Warrior (Freelancer Book 2) (9 page)

They had the road to themselves and could take the straight sections of the narrow tunnels and ridgetop passages at speed. The cold air was slowly burning through their clothes, forcing them to crouch lower behind the small windshield and draw their legs into the tiny area of protection afforded by the race fairings. They kept talking, even telling stories at one point, making sure they stayed awake, and gauging how badly their dropping core temperatures were affecting judgment by the slurring of their speech.

They were about two-thirds of the way across the mountain highway when their pursuers found them again. Two Harleys coming in the opposite direction, headlights blocked by solid rock until they were only yards away.

The riders snapped their heads to the left when they saw the Ducati. One shouted, "That's them!" and the other reached into a jacket pocket, but Rick and Eve were past the next turn and out of sight.

Rick's heart was pounding; it was just luck that he'd been in the right lane. He tapped Eve's wrist, she loosened the sudden death grip she’d taken on his waist, and the pain in his side subsided.

Again, he wondered who these guys were. They clearly had enough people to run a search box with men in front of them as well as behind, and they kept showing up with reinforcements in new vehicles. It would make sense if they were state police, U.S. Marshals, or FBI, but these guys had been firing at the government bunkers back in Wounded Knee.

Private investigators?

The CIA playing an inter-agency power game?

He shook his head to clear out the questions and picked up speed. Whoever they were, they'd be on his tail as soon as they could make U-turns on the narrow road—which wasn’t going to be quick with those huge Harleys. He was sure the Ducati was faster on a straight but on the turns, he’d be forced to drop down to their speed. He had to do something about them before someone new showed up.

"I've got an idea," he said over his shoulder.

"About damn time."

"You know you could get off and walk if you wanted."

"No, thank you. What's the plan, trooper?"

"We're going to need to gain as much time as we

can on them." He dipped deeply into a turn. "Wait, I'll explain when I get to a straight and I'm not trying so hard to keep us on the road."

"Better talk fast. 'Straight' is a relatively scarce commodity up here." She pulled closer to his back. "Right up there with 'warm’."

After fifteen minutes of pushing the bike deep into turns and powering out, staying carefully off the brakes by going up and down the gears almost constantly, they reached what Rick knew from his single glance at a map was the last of the narrow tunnels blasted through the granite spires. Now he knew there was time to talk, and he outlined quickly what he planned to do.

Rick slowed down at the tunnel exit, made a wide turn, and parked the bike facing the way they’d come, just to the left of the tunnel mouth. Behind him, the road split, the main road branching off to the left and a parking lot opening to the right. There was a needle of solid stone dead ahead—only yards from the tunnel exit.

He pulled off his helmet and put a gloved finger to his lips. There was no sound of their pursuers, no deep rumble of the big V-Twins echoing off the sides of the stone tunnel.

"OK, let's do it," he said.

Eve began to dismantle the gear bungeed to the bike's luggage rack, pulling off the gas can to reach the backpack. Putting it on the ground, she opened the drawstrings on top and began taking out supplies. At the bottom was a metal box—the strobe that Pete Talltrees had given them. She handed it to Rick.

Rick had unlocked and flipped up the bike’s seat, revealing the battery and, tucked in a small compartment to the side, a small tool kit and a roll of electrical tape. Slamming the seat down, he unrolled the cold plastic tool bag and used the screwdriver to remove the taillight screws. He used the tape to attach the red plastic taillight housing to the front of the metal box Eve had put on the ground.

He flipped a switch on the back of the box, and a blazing red strobe light exploded off the tunnel walls. Satisfied, he turned it off and wound a couple of the bungee cords around it, then handed one to Eve.

Eve had another bungee ready and quickly taped it to the on-off switch. She stepped back next to the tunnel and waited.

Rick jogged back to the Ducati. Moving as quickly as he could, he scavenged a can of peaches from the backpack, opened it with a small opener stashed in a side pocket, dumped out the contents, and placed the can on the ground on the right side of the bike. Then he opened the oil plug on top of the engine, got a good grip on the handlebars, and slowly tipped the heavy machine over until hot engine oil poured out and filled the can. He knew the can was only big enough to bring the oil level down halfway on the dipstick—there would be enough for the engine. There wasn't any visible strain on his face, but he grunted as he raised the bike back up.

Setting the bike up on the center stand, he took the can and threw about half the oil on the road back in the tunnel and then as widely as he could in a straight line leading to the wall of stone. The smell of hot oil was an affront to the crisp mountain air.

As he headed back to the bike, he heard the first faint echoes.

They had only about a minute.

Sorting through the tool kit, he fitted the heaviest socket wrench with an extender, making it into a foot-long rod; then he twisted the spare sparkplug into its thin-wall tool and jammed that into the open end of the socket. Finally, he pulled a one-inch washer from his pocket, something he'd made in Elvis Iron Crow's garage. It was threaded on the inside so it fitted on the end of the sparkplug. Now, he had a foot-long steel club with about a pound of metal on the end and all that weight concentrated on the narrow edge of the washer.

The motorcycles were getting louder. Rick reached over, stuck the motorcycle key into the ignition with his right hand, and grasped the end of the bungee cord with his left. Eve crouched and picked up her bungee cord.

They waited.

The tone of the motorcycle exhaust deepened as the two riders entered the tunnel. He picked up the bungee and, standing, pulled the boxy strobe toward him and up to head height as Eve mirrored his motions.

The bikes were coming quickly—headlights flickering off the rock walls—but Rick waited until the last second. Then he turned on the bike's ignition, blazing the high beam of the headlight directly into the tunnel. Eve pulled the strobe's switch, and the red light began pulsing in the center of the tunnel.

Rick could hear the squeal of tires on the asphalt for a second and then silence as they hit the oil. The first rider was already down and sliding when he came out of the tunnel. His partner, fishtailing desperately to stay upright, slammed into him, and then his bike was down. Both slid across the open space and smashed into the rock wall.

Dropping the strobe, Rick grabbed his makeshift club and ran over to the pile-up. The men were moving, the first one screaming in pain as he tried to pull his leg out from under his bike. The second rider reached inside his jacket and Rick hit his right forearm as hard as he could, trying to put the edge of the washer right on the outside of the man’s arm.

He heard a crack as the bone broke.

Now they were both screaming. Eve turned away, looking pale.

Rick said, "I’ve got to keep them from shooting at us—"

"I know, damn it!" Eve interrupted, "It’s rough to see, but it’s no worse than a Sun Dance. Finish up and let’s get out of here."

Rick circled and eyed the first rider. He probably had a broken leg and his left side was shredded where his jeans and denim jacket had scraped off on the pavement. Deciding that there was no point in taking chances, Rick pulled the biker’s right hand out and carefully broke his trigger finger with the weighted washer.

"You motherfucker!" The rider shrieked. "Stephen will fucking kill you!"

Rick pulled the ignition keys from both bikes, throwing them over the edge of the parking lot. He twisted the first rider's helmet so he could see his face. "Weren't you going to kill us anyway?"

"We just want that fucking piece of shit medicine bag, god damn it!"

The second rider was slowly trying to get his left hand into his jacket. Rick pulled open the heavy leather and took an automatic pistol from the man's belt. Checking that the safety was on, he put it down, and slid it over to Eve.

In a matter-of-fact voice, he asked, "Right-handed or left-handed?" The man gritted his teeth and glared at Rick. Rick shook his head and said in a mock-regretful tone, "OK, but that means I’ll have to make sure. Sorry."

Then he broke the forefinger on the left hand.

Turning to the rider with the broken leg, he patted him down, removing a Colt Python from a shoulder holster.

"Jeez, you sure you've got enough firepower? What the hell are you? A lost LURP unit?" Rick asked as he cocked the hammer, and then held it muzzle-down between the two men. "And who is Stephen?"

The rider with the shredded jacket said through gritted teeth, "I ain't telling you shit, squaw-fucker."

Rick reached over and gently tapped his broken finger with the pistol.

The biker screamed and twisted.

As he did, Rick saw where the torn denim had revealed bare shoulder. He grabbed the arm, dug out his Zippo, lit it on his thigh, and held it so he could examine the shoulder. Then, he turned, yanked the jacket off the other man's shoulder, and tore his shirt away.

Both men had four black scars in a box pattern.

Rick said, "What the hell is this? You guys in a fraternity or something? Or were you just branded so your boss could keep track of you?"

"You and your prairie nigger girlfriend are dead. We'll kill you the way we did your buddy on Pine Ridge." The biker's eyes blazed with fury. "Took that fucker a couple of hours to die."

Rick grabbed the man's chin and twisted his head so he could see his face. He held the pistol against his temple. "What did you say?"

"Your buddy, the tall fucker with the rifle." The biker tried to spit in Rick's face, but the spittle ran down his chin. "We wasted his ass but not until we crushed his nuts and took off every inch of his skin."

Rick's hand trembled as he fought the urge to kill the man. Slowly, he released his grip on the Colt and stood up. He raised the gun and aimed at the man's left eye.

For a long moment, he just stood.

Then he turned, lowered the hammer, and violently hurled the gun into the darkness. He said to Eve, "Give me the other one, too. These miserable bastards are not going to show up in my nightmares."

She handed him the second pistol, and it followed the first over the guardrail.

She looked at him gravely as he turned away from the two men and the twisted wreckage around them. "I would have killed them."

"Sorry." Rick headed back to the Ducati. "Look at the bright side, maybe they'll freeze to death before anyone gets up here."

"Maybe." Eve turned to follow. "But probably not."

Rick looked back and grinned at her. "Yeah. God knows they don't deserve it, but I'll call for an ambulance as soon as we find a phone."

"That's what I thought."

"I've already got enough ghosts." He picked up the oily peaches can and threw it high into a crevice in the rocks. "Let's get this place cleared of as much of our stuff as we can and get the hell out of here."

Headlights flashed in back of the small wayside rest stop. Rick swept his headlight over an old sedan with the trademark faded blue of a cheap Earl Scheib paint job. When they got closer, he thought how much the driver resembled his car: both looked hard used and badly battered but still running.

An older man, he had thinning hair under a Dodgers cap and heavy glasses with lenses like the bottom of a bar glass. From the lines on his face, Rick suspected he'd seen the bottom of more than his share of bar glasses.

"You must be Iron Crow's buddy." The man's voice was low and scarred by years of cigarettes. "I don't suspect you need to know my name if you don't mind."

Rick felt Eve swing off the back of the bike and he pulled it up on the center stand. "No, I don't mind." He got off and bent to touch his toes, trying to get some flexibility back in his tired body. He grunted when a spasm of pain shot through the webbed scars on his side. Eve had disappeared into a wooden outhouse in a clump of pines.

"Gas can is back in the trunk if you don't mind. At my age, you don't need to be carrying heavy things around." He placed an unfiltered cigarette between his lips but began to cough before he could get it lit. "Hell, at my age, it's damn hard just to get out of the car."

With a fair amount of swearing, the driver managed to light his cigarette with the car lighter. Then he turned off the switch and handed Rick the key. The car kept running, coughing and rocking, the engine dieseling even with the power off.

"This car just doesn't want to quit," Rick said as he headed toward the trunk.

"Nope. Just too old and stupid to know when it's time to take a rest. And don't you dare say it's just like its owner."

Rick called from the back of the car. "Wouldn't think of it."

The old sedan was still gasping and popping when Rick had finished refilling his tank and put the can back in the trunk. He gave the old man the key. As soon as the key was in the ignition, the engine stopped, and the night was quiet.

The old guy laughed, relaxed in the cracked leather of the driver's seat, and turned to the serious enjoyment of smoking. As he tapped the ashes out the window with one hand, he offered the pack to Rick with the other.

"Thanks." Rick dug out his Zippo and did his trick to light the cigarette. The driver watched curiously.

"Cute trick. Looks like an old habit."

"More of a good luck charm." Rick inhaled the rich smoke. "It seems to keep me alive."

"Hey, if you find something like that, you don't ever want to give it up."

Eve emerged from the outhouse. Rick noticed that the warped wooden door even had the classic crescent moon shape cut in it. She gasped for air. Clearly, she'd been holding her breath.

"Bad?" Rick asked.

"Only if you like to breathe. Damn. They had a stick in there, so you could push everyone else's crap aside." She took another deep breath. "I think that's a new record for all-around stench."

The old man laughed. "You've been off the rez too long. You'll be asking for paper next."

"Are you kidding? You haven't used a true New York City restroom like the one in Penn Station. Makes this seem like a field of clover."

Rick headed in the other direction. "I guess I don't really want to sit down all that much."

When he returned, Eve was leaning against the car smoking. Her face was closed and serious. "What's up?" Rick asked.

"I'll tell you on the road." She snapped the butt off into the asphalt parking lot and pulled her helmet on. "Dawn's coming, trooper. We need to push if we're going to—" She stopped suddenly then simply said, "We need to get going."

For a second, Rick thought she was worried about the old man but then realized she was trying to avoid talking about "men's business." He buckled his helmet, pulled the bike down from the stand, and backed it up far enough to avoid the front of the car on the way out. Eve waited until he got on and then settled on to the rear seat.

Rick tossed a salute at the driver. "Thanks. Much appreciated."

The man responded in Cheyenne.

Eve answered sharply and whatever she said reduced the old man to a combination of coughing and laughter that rendered him helpless.

As they pulled away, Rick asked, "What did you say?"

"You don't want to know. Let's just say I was defending your…honor."

"Humph." Rick turned the lights on after they'd pulled back on the main road. It was only 4:30, but there was already a dim glow on the eastern horizon. "Well, there are no mountains from here on out, straight and boring all the way to Montana. I'll use the spare tank to get us there so there will be no stops."

"There should be someone to meet us," she said. "The old guy was telling me about the phone call he got from his cousin in Lame Deer just before he came out to wait for us. Apparently, all kinds of strange people are hanging around outside the reservation, and whoever is behind them has some serious clout."

Rick got the Ducati up to a comfortable rev zone in fifth gear. Even after all tonight’s riding, it was still difficult to believe they were doing well over 115.

Eve continued, "The Sheriff's Departments of both Powder River and Rosebud Counties have let them put up roadblocks on the main roads."

"'Let them'?"

"That's what I said. Old Buck said the deputies weren't actually helping, but they aren't making them move their trucks out of the road either."

Rick thought a moment, "Any idea where the roadblocks are?"

"Right on the border of the reservation. The Tribal Police may not get a lot of respect, but they aren't going to let a bunch of strangers set up shop on their territory. So, do you have a plan?"

"Not yet, but there's a whole lot of miles still to go. We'll think of something."

Rick stopped the Ducati and looked at the small bridge across the Tongue River as the first knife blade of gold light lit the top of the hills far to the west.

No cars, no pickups, and no armed men waiting.

Eve unzipped the top of her jacket. The temperature was beginning to rise. "Well?" she asked.

"I can't see anything." Rick kept sweeping the land ahead as it emerged from the dim of the early dawn. "But aren't 'eagle eyes' supposed to be your contribution to this partnership?"

"No. I bring legal advice and the hard-earned wisdom of the Ivy League. The great jungle warrior here is the big white guy at the front of the bike."

"Well, big white guy doesn't see anyone."

The main road would have led them through Ashland and almost certainly a checkpoint, but they'd cut off to the south and taken a bone-rattling ride down a road that was no more than used motor oil sprayed over dirt and gravel. Rick thought it was a miracle they hadn't blown a tire.

Now, they were looking at the small bridge that crossed a small creek and entered the reservation through the town of Birney. It would be only an hour's run up to the tribal council office at Lame Deer.

If there wasn't anyone waiting at the bridge.

Rick toed the bike up into first gear. "Well, to quote a great general's last words, 'Hurrah boys! We've caught them napping!'"

"Gee, and here I'd always been taught Custer's last words were, 'Where the hell did all these fucking Indians come from?'"

"Makes a lot more sense that way." Rick opened the clutch and the Ducati leaped forward. "Here goes nothing."

The rough surface of the road cut the bike's speed. Rick couldn't get above third gear without feeling the front wheel going airborne and losing its grip. When men with rifles came out from behind the trees right before the bridge, he knew he couldn't get up enough speed to cut through them.

He slowed and stopped only yards away. Facing them were five young men, wearing jeans, denim jackets, and shirts still stiff from store shelves, and carrying identical AR-15 rifles. At least Rick assumed they were the civilian version. As far as he could see, they looked like military issue M-16's.

Rick would have bet good money that they all had identical square scars on their upper arms.

"Hey, assholes!"

The five men jerked and spun as they heard the loud voice coming from behind them. At least a dozen young men with the round faces and long hair of native Cheyenne were walking across the short bridge. There were some hunting rifles and at least one AK-47, but most had shotguns at their shoulders. Several were wearing M-65 field jackets, and Rick could tell by the careful way they moved as a group that they all had combat experience.

The one who had yelled was wearing a policeman's jacket with a baseball cap. He called out, "Tribal Police. Place your weapons on the ground and step away to the side of the road. I'm Sergeant Frank Kaline, and these men with me are an authorized posse under the laws of the
Sotaeo'o and Tsitsistas
peoples. You have no right to be here and you need to leave."

Two of the men standing in front of Rick moved slightly, beginning to bring their rifles to their shoulders. Instantly, three of the men in the front line of the posse dropped to prone firing positions to clear sight lines for the men in back and a dozen weapons shifted aim. The sound of safeties snapping off rippled through the still air.

The two men froze.

"Maybe, you didn't understand me," Kaline said. "So I'll translate it into 'white trash' for you. Put those fucking weapons down and move the fuck over to the side of the road. Now!"

Slowly, the men placed their rifles on the road and began to back away.

Suddenly, one reached into his jacket and turned toward Rick and Eve. A shotgun blast hit him in the right shoulder, and he continued the spin as the pistol in his hand flew into the brush. Kaline said without looking back, "I sure hope that was you, Herb."

The man who had fired the shotgun racked the pump. "Yep."

"Good. That was birdshot, right?"

"Rock salt."

Kaline grinned. "Shit. That'll sting." Then his face became serious. "To my knowledge that was the only non-lethal load any of us are carrying. I might be wrong, but I'd say the rest of you should consider the odds before you do anything as stupid as your buddy there just tried."

The man who'd been shot was bent over and moaning, a high, whistling sound of pain, but no blood stained his new denim jacket.

"Whoever you are on the bike," Kaline continued. "Get moving before any of us gets a good look at you. In a couple of minutes, all of us are going to forget any of this happened, and it would be helpful if you were out of sight by then."

Rick opened the clutch and rode across the bridge into the reservation. It was smooth paved road on the other side, and the Ducati was up to cruising speed in less than a minute.

As they approached the outskirts of Lame Deer, Rick slowed to the speed limit for the second time since they left Oglala. As they passed the intersection where Sweet Medicine Road crossed Cheyenne Avenue, a man stepped out from a copse of trees on the left and waved them down.

He was tall and thin, dressed in jeans with a silver belt buckle, a faded red checked shirt with pearl buttons, and a battered Resistol hat that might have once been white but now was the same dull red as the ever-present dust. His face was weathered and lined, but Rick thought he could have been any age between 40 and 75.

Rick slowed; the man held up both hands with the palms empty and then gestured for him to pull the motorcycle over to the left. Rick asked Eve, "What do you think? Do we stop?"

“Hell, yes." Her response was unequivocal. "He's definitely a Cheyenne, but I've never seen him before, and I know everyone on the reservation at least by sight. That makes him important."

The tall man spoke to Eve first, a soft murmur of words in Cheyenne. She nodded once, dismounted from the motorcycle, and walked over to the shade of the trees where she took off her helmet and sat resting against a tree trunk—pointedly looking away from the road.

Once she was seated, the man turned to Rick and continued to speak in Cheyenne. Rick shook his head and said, "I can recognize 'whirlwind,' the name Eve gave me, but the rest is beyond me. Could we change to English?"

The man laughed, lines around his eyes showing that this was a familiar reaction. "That's a good name for you, Whirlwind. After all, you beat the wind to get here."

"It was fun." Rick took off his helmet and rubbed his hair vigorously. "I haven't had the chance to dance on a hot bike for way too long."

"You see it as a dance?" The man's face was thoughtful and approving. "That's good. It's fitting that what you have carried has been returned in a dance."

Rick kept his face blank and didn't say anything.

The other man seemed pleased. "You have the patience of a Cheyenne. Most white men just can't wait to start talking. I guess you still need proof that I'm the right person to hand off your burden."

He stuck out his hand. "I'm Charlie Walksalone, and I'm one of the Arrow Men and a member of the Council of 44."

Rick pulled off his motorcycle glove and shook his hand. It was a firm grip with the calluses of a working rancher. "Pleased to meet you. I believe I have something to give you." He paused a second, "That is, if you can say who gave it to me."