One of them motioned slightly with a weapon. “Quit fucking with it. It’s done.” His words had a resounding finality to them.
I can grab it and use it as a club. I can get at least one of them before they — no, I can’t. Maybe they’re not going to kill me. That’s why they have the camouflage on.
They certainly had not been cautious about letting him see their faces. Why didn’t they care, then? The grab for the shotgun was looking better and better.
The man who climbed up in the truck with him grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him toward the tailgate. “Out.”
On the ground, the leader of the gang took charge again. “Back in the reserve center. I’m going to lock you in the armory. Somebody will come by eventually to let you out, I guess.”
A vast sense of relief flooded Hillman. That was it. They would lock him up. It would be hours before his relief arrived, and they would be far away by then. They were probably ex-military themselves and correctly figured that the watch would change at 0800.
Hillman led the way back into the reserve center, so weak from relief that he could barely walk. The leader followed him while the other two stayed at the truck. Back in the reserve center, he walked docilely to the armory. The sooner he got there, the sooner they would lock him up and go away. Right now, he could think of nothing beside that.
As he stepped into the weapons cage, he turned to face the leader. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor to reassure the man that there was no way he could identify him, none at all.
The leader stepped in the cage with him. In one smooth motion, he drew his.45 and shot Hillman in the head. The young petty officer’s body slammed into the back wall, splattering the pale-green government paint with gore.
Jackson trotted back out to the trucks, shaking his head in annoyance. The first shot to take the lock off had left him slightly deafened, and the second shot had compounded the problem. Maybe he should have shot the sailor in the drill hall where there was more open space to dissipate the sound. But that wouldn’t have had the same impact on those who found him as the armory would. Or would it? Surely they wouldn’t think that incompetent excuse for a soldier had died defending the armory.
It had to be inside somewhere, that was the problem. Even in a part of the country that was normally well armed, somebody might be curious about gunshots coming from the reserve center. Jackson experienced a quiet moment of pride that he even thought of that — many wouldn’t.
Thornburg and Mertz had the trucks started and turned toward the gate. One of them had already snipped the chain holding the gate, and it was pulled open. Jackson jumped into the passenger seat of Thornburg’s vehicle and said, “Let’s go.”
Thornburg gave him a grin and gunned the engine. He let it idle down and then shifted into first gear. He stopped, squinted, then stuck his head out the window. The grin faded into a scowl.
“What is it?” Jackson demanded, still barely able to hear.
“Sirens.”
Hedges had heard the gunshot and started to break cover and run forward. He knew with sick certainty what had happened, and swore silently at his own impotence. He should have run out and jumped one of them, maybe lured one of them off — somehow, he ought to been able to do something. Even without his gun.
You couldn’t do anything except die with him and you know it. Wait for the backup.
He could hear the sirens, marginally louder now, their frequency increasing as they approached. But the trucks were gunning their engines. As he watched, one rolled out and headed for the gate.
Get to the gate. You can hold it shut, you can, one part of his mind insisted.
No. You can’t. They’ll simply run you down. No Tiananmen Square standoff with these guys.
Inspiration seized him. The lead truck would pass within thirty feet of his location, the second one about twenty feet behind it. There was a risk, but not a large one. The shadows covered this portion of the compound and the gate, and all he needed was a little luck.
He let the second truck pass, took a deep breath, then ran out from the shadows to fall in behind it. Adrenaline flooded his system, giving him the extra energy needed to dart forward, jump, and grab the second truck’s tailgate. He let his arms do the work then, his feet providing traction where they could as the truck picked up speed. He hauled himself into the back of the deuce-and-a-half and slipped under the canvas cover. Inside, it was pitch black, and he prayed that the night was dark enough that the man in front of them would not be able to see him moving.
He fumbled around in the darkness until he located a box of shotgun shells, then quietly felt under the canvas until he found a weapon. There was no sign that the driver noticed anything was amiss. He caressed the shotgun, feeling a whole lot better about what was starting to sound like a stupid plan.
Better, but not good enough. There had to be — yes, there was. His fingers closed around a.45 handgun. Now where was the ammo? It took a little longer, but finally he located it. The noise from the diesel engines and the truck rattling covered the sound as he loaded both weapons.
So now what? He contemplated dropping the tailgate and shoving the rest of the weapons and ammunition out of the truck, rejecting the idea almost at once. Too much noise, and it would pose a hazard for other people on the road. No, better to keep everything all in one place: the perp, the evidence, and the cop.
Through a small sliding window that separated the driver’s compartment from the rest of the truck, he could see that the distance to the lead truck was increasing. Sooner or later, the driver would notice he was falling behind and speed up. It had to be now.
In one clean motion, he broke the glass and shoved the business end of the shotgun through it into the driver’s compartment. The truck careened wildly and almost turned over, but the driver fought it back onto the road.
“Pull over,” Hedges said, shouting to be heard over the noise. “Both hands on the steering wheel, asshole.”
Either the driver didn’t hear so well or he was terminally stupid. He was already reaching for the handgun on the seat.
Shit. This isn’t going well. Time seemed to slow, almost stop. The driver’s fingers closed around the gun. It would be an awkward angle, almost impossible to do any aiming, but Hedges wasn’t willing to take any chances. He pointed the shotgun down and pulled the trigger.
The driver’s arm below the elbow disappeared in a hurricane of blood that blew back through the window, temporarily blinding Hedges. He jerked the shotgun back and jumped, sacrificing any skill or grace he might have possessed in a frantic effort to make it to the tailgate. He bounced off the side of the truck as it went into a spin. Screams of pain and anguish were now audible from the front seat. It was impossible to stand up, and he had only a few seconds before the truck overturned or crashed into a tree. Hedges pulled him himself up amid the shifting cargo, gathered his feet under him, and made one final jump. He hit the canvas cover in the back of the truck, and for a moment he thought he was trapped.
Then the old, sun-bleached fabric parted, releasing him from the dangerous confines of the truck. He flew through the air, instinct taking over. By sheer luck, he hit the dirt beside the road and tucked and rolled. He took most of the impact on his shoulder and felt something give way. He tumbled through brush, chin tucked, arms covering his face as branches and shrubs tore at him. Finally, what seemed like hours later, he came to a stop.