by Henry Roi
The ignition was two toggle switches and a push button. Flick, flick, push. Broncostein shuddered side-to-side and came to life with a rip-snort bellow of big cam horsepower. “Fear me peasants!” I shouted, revving the beast. “Fear the Mighty Broncostein!” I gripped the wheel and shifter, depressed the clutch, excited about the potential of this rumble-snarling machine of brute power.
Police cars filled the vibrating rearview mirror as I pulled the shifter into first gear and released the clutch, flooring the gas pedal. The giant tires boiled white smoke that shrouded old man Tiblier's frantic run out of his shop to curse me.
I started to yell something about just borrowing it or maybe suggest he install a key ignition. But what came out was,“Woo-hoo, bitch!”
Second gear barked the tires as I turned into the alley behind Blondie's strip mall, huge exhaust pipes thundering off the building, heavy tire tread roaring as I weaved around the two gangsters still lying unconscious on the ground. I grinned at the absence of the SKS, but lost all humor when I looked ahead at the end of the service drive. Phong and at least ten of his crew crowded around the building with guns blazing at the cops out front. The police returned fire, shots faintly heard over Broncostein's combustion. The enemy heard me and a few turned to fire. Sparks flew from the thick steel hood, windshield blooming webs and smoking holes, ruining the graphic art.
Please don't grow a brain and shoot the tires, I grimaced.
I swerved right, ramming into a Dumpster by the fence, the roaring boom like a near-miss lightning strike. The Bronco's front bumper looked like it belonged on a train, an immense hunk of iron with a 4 ton wench and brush guard, barely dinging from the incredible impact, though I felt it acutely in the wheel and jarring lurch forward in the seat.
The Dumpster bounded off the fence ringing like a huge bell, spun a little and kissed the bumper again, metal grating loudly over the pavement, trailing sparks.
I floored the 460, pushing the garbage bin in front of the boutique's door, tires shielded from the barrage still coming from the enemy. Hit the brakes, massive tires shudder-barking to a stop, suspension flexing. The door burst open and a gorgeous, squealing blonde teenager flew out, arms pinwheeling, legs kicking up to show light blue panties, a modelesque arch with enough height to clear the trash.
Bobby's muscular arm flashed back inside to grab and throw package #2. Anh Long curled into a ball mid-air, landing on top of Crystal, who was breathless with outrage.
Blondie followed Shocker's quick crawl around the Dumpster to the front of the truck, the suits and helmets giving them confidence, while Big Guns used the door as cover to pop a few slugs at the 211 and OBG bastards that continued to shoot in seemingly all directions. Several of them jumped the fence and dove behind a selection of new riding lawn mowers.
More bullets pelted the Dumpster, rejuvenating Crystal's vocal cords. Her shrill horror ran hoarse once again when Bobby's gargantuan form came flying out the door, shadow shrouding her and Anh Long before his mass crushed them deep into the office trash, silencing Blondie's favorite employee.
“Haaa!” I revved Broncostein to punctuate my giddiness.
My door opened. Blondie's lithe arms stretched and strained, little hands gripping the custom handles on the rocker panel and door pillar, pulling herself up and over me to shimmy into the passenger seat. She removed the helmet, ducking golden locks below the dashboard, eyes on me, assessing injuries.
Shocker tailed her, vascular muscles snatching her into the tall vehicle like a gymnast executing a difficult move with ease. She also crawled over me, though with far less respect for placement of her elbows.
“Ffff-uh!” I sputtered as she clipped my chin.
“Ew,” Shocker said taking off the helmet. She sat on the floorboard between the bucket seats, shifter between her legs. She looked at her elbow like she wanted to cut it off and burn it. Wiped my saliva from it.
Blondie gave her a narrow-eyed glance. Looked at me with sympathy, speaking loudly to be heard over the powerful engine. “It's hooked up, maybe three feet of slack! Go!”
“'Kay,” I grunted, blinking to clear my eyes.
Reverse. I gunned the Bronco and released the clutch, whiplashing the Dumpster on the end of the winch cable, dragging the heavy steel square down the alley with an eardrum bursting grind on the pavement, racing exhaust, rifle fire and teenaged screams ringing out into the immaculate, bright blue sky.
“Woo-yeah!” my girl chortled, sitting up in the passenger seat, smoking hot in her tight black suit. “Now this is a truck!”
Shocker puffed irritation, though I sensed it was because she wanted to cheer as well but feared looking out of character. “Let's not celebrate until we're safe, guys!”
“Spoken like a true party pooper!” I said, watching Big Guns expend his final rounds and duck into the boutique. The Bronco's mirrors were oscillating too much to see clearly, and my ears itched maddeningly from the pressure waves of noise. I turned to look behind us, giving the 460 more fuel. “Ace out front?”
“Yeah!” Shocker answered. She stuck a finger in an ear and wiggled it. “He ran to his car when the cops chased those bozos around back!”
“Go with them!”
“No room!” she said. “Bobby, Crystal and Anh Long will barely fit in his car as it is!”
I glanced at her, at Blondie. “Then you get to have all the fun with us!”
She smiled in spite of herself, and my girl made an enthusiastic sound that made my jaw and crotch feel better.
Our unlikely train grind-crunch-roar-screamed to a slow at the end of the strip mall. I turned the corner, pulling the Dumpster clear of immediate danger, happy the enemy were focused on the cops for now. Hit the brakes. And happy that Dumpster idea actually worked…
Ace's Scion rolled up and stopped behind us. Big Swoll peered over the rim of the garbage bin, then jumped out, looking like a real Super Nigga action figure in the Kevlar suit. He turned and lifted out the Elder Dragon quickly, set him on the pavement. Grabbed Crystal and slung her over a shoulder. The girls gasped at his handling of her. I kept my lips firmly pressed together.
Anh Long didn't waste time to even look at us. He ran around the truck and climbed into the seat behind Ace, who shut his door. Bobby unhooked the cable with one hand, wrapped the short length around the brushguard. He trotted by with a bright silly grin behind the face shield, flicking a salute. We turned and watched him stuff the traumatized girl in next to Anh Long before sliding in front, closing the door.
“They'll have the plaza and road blocked!” Shocker screamed into her phone. “Hide behind the other building!” She nodded and ended the call.
The little sports car zipped away and turned behind the machine shop, unheard, the idling 460 continuing to rattle our auditory nerves. “Are we -” Shocker began, faltering when three Biloxi PD cruisers screeched to a stop behind us.
“Let's see what kind of suspension the old man put on this thing.” I jerked it into first gear, then jumped as someone suddenly pounded his fist on my door. I looked out the window. “Hey! There he is.” I glanced at the girls, jerked a thumb at the man standing by the truck.
The girls leaned over curiously. The scowling gray haired machinist continued to beat his grease stained fist on his truck, bellowing threats. Blondie frowned at him furiously. “Fuck him!”
“You goddamn outlaw scum!” Tiblier shouted. “I told you- you can't drive it!”
“Oh. Okay then,” I told him, offering an apologetic look. “My bad.”
I motioned for him to step back, like I was going to open the door. He did, hands on waist, one hell of a snarl distorting his weathered features. I gave him a thumbs up, turned to look out the windshield and revved his prized engine, launching us around the Dumpster, racing back down the service drive.
“HEEEYYY!” Tiblier's rage could be heard despite the thunderous exhaust.
Police cars suddenly turned into the drive in front of us. I didn't slow down. Shocker grip
ped my arm with very unfeminine force. “What are you doing?” she shouted.
To answer her question I turned right into the fence, chain-link section folding to the ground instantly, unfelt by the massive Ford, tires churning ruts up a slight slope, across the pristine lawn of the yard store we roared past, suspension abruptly jouncing us around as we whoop-dee-dooed over push mowers, weed eaters and other equipment on display, knobbies squealing traction on patios and walkways.
The lawn and garden store sat on top of a hill, with a fairly large yard and parking lot on the gentle slope. At the bottom near the road were half a dozen cars that belonged to very unlucky customers. The scene we approached made my chest freeze, like I had fallen through bayou ice, stealing my breath. Blondie growled and flipped her hair. Shocker breathed, “Oh no,” staring at a stand-off right out of a J.J. Abrams film.
Multiple law enforcement agencies had Pass Road blocked, no traffic flowing, at least two dozen cruisers and a S.W.A.T. truck positioned at angles as far as I could see in either direction, surely more surrounding the block. Phong and his boys were screwed. They sat on their heels behind the customers' sedans and pickups, desperately shooting at the cops in a vain attempt to escape. S.W.A.T. knelt behind large black shields, firing M-16s with trained precision, 5.56mm slugs disintegrating the cars our enemy made their stand behind.
During our shocked pause the perpetual-scheming part of my mind finished processing the response to this situation. But before I could share it with my partners pistols cracked from right behind us, bullets thudding into the tailgate of Broncostein. The shaking mirror showed two cops in kneeling firing positions, .40 Sig Sauers aimed, shouting for us to depart the vehicle or they will fire again.
“Uh-huh,” I muttered. “That's what we'll do.”
I shifted into reverse and floored the beast, unleashing an enormous store of heart-palpitating torque, powering us toward the cops. They had time to fire one panicked shot before diving out of the way, narrowly avoiding the titanic Super Swampers. I turned, found first gear and launched us back toward the alley as they gained their feet and fired again, tinks and clanks faintly heard on the thick rear bumper.
“We're fucked. We're fucked!” Shocker said anxiously. She put her palms on her temples. “I'm going back to prison!”
“Not if I can help it!” I told her, barely containing a shout of joy, electrified by the challenge.
She watched me for a moment. “You're psycho!” she accused.
“That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me!”
The front-end bounced as we went over the lawn mowers again, over the fence, tires reverberating high-pitched moans onto the alley pavement. Cops covered both ends, cruisers parked nose-to-nose to block the exits. I grinned, realizing I was temporary insane, pressing the accelerator to the stop, shifting to gain speed. We rocketed down the length of the building, approaching the cop cars with the confidence of an ATV racer heading for a big jump.
It dawned on Shocker what I intended and she gripped my arm again. Blondie let out a cowgirl yip and grabbed the dashboard handgrip. I giggled at the cops that darted away from their cars.
WHAM!
Broncostein hit the fenders of both cruisers simultaneously, shooting straight up into the air, engine redlining as all four tires left the earth. We saw nothing but blue sky and perfect fluffy clouds for a couple of seconds and then, SLAM! The jarring landing rocked our senses like a slap from a bomb's shockwave. I barely held on to the wheel, foot somehow still in the throttle, feminine squawks making me smile as I downshifted to turn behind the machine shop, two black and whites on our tail a second later.
“You ramped them!” Shocker was feeling it now. “You crushed them!”
“You were right, Babe!” Blondie said patting the dash. “It could do it!”
Canines displayed, I caught another gear, focusing on the narrow service drive we thundered down.
Two Dumpsters were across from the machine shop and the business next to it, a small Mexican buffet with fantastic tacos. Sirens followed close behind. I glanced at the mirror, turning around as I glimpsed Ace's Scion. Debris from our wake scattered leaves and scraps of trash, momentarily outlining the invisible car parked next to Tiblier's oil recycling tank. The side of the car was projecting the street, the steel stand and cylindrical reservoir behind it, in high-definition.
“Love it!” I snickered.
The service drive ended with a wooden fence that was supposed to give the spa's sunning lounge a semblance of privacy. Broncostein crashed through it with the force of a sling blade shearing through a small twig, cracking explosively, large chunks of it flying every which way, knobbies deeply rutting grass and flower beds, crushing lawn chairs and tables vacated by fleeing, screaming, customers, plastic and metal tubes shooting out to the sides of the Ford like waves before a speeding boat.
Blink, blink, BAM! Seconds later we crashed through the other side, shards and noise terrorizing citizens that greeted us with alarmed shouts from inside their cars. We drove over the front of a Hyundai, turning into traffic on Pass Road, just outside the police barricade. The big block roared crackling thunder that crescendoed into truly powerful sound waves, dropping in pitch with every shift of gears, weaving through cars that locked up their brakes in the busy intersection, avoiding a pancaked fate.
“They can't follow!” Shocker reported, looking behind us. “The traffic is jammed!” Her smile turned uncertain when she noticed Blondie's languid posture and orgasmic expression.
Blondie opened her eyes and looked over at me, fucking me with her green gaze. She purred, “Superlative,” and couldn't stop her legs from squirming.
Indeed, my Johnson flexed in accord.
We're not out of this yet, my subconscious pointed out. We won't have to worry about the cops for a minute - the entire force is back there - but only for a minute.
“Right,” I murmured. “We can pervert later.”
We had to get out of this enormous eye and ear magnet. Vehicles didn't get any more conspicuous than this, huh? We needed a more nondescript ride. Or a good hiding place.
Clutch, shift, gas. I raced our behemoth hot rod toward Gulfport, turning too quickly down heavily trafficked roads, at one point going up on two wheels, crushing the sides of an entire row of cars parked at a curb, nearly overturning us. The girls screamed at me, curses coupled with facts about the Bronco's top-heavy disposition. I giggled at their voices, scolding tones vibrating from the mud tires' moan and rumble, mind-numbingly loud exhaust that shook our seats and vision.
I squinted hard to focus up ahead, the only woods for miles in sight. I steered toward the trees with a burbling elation in my throat, tongue hanging out, thinking we had beaten Team Law, when a state trooper blipped in the rearview mirror, passing through the intersection behind us.
Blondie noticed my eyes locked onto the mirror. “What is it, Babe?” She turned to look out the back, pulling a lock of hair over an ear. She pounded the seat. “Fricken crap!”
The trooper didn't slow and endeavor a reasonable turnaround. He showed us he was a worthy opponent, whipping his ride sideways, dust cloud spiraling up, tires blackening the intersection, lights blazing on in mid-turn. His Crown Victoria lurched, racing quickly in our direction.
“He'll have friends!” Shocker said, tone suggesting she had a history with the highway patrol.
“Don't worry!” I said stoically. “They can't follow us through the woods!”
My confidence transmitted to the engine, RPM gauge climbing into the red, eight hundred balanced-and-blueprinted horses galloping combustion that rattled our teeth, extreme full-body massage. What is the speed rating for those Boggers??? I wondered briefly. Any faster and centrifugal force could throw that heavy tread off the wheels.
Visions of a fiery crash lightened my press on the throttle. Blondie gestured at the trees approaching fast, an undeveloped area of maybe twenty acres. “You know these woods?”
I shrugged, unconcerned.
“Woods are woods with a ride like this!”
I felt Shocker's firecracker glare on me. She sighed and got on her phone. Put it on speaker. “You tracking me?” she yelled.
“Yes dear,” Ace answered. We could barely hear him. I let off the gas a little more.
“We're going into some woods! What's in them and on the other side?”
I pictured the geek sitting in his car, angular face illuminated by the tablet on his lap. Bobby looking on from the passenger seat. Anh Long's hooded eyes and Crystal's pie eyes curious from the back seat. Ace's Galaxy Note was not his only source of computing power; the tablet was Entangled with the giant computer at my garage, his Big Black Wrecker- a hacker's wet dream rig, according to Blondie. The geek's equipment gave him scary power. I wouldn't be surprised if he was watching us from live satellite feed. He said, “On the other side is an industrial complex. A large one.”
“Can we make it through the woods?” she wanted to know.
I frowned at her, Please.
Ace said, “The topographical images of that grid show hills but no visible obstructions. But, uh, they're old.”
Shocker's head shook, Not good enough. She didn't like the unknown. “Find us a route!”
“Yes, dear.”
Downshift, brake. The moan of tires dropped to a low warble, engine winding down. Turned us off the road and through a shallow ditch, torquey first gear engaged, all the wonderful chinks and whines of backlash in the heavy-duty drive-train mixing with squeaks and hisses of the Skyjacker suspension, towering pine trees reflecting the intrusive racket. The off-road knobbies were at home, throwing rooster tails of dirt, pine straw, leaves and sticks on the patrol car attempting to follow us. His siren blared annoyingly.
The plot of woods angled up, steep hill of loose, dead flora providing little traction on the surface, massive truck sinking its tires into the soil below like a prehistoric carnivore clawing its way to freedom from a pursuing tribe of hunters.