Deadeye (29 page)

That wasn't Lee's concern, however. According to the map taken from the truck, the Barry M. Goldwater Firing Range was about twenty miles wide. A car could cover that distance in less than thirty minutes on a highway. But they were traveling cross-country on foot. So assuming things went well, they might be able to cross the firing range in two days.
If
they could make the water last . . . And that was a mighty big if. Lee heard the crunch of gravel as Omo arrived next to her. “See anything?”

“Nope. Just a whole lot of desert. How's Amanda holding up?”

“Very well all things considered . . . The girl has grit.”

“That's for sure. Okay, let's get going . . . I think we should take a break and wait for nightfall if we can find some decent shade. Holler if you see anything.”

But Omo
didn't
see anything. Nor did the others. So all they could do was trudge across stretches of hardpan, skid down into dry riverbeds, and climb out of them. It was thirsty work. They had what remained of the water that Omo had purchased at the convenience store. Fourteen eight-ounce bottles of it. Would that be enough? It seemed doubtful, but they had to try.

So they kept walking. And Lee made an effort to think about things other than the next sip of water. Every now and then, they passed old bomb craters, tanks that had been used for target practice, and signs warning them that live munitions might be lying around.

And there were cars, too . . . Most were postplague especiales that had been driven out into the desert for one reason or another and broken down. And judging from the campfires adjacent to the metal carcasses, and the graffiti that covered them, the cars were used as landmarks by the gangs that frequented the area.

They were passing a van adorned with a well-executed skull and riddled with bullet holes when Lee noticed the fresh tire tracks.
Lots
of them. She knelt in order to take a closer look. The others arrived moments later. “Motorcycles,” Omo observed. “And a couple of four-wheeled vehicles as well. All headed south.”

Which was strange since the outlaws stood a good chance of running into the Tecs if they went south, and Lee was about to say as much, when Amanda spoke. “I wonder where they came from?”

That was an excellent question. Did the bandits have a camp close by? A place where Lee and her companions might be able to obtain more water? Or did the tracks run all the way up to the highway that ran along the firing range's northern boundary? Because if they did, and the threesome chose to follow them, they'd be even worse off. Omo looked at Lee. “What are you thinking?”

So Lee put her thoughts into words. Should they continue west? Or turn north in hopes of finding water? The decision was unanimous. They would go north for two or three miles and turn west if they failed to find a camp. “Okay,” Lee said, “the sun's low enough to create some shade. Let's find a spot to rest before heading north.”

A ten-minute walk took them to the bottom of a rock-strewn gully and a long strip of shade. They had just settled in when the sound of an engine was heard. The prop plane appeared a few moments later. It was flying low, no more than three hundred feet off the ground, and headed due west. “Don't move,” Omo advised. “Any sort of motion could attract their attention. It will be difficult for them to see us in the shade.”

“Who are they?” Lee wondered out loud. “The Aztecs? Or the Republicans?”

“I think the plane belongs to the Tucson Police Department,” Omo replied. “And that ain't good.”

Lee wanted to find a place to hide but knew Omo was right. Movement could give them away. So she was careful to remain still until the plane disappeared, and the sound of its engine had faded away.

They had to wait or run the risk of being spotted from above. But once the sun went down, the fugitives followed the tire tracks north. Even though there was some risk associated with using occasional blips of light from the torch, it was necessary in order to follow the tracks.

It was difficult to judge distance under such circumstances. And since Lee didn't have a pedometer, she was forced to use her watch. They would walk for three hours. Then, if they came up empty, they would turn west. That was the plan. But roughly an hour and a half into the trek, they heard an engine start, sputter, and die. Sound could carry a long way out in the desert. But Lee could tell that this was close,
very
close, and sensed that the camp was directly ahead of them.

From that point on, it was necessary to advance with considerable caution. There were bound to be sentries, and it wasn't long before Omo spotted one off to the left. Amanda followed as he slipped from shadow to shadow.

*   *   *

Now that night had fallen, it was cold in the desert. Monk put his coffee mug down in order to hold his hands out over the fire pit. It consisted of a metal tub half-filled with sand. Because the container was buried six inches below the desert's surface, the glow couldn't be seen beyond fifteen or twenty feet.

Such precautions were necessary because the Grim Skulls weren't the only human predators in the area. The Thunder Hands and Diamondbacks roamed the desert as well . . . Both of which would be happy to loot the encampment.

That's why Monk and two Skulls had been left behind, while Sysco and the rest of the gang rode south. The task was to remain sober and protect the encampment that Sysco called Home Plate. Though not located on high ground, Home Plate was surrounded by an oval-shaped enclosure of fanglike rocks that stuck up out of the ground and would provide cover if the Skulls were attacked. Desert-style camo nets were strung overhead, and had been good enough to hide the camp from planes up until then although Monk feared that the gang's tracks were visible from the air and could lead people to the camp. So would they have to move now that planes were crisscrossing the area? Maybe, but that kind of decision was above Monk's pay grade.

He took a final sip of coffee, put the mug aside, and stood. It was time to make the rounds. His path took him past a line of tents, a two-thousand-gallon water truck that had been stolen from the town of Sentinel, and over to a rank of second-string motorcycles.

That's where Monk paused to throw a leg over the trail bike he'd been working on. He flipped a switch, stood on the kick starter, and was rewarded with a stuttering roar. He was smiling when the engine died. Monk swore, got off, and continued on his way. He would work on the trail bike later.

The machine-gun emplacement on the west side of the camp was unmanned and would remain so until the rest of the gang returned. Monk paused at the latrine for a minute before resuming the walkabout. It was dangerous to sneak up on Twitch—so Monk produced a whistle and heard one in return. But as he approached the clutch of boulders where Twitch was stationed, Monk could tell that something was wrong. There was quite a bit of starlight, and Twitch had boobs! Monk was reaching for his pistol when something hard was rammed into his back. “Maricopa County Sheriff's Department. Place your hands on your head and . . .”

The outlaw wasn't having any of that. He had his hand on a gun when Omo fired the Taser. The results were delightfully predictable, and it was only a matter of minutes before Omo and Amanda had the bandit trussed up, and laid out next to an equally incapacitated sentry. “Come on,” Omo said, “let's find Lee.”

*   *   *

Lee had circled right, and she was easing around a rock, when someone jumped her from above. The weight drove her to the ground. And had the assailant been able to pin Lee there, the fight would have been over. But the outlaw was off-balance and rolled away.

That gave Lee enough time to turn over and raise the Glock. She couldn't see her target at first, but then a section of stars disappeared as the bandit stood. Lee fired twice and heard a meaty thump when the bandit fell. Then she whirled, weapon at the ready, but there were no additional attackers. Gravel crunched as she went over to check the man's pulse. There was none.

Omo called Lee's name before showing himself. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah . . . I think so. Were there others?”

“Two. I stunned them, and Amanda tied them up.”

“Granny knots,” Amanda said as she appeared out of darkness. “Lots and lots of granny knots. That's the key.”

Lee smiled. “Well done. Now it's time to look for some water.”

“A water tanker is parked inside the camp,” Omo said. “And there are some dirt bikes, too . . . At least a dozen of them. Backups, probably—but who cares? How would you like to ride the rest of the way?”

Lee remembered the burst of engine noise and felt a sudden surge of hope. “Show me,” she said eagerly. “This could be the break we need.”

The next twenty minutes were spent test-starting bikes—and that was easy to do since very few of them were equipped with ignition locks. Then it was time to choose what they thought were the best candidates, roll them over to a trailer that had the words
FUEL HOG
painted on its flanks, and fill them up.

Once the process was complete, it was time to scrounge some knapsacks, load them with necessities, and mount up. Lee had been careful to choose a bike with a long seat so Amanda would have room to sit behind her—plus a sissy bar that would prevent the girl from sliding off the back. “Hang on to me,” Lee instructed as she threw a leg over the machine. “And don't let go.” Lee dealt with the kickstand, thumbed a button, and felt a sense of satisfaction as the engine roared. Gravel spewed out from under the back tire as she followed Omo out of the encampment.

Confident that the outlaws would manage to free themselves, the threesome left them behind and turned north. It was good to be on a bike,
any
bike, and Lee felt a surge of joy as she followed Omo's taillight out into the desert. They would go straight north for a while before turning onto I-8. At that point, they would be no more than thirty miles from Yuma. From there, they would be able to enter Pacifica, and the long journey would be over. Lee opened the throttle and felt the wind press against her face.

*   *   *

The plane banked as it circled Yuma, Arizona. The blackout was supposed to be in effect, but the streetlights were on, and the Tecs had left the city alone.
Why?
Especially since Yuma was only twenty-five miles from old Mexico. Maybe the locals were paying protection money to the Aztecs.

But Nickels figured that the answer might be a bit more complicated than that. The city was
very
close to Pacifica. So close that if the Aztecs attacked Yuma, the citizens of Pacifica might view that as a threat and form an alliance with the Republic of Texas. So even as they sent forces deep into Arizona, the city of Yuma had been spared.

Nickels felt the plane level out and start to lose altitude as the pilot prepared to land. The trip to Yuma was a pain in the ass, and dangerous, too, since Tec fighters were flying missions nearby. But, as his father liked to say, “If you think the snake's going to bite, kill it yourself. Don't wait for someone else to take care of it.”

And the old man was right. This snake
could
kill him if he wasn't careful. Especially given the threat to his holdings in Tucson. Yes, he was paying for protection, but how long would it be before the bastards wanted
more
? When that occurred, he would need the cash Screed owed him to start over somewhere else. And Amanda Screed was critical to getting the money back. Unless the bishop didn't care about her, that is . . . But the fact that an LA police detective had been sent to rescue the girl argued that he did.

The thought made Nickels feel better as the landing gear touched down, the engines roared, and the plane started to slow. It took about five minutes to exit the runway and taxi to a hangar. The copilot hurried to open the door. Cold air flooded the cabin, and Nickels noticed that the sky was lighter as he made his way down the stairs to the tarmac.

A black SUV and a small group of people were waiting for him. Chief Dokey came forward to shake hands. The officer was well outside his jurisdiction, so he had chosen to wear plain clothes. The suit was tailored to minimize Dokey's hump, and Nickels could see the shit-eating grin on the man's moonlike face. “Good morning, sir . . . How was your flight?”

Machinery whirred as Nickels took the other man's hand. “It was a pain in the ass,” Nickels said truthfully. “So, how are we doing?”

“Pretty well,” Dokey answered carefully. “The local police chief isn't giving us a whole lot of support—but he isn't getting in the way, either. He knows we're after some cop killers.”

“I guess that's the best we can hope for,” Nickels said. “Rumor has it that he won't take a shit without getting permission from Pacifica first. And if he knew that we're gunning for an LA police detective, he'd have a cow. Are we ready?”

“Yes, sir. A drone located them shortly after sunset last night. And we had a team on the way to stop the fugitives, when they stole some dirt bikes and got away. Right now, they're on Interstate 8 and coming this way. The plan is to intercept them before they enter Yuma.”

“Excellent,” Nickels said. “But don't hurt the girl.”

“Yes, sir. My men understand that.”

“I'm glad to hear it. Let's go.”

A plainclothes police officer opened a door, Nickels got in, and pink sunlight spilled over the horizon as the SUV sped away.

*   *   *

As Lee came up behind a slow-moving semi, she checked her rearview mirror before pulling out to pass. Then, with the throttle wide open, she pulled ahead. A quick check confirmed that Omo was right behind her. The dirt bikes weren't intended for that sort of riding, however. Their engines were too small, Lee's motorcycle was burdened with a passenger, and the knobby tires weren't ideal for highway use. Of course, none of that mattered so long as they managed to reach the border. And as lights appeared in the distance, their chances of success looked good. Or so it seemed until Amanda yelled in her ear. “Motorcycles! Coming up fast!”