“Game Warden, that is a negative. Our OpOrd requires we stay under aerial cover at all-”
“Huntsman, I wrote your operation orders. I say three times; move Dogcatcher One to a fire-enabled overlook on the blind spot now. Fox must be protected at all costs, even if you compromise your OP. Game Warden out.”
“Out.”
Downing rolled out of the convenience store’s parking lot, and northward into the heat shimmers of the two-lane macadam. As he accelerated-steadily, but not abruptly-he reached over and popped open the briefcase that was resting on the passenger seat…
ODYSSEUS
“Do you see the map?”
Opal squinted forward into the dust that was still hanging in the air from their uphill passage of half a minute ago. “No, I-”
The car lurched slightly to the right and Caine realized that, in scanning for the map himself, he had taken his eyes off the road. He snapped his attention forward again, but too late: he had veered toward the edge of the road and put the passenger side front wheel into the gravel of the partially completed drainage ditch.
He swung the wheel hard to the left-and immediately regretted it: the digital controls were too sensitive for performance driving. He felt the rear tires shudder, struggle, then lose traction-and suddenly they were speeding downhill sideways in a gradual spin.
He tried to countersteer, but the tires didn’t bite; driving on the slick macadam was like driving on a sheet of water. They skitter-screeched forward at an angle, heading straight for the flatbed. Opal snapped forward at the waist, hands over her head: he felt a flash of envy for the speed of her reflex, started into the same position-
He slammed into, then bounced back from, the dashboard. The shattering of glass and squeals of twisted metal were loud in his ears. The car continued to move, but no longer forwards; it slung him sideways as it completed its 180-degree counter-clockwise spin with a crunch against the side of flatbed, its nose pointed uphill. The PVC pipes rattled hollowly, shifted slightly toward the roof of the car; angry, drifting spirits of agitated dust swirled around them.
“You okay?” Caine dabbed a finger at his forehead; his knuckle came away shining dark red.
Opal nodded, hand tucked down against her right side. “Jesus, you really are a bad driver.”
“Sorry. Can I help-?”
“No, I’m fine. And I wasn’t serious about your driving. Lighten up: this road is a death trap.”
“Can you move?”
“I said I was fine-but this door’s mashed in and pinched against the flatbed. I’ll have to get out the driver’s side.”
Caine opened his door, assessed the damage as Opal clambered out: the car wasn’t going anywhere soon. Its sideways spin had, fortunately, brought it across the road and away from the precipitous ledge, but had also sent it straight into the protruding corner of the low-slung flatbed. The right front wheel had received the full brunt of the edge-on impact: the flatbed’s corner had crumpled the car’s front quarter panel and struts, sliced clean through the tire, and had half-bisected the wheel itself.
“Well, at least we’ve got company coming.” Opal stepped around to the rear of the car. “Maybe they’ll give us a lift.” As the two off-road vehicles rose into view over a hump in the road six hundred meters downslope, she started waving her arms in a slow cycle: wide arms to crossed arms and back again.
The reaction of the vehicles was peculiar; whereas most motorists confronted with an accident slow down, these sped up, the second vehicle moving out of line and taking up a flanking position in the other lane. Caine, who was moving toward the trunk, stopped: Something’s wrong-
— and his world slammed into slow motion, the way it did when he felt, more than saw, a threat approaching. The vehicles were moving in concert; their actions were sure, swift, coordinated. And their passengers, although he could barely make out silhouettes, were all dark, broad-shouldered masses: not a rabble of variously-aged, — dressed, and — shaped tourists. Not tourists-
“Get behind the flatbed-now.” He moved past Opal to the trunk.
“What are you talki-?”
“Just do it.” He popped the trunk, pulled up the liner.
Opal frowned at him, mouth open to object, then heard the revving engines of the closing vehicles, looked over in their direction: her eyes widened. She turned and sprinted around the corner of the truck.
Caine had found the small toolkit for changing flats, followed around after Opal-and found her crouched low, looking out under the long expanse of carrier bed by peering around the tires. She glanced up at him: he held out the toolkit, proffering the half-sized crowbar-wrench combination. She shook her head. “Would only slow me down.”
Caine looked at the flatbed, the pipes, the shovel, the weathered straps, fraying where their fabric attached to the buckles. Yeah, that might work.
Opal was still looking at him. “Now what?”
The engines were coming markedly closer. Twenty-five seconds, maybe thirty-
“Can you fight?”
“Better than you can breathe.”
Well, always time for a little bravado. He picked up the shovel, tested the heft. “I think I can take out the first car-at least long enough for us to close in and have a fighting chance.”
“To do what?”
“Take some down and get their guns.” He cocked the shovel back like a baseball bat, angled for an edge-on swing. “Tell me when they’re within one hundred meters.”
“Uh-now!”
He swung: the edge of the shovel bit into the fraying uphill strap, just below the buckle, sliced through about half of it. Shit-and he cocked the shovel back, swung again.
The tattered fibers were already groaning-the PVC pipes pulling against them-when the shovel hit and sheared the rest of the strap. Pipes started cascading off the other, downhill side of the flatbed. Caine jammed the point of the shovel under the bottom-most pipe and levered upward, throwing his whole weight down upon the tool’s handle. The spatter of falling pipes became a hollow-sounding avalanche.
Turning toward Opal, he shouted “Go-”
— but she was no longer there. Having evidently scooted under the flatbed as the first pipes came down, she was now sprinting downhill in the immediate, dust-roiling wake of the storm crest of tumbling, sometimes high-bouncing plastic tubes. Caine picked up the small crowbar, ran back around the corner of the flatbed, heading for the first car.
The first vehicle tried braking but the pipes were under its wheels, whanging off the windshield as it lost control and skittered into the drainage ditch. Caine stretched his legs and body toward it-and, through the dust, saw a smallish figure sprinting straight toward the side of the listing vehicle. The front passenger-side door started to open. Without breaking stride, the smallish figure launched into a long, sideways leap. Just as a head and shoulders started to emerge from the car, the silhouette crashed into the door like a pile driver, feet first. The door slammed back; a sickening crunch was audible over the tumult of tumbling pipes. The door rebounded from crushing the passenger, became a springboard which launched the silhouette back in the direction from which she had come. And gone: into the dust.
But, now almost at the car and looking for any weapon that the crushed man might have dropped, Caine saw the rear passenger door opening. Still running, he flung the crowbar overhand, went into a long leaping dive-
— saw the spinning, shining tool hit the door’s window, glass shattering inward-
— and then he landed just in front of the vehicle. He immediately snap-rolled under it.
There were sounds of blows, blocks, and grunts over on the driver’s side: Opal going after the wheelman, probably. And now, the rear passenger door resumed opening, crashing back on its hinges, unleashing curses and a pair of feet in cheap leather shoes.