver must’ve died instantly. The truck veered to the left and crashed into one of the buildings, and Sam adjusted his aim to the tires. A driver could be replaced, he thought; flat tires would keep the truck from moving, no matter what.
The SUVs were sliding to a stop behind the truck and men were pouring out of them. Sam emptied his magazine into the front tire of the truck, blowing it apart, then dropped the rifle and ducked back alongside the building. If they took the time to hunt him down, he was finished and he knew it. His only hope was to hide until they felt they had to move on to escape capture.
He got behind one of the buildings and suddenly had an idea. A broken window hung open just above the remains of an old buckboard. Sam climbed onto it quickly and threw himself up onto the window ledge, then shimmied inside. He landed with a thud on the floor, grateful that the old boards held, then got to his feet and started looking for somewhere to conceal himself.
The building he had entered was an old hotel, a three-story structure. When he got toward the front and saw that some of the men were moving along the boardwalk in front of the building, he decided that going up was his only option. He moved up the stairs as quietly as he could, praying that the dry, old lumber wouldn’t squeak and creak, and made it to the second floor without alerting anyone. He looked around quickly and found a room at the front of the building that still had heavy curtains hanging over the windows. He crouched behind them and peeked out, and then his heart sank.
Four men were rolling another tire up toward the front of the truck while two others were using a large lug wrench to take off the one he had blown out. Another man was jacking up the front of the truck, and Sam knew that they would have it back on the road within minutes. He had to think of some way to stop them, but other than a pistol, he was out of options.
He took out his phone and powered it on, but there was no signal. Wherever he was, there wasn’t a cell tower close enough to do him any good, and he hadn’t thought to bring a satellite phone. There was certainly no hope of finding a working telephone in this ghost town, so he started racking his brain to try to think of some other way to keep that truck from leaving.
He looked around the room and inspiration suddenly struck.
On the table beside an old bed frame stood a kerosene lamp. The lamp itself was empty, of course, the kerosene having evaporated many years earlier, but the big, glass jug on the shelf below it was nearly half full. Sam scuttled over to it and pulled out the cork, and the smell of kerosene flooded out at him. There was a layer of sludge across its top, but Sam knew that the l
iquid below that was just as flammable as ever.
The remains of an old sheet hung over one of the rails of the bedframe, and Sam quickly tore off a long, wide strip. He wadded it up and stuck it into the spout of the jug, tipping it to make sure the cloth soaked up plenty of kerosene, then tapped the cork back in loosely. He carried it back to the window, then tried to think of some way to light his improvised Molotov cocktail.
He didn’t have a lighter, because he didn’t smoke. Any matches that might be in the building would be so old they’d have no chance of working, but he knew of one way to get a fire started in a hurry. It was a trick he had learned in the army, and one that had gotten him thoroughly chewed out by a drill sergeant on a basic training bivouac.
He extracted the magazine from his pistol, then worked the slide to eject the round that was in the chamber. The Swiss Army knife in his pocket held a small pair of pliers, and he used them to wrench the bullet out of the cartridge. He sprinkled some of the gunpowder onto the kerosene-soaked cloth, then tipped the rest into the barrel of his pistol. He put the empty cartridge back into the magazine, shoved it home and let the slide pop it into the chamber. He tilted the pistol upward slightly, letting the loose powder run down the barrel, then carefully lowered it toward the primed rag.
He pulled the trigger. The primer on the cartridge made a “pop” sound and ignited the powder in the barrel. A flash of flame, like the fiery breath of a dragon, came out the end, lighting the powder he had sprinkled onto the cloth, and the fire sputtered for a couple of seconds before the part of the cloth sticking out of the jug started burning in earnest.
In a smooth motion, Sam yanked the curtains down, hooked a finger into the ring on the spout of the jug, and then hurled it through the empty window frame. It arced over the street and crashed perfectly on the side of the cab of the truck, and the kerosene ignited instantly. Within seconds, the truck was engulfed in flames, including the big, round fuel tank on the side.
The men who had been trying to get the new tire into place were soaked as well and began screaming as the fire ate into their flesh. Sam looked out and saw Heinrich and several others simply staring at them, but then the burning men came running directly toward them. Heinrich’s men, their faces ashen and shocked, raised their weapons and shot down their friends who were ablaze.
Sam aimed his pistol at Heinrich and squeezed the trigger, but nothing happened. He had forgotten to eject the empty cartridge, still in the chamber because there was no recoil to work the slide. He worked the slide manually and chambered another round, then aimed again.
Heinrich was gone. In the couple of seconds it took Sam to reload the chamber, the man had simply vanished. Sam stared at the spot where he had been, but then one of the SUVs suddenly turned around and went back the way it had come.
Sam hurried down the stairs and went to the window he had entered the building through, looked out quickly and saw no one in sight. He climbed out and down the buckboard, then breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the BMW right where he had left. The motorcycle was unhurt, and he quickly turned it around, turned the key and hit the button. As soon as the engine started, Sam threw it into gear and took off across the desert once again.
* * * * *
As Sam raced away from the garage on the motorcycle, Denny and Steve had gone from one vehicle to another, hunting for something with keys. They hit pay dirt a moment later, finding a battered, old Dodge pickup truck with its ignition switch torn out. The screwdriver laying on the seat worked as a makeshift ignition key, and the old truck roared to life.
“Come on, get in,” Denny shouted and Steve jumped in through the passenger door. The two of them drove out of the garage and took off down the road, going the same direction Sam had taken. He was already out of sight, but they spotted the same dust cloud in the distance that he had seen. Steve pointed toward it and then he nodded as the truck bounced over the rocks and slid around the curves.
Behind them, Indie was standing just outside the entrance to the mine. She had frantically dialed all of the numbers on the list, and in each case, the line had rung three times and then gone silent. As the two men drove past her, she got through to Detective Matheson of the Pima County Sheriff’s office and began telling him about the suitcase nukes that were allegedly scattered around the city.
She was staring down the road after Sam, Steve and Denny, and never saw the two men who came from behind the garage. They crept up behind her silently and one of them reached out and took the phone while the other grabbed her by the back of her neck and put the pistol against her head.
“Be very quiet,” the man said, “and I'll not have to kill you. Heinrich told us to watch, just in case your Mr. Prichard was as resourceful as he is reputed to be. You will be coming with us, now.”
The other man quickly pulled her hands behind her back and secured them with a zip strip, then removed her own machine pistol and the little .45 caliber Kimber. They marched her around the garage, then shoved her into the back seat of one of the SUVs. The man who had first spoken to her got in beside her while the other one slid behind the wheel and put the vehicle into gear. He came around the garage and followed the road for a short distance, then cut off on a barely visible dirt track that went east, off toward the highway.
Indie sat back in the seat and tried to think of some way to get free, but the pistol leveled at her midsection told her there wasn’t much chance. She sat quietly, just watching and praying for a miracle.
* * * * *
Heinrich had driven back north, as if he was headed back toward the mine, but Sam didn’t really think so. He rode along the desert, keeping the road in sight but not getting close to it. The rain was still falling, though not as hard, but the dry, desert ground had greedily soaked up all of the moisture and the surface seemed almost perfectly dry again.
There was no sign of the SUV, so Sam decided to head back to the mine. By now, Indie would’ve told Ron what was happening and the government forces would be involved. Sam was more than happy to let them take over the manhunt, so he pointed the motorcycle toward the dirt road and began following it back toward the mine and his wife.
Ten minutes later, he came across an interesting scene. An old Dodge truck had apparently rammed one of the SUVs, and Sam felt a thrill of hope that it was the one Heinrich had been driving. He rode closer carefully and then spotted Denny. As soon as he saw the Englishman, he gunned the motorcycle and slid to a stop beside him.
“What’s going on?” Sam asked. Denny was holding the shirt collar of one of Heinrich’s men and had apparently been working the guy over pretty well.
“Just goes to show you, Sam,” Denny said with a grin. “Even bad guys end up buying junk vehicles now and then. These blokes blew the radiator, and it seems they were at the back of the line, so they got left behind. Seems Heinrich didn’t want to risk slowing down to pick them up.”
“Well, he didn’t get very far with the bombs,” Sam said. “I managed to shoot the truck driver, then blew out the front tire on the truck. He and his men were trying to fix it, but I rigged up a homemade incendiary device and set the whole damn truck on fire. Got a couple of his men while I was at it.” He shook his head. “Too bad Heinrich wasn’t one of them.”
“You mean Heinrich got away?” Steve asked.
“Yeah, I’m afraid so. Indie was going to call Ron and let him know what was happening, so hopefully the government can take over, now. He shouldn’t be able to get far, anyway.” He looked down at the man Denny was holding onto. “What’s this guy’s story?”
“He and his two buddies tried to put up a fight when we found them,” Steve said. “I managed to shoot one of them, but the other two ducked behind the car. Denny mumbled something about what nasty individuals they were, and then he just ran right into them. Knocked them both over, but one of them was still trying to shoot us when we came around the wreckage. Denny took him out, and this guy dropped his gun and surrendered. I guess he didn’t know he was supposed
to die for the cause, right?”
“Good,” Sam said. “Maybe we can get some information out of him.” He looked at the old truck. “Think that thing will still run?”
Denny glanced over his shoulder at the truck. “It’s a RAM,” he said. “You can’t kill a RAM.” He dragged his captive onto his feet, then marched him to the bed of the truck. He threw him inside, then climbed up with him. “Steve, you drive. I’m going to keep playing twenty questions with our friend here.”
The truck started up and backed away from the wreckage, and though it was going to need new headlights and a grill, it kept running. Sam climbed onto the motorcycle again, started it up and followed as they drove back to the mine.
Almost everyone from down in the tunnels was standing around outside when they got there, with the exception of Captain Howell and a couple of the other personnel. Rob was waiting when Sam parked the motorcycle.
“Where’s Indie?” Sam asked as he threw his leg over the bike.
Rob blinked. “Didn’t she go with you guys?” the big man asked. “She’s not here, nobody was here when we came up.”
Sam looked at him for a moment, then hurried into the garage. He looked around, but there was no sign of his wife. “Indie?” he shouted. “Indie, are you in here?”
There was no response. He hurried back outside and looked at Rob. “You saw no sign of her when you came out?”
“No, Sam, she was nowhere around. I figured she went with you three.”
Sam turned to Denny and Steve. “Did you guys see her when you left?”
“Yeah, Sam,” Steve said. “She was standing right here, on the phone. Where the hell could she have gone?”
Denny’s captive suddenly began to chuckle and Denny turned to him. “You think this is funny, mate? You know something about this, do you?”
The man looked up at him and grinned. “Of course,” he said. “Heinrich will be pleased.”