“Snowmobiles,” Darla said. “Christ.”
As we watched, the snowmobiles spread out to surround the south side of the overpass in a rough semicircle. The one closest to us stopped, and the two men riding it dismounted and pulled long guns from a saddlebag. They wore military-style fatigues and camo jackets.
“Let’s go!” I tugged on Darla’s jacket. We crawled as quickly as we could back to the center of the overpass. When I reached the break between the bridges, I darted out from under the ledge and started clawing my way upward through the deep snow on the embankment.
I scrabbled with my arms and pumped my legs in and out of the snow, high-stepping, thrusting with panic-fueled urgency. It probably only took us ten seconds to race up the slope, but it seemed like forever. I hurled myself over the snowbank that edged the road atop the overpass. Darla crashed into me a second later.
“What the hell is going on?” Darla asked.
“No idea.” I dashed onto the bridge and peered over the snow berm to the north. The gunfire had gotten louder. Four trucks raced along the road in a column, only a few hundred yards from us and approaching fast. The closest was a modern pickup, followed immediately by a cloth-topped, army-style deuce-and-a-half. After the cloth-topped truck there was a gap, then came two ancient pickups-the type with big rounded fenders and small wooden load beds.
Both the antique trucks were packed with men wearing a ragged array of clothing-five or six squeezed into the back of each truck. Two guys on the closer of the old pickups were leaning over the top of the cab, firing rifles at the deuce in front of them. I thought I saw the muzzle flash of returned fire but couldn’t be sure.
“Oh my God,” I said. “It’s an ambush. The first two trucks are luring the old pickups through the overpass. On the other side all those guys on snowmobiles are perfectly set up to massacre them.”
“Great,” Darla replied. “We’d better hide and sneak out of here when it’s all over.”
The guys on the old pickups looked like farmers to me, and they were driving into a bandit ambush. I clenched my fists. “We’ve got to stop it.”
“Alex, wait-”
I scrambled to the top of the snow berm and stood up. It was a long drop in front of me down the far side of the berm and off the edge of the bridge. I wavered a moment, then started yelling and waving my arms.
“Get down, you idiot!” Darla screamed. She started scrambling up the snow berm toward me.
All four trucks roared toward us. I pointed at the first old pickup and held my arms out, palms forward, in a gesture to stop.
A spray of snow kicked up beside my feet and the pop of a gunshot sounded from my left. The first pickup roared under the bridge directly below me. I glanced to my left. I could barely see one of the guys from the snowmobiles lying atop the snow berm a couple hundred yards off, pointing a rifle at me.
I felt Darla’s hands grab my right arm. She wrenched me around, throwing me down. I heard another gunshot. Darla exhaled heavily-a quiet “oof.” A red stain bloomed on her right shoulder and everything slowed around me. Her knees crumpled, and she slid down the outside of the snow berm. I lunged toward her. Snow plumed into the air beside me, and another gunshot sounded. I grabbed for her. My hand caught in her hair. It tore from her scalp, and Darla slipped away.
Chapter 28
Darla fell from the overpass and landed on her back with a whump of compressed fabric on the roof of the cloth-top deuce passing underneath us. My scarf followed her, twisting in the wind. I teetered on top of the snow berm for a split second, afraid to jump after her, a hesitation I would regret for the rest of my life. I was left holding a clump of her hair and the necklace I’d given her, now broken. The truck passed under the bridge. And she was gone.
I ran for the south side of the overpass, hoping to catch the truck there. As I ran, I jammed the broken necklace into the pocket of my coveralls. The situation seemed impossible. I couldn’t run as fast as the truck was moving, let alone cross the gap between the lanes of the highway in time.
Something punched my right arm, and I heard another gunshot. The impact spun me partway around and knocked me off balance. To my west, the guy with the rifle was aiming, lining up yet another shot at me. Running across the road in full view of him was suicide. I turned away from him, sprinting east and dodging back and forth, hoping to make him miss. I felt the wet heat of blood flowing down my right arm.
I heard another gunshot, but didn’t feel or see anything. A miss. When I reached the northern edge of the overpass, I scrambled up the snow berm and threw myself over the other side. I slid face first down the snow berm and then down the long embankment to the base of the overpass. Flecks of snow flew into my eyes and ice abraded my cheek.
The two old pickups had pulled up and stopped north of the overpass. A guy jumped out of the lead truck’s load bed and ran up to me. I pushed to my feet and turned to run to follow the cloth-topped truck with its precious cargo under the bridge. My red scarf was pooled on the icy road. The guy grabbed me. Pain so intense that my fingertips tingled shot through me when his fingers closed around my right arm. I fought down dizziness and tried to pull away.
“Why were you trying to signal us?” the man demanded.
“Let go!” I tried to punch, aiming for his radial nerve. He caught my other arm before my punch could connect. I was weak, slowed by hunger and shock.
“You signaled to stop,” the guy shouted. “Why? What’s on the other side of the overpass?”
“Let go!” I yelled again. “Darla, I’ve got to get to Darla!” The words didn’t come out clearly. I realized I was sobbing.
The man let go of my right arm and slapped me. The blow rocked my head sideways, brought fire to my face, and stopped my sobbing. “What’s on the other side of the overpass?” he yelled.
I sucked in a deep breath. “It’s an ambush. There are eight guys on snowmobiles set up on the far side in a semi-circle. If you go under that bridge, it’ll be a massacre.”
The guy turned toward his buddies in the truck, still holding one of my arms. “Ambush! Eight snowmobiles. Far side of the overpass.” They all readied their rifles. Four guys jumped down from the truck to take up flanking positions on either side of the road.
“Four snowmobiles. Eight guys,” I said. “Now let me go-I’ve got to go after Darla!” I thrashed, trying to break the guy’s grip. I reached across my body with my left hand and dug my fingers under his pinky. That put more pressure on my wound, and pain spiked up my arm so intensely I saw colored lights. I ignored it as best I could, concentrating on bending his pinky backward.
The biggest guy in the world can be holding you, but if it’s your whole hand against his pinky, you can break his grip-or his finger-either of which should do the trick. The guy holding me let go rather than allowing me to break his pinky, and I cranked his hand around, twisting him into an arm bar.
I could have broken his elbow or kicked him in the nuts, but I was just trying to get away. I settled for a round kick to the back of his legs, forcing him to his knees in the icy road. Then I turned to run.
Another guy had jumped down from the back of the pickup and planted himself squarely in my path. He looked familiar.
“You run under that bridge, you’re dead for sure,” he said. He grabbed the collar of my coveralls as I tried to dodge around him.
The driver’s window was down. The guy at the wheel said, “Just let him go. What do we care if he gets his fool head shot off?”
“He saved us from a serious ass-kicking,” the guy holding me said.
“This is how you show your gratitude?” I tried to snake my right arm through his arms, preparing to throw him off, but a burst of pain so intense that it left me gasping stopped me.