Seal Team Seven #19: Field of Fire (5 page)

“Okay, guys, that’s it for today,” Murdock said. “We’ll see you bright and ready at oh-eight-hundred. Don’t be late, we have a surprise for you.”

A half hour later, after the men had cleaned up, changed into their civilian clothes, and left over the Quarterdeck, Lieutenant (j.g.) Gardner looked at Murdock. “What’s the surprise for the men tomorrow?”

Murdock grinned. “Hey, JG, that’s what you have to come up with between now and then. As for me, I’ve got a good dinner waiting for me at home. You have fun figuring out the surprise.”

In the parking lot, three SEALs checked out a new motorcycle, a Harley Hog.

“How the hell you afford this?” Jaybird asked Lam, who was straddling the machine. “We’re talking twenty-five to thirty grand here.”

“Sold my car and wiped out my savings account,” Lam said. “But she’s worth it. I’ve wanted one of these bikes since I could walk.”

“What happens when it rains?” Ching asked.

“Four times a year I’ll get wet,” Lam said. “Hey, I won’t melt. And no, you can’t ride her. Not until I get the first scrape or dent in the fenders. Right now I’m late to get down to the dealership. They’ve got my saddlebags in.”

“Saddlebags?” Jaybird asked. “Yeah, she does look a little like a quarter horse at that.”

Lam swung at Jaybird, who backed up quickly. “Come
on, Lam, insurance alone is going to cost a bundle on that thing.”

“Not much more than my car, about five hundred a year. Now, if there’s no more flaming jealous questions, I’m out of here.”

Lam started the Hog and turned her into gear, then eased out of the parking lot onto Silver Strand Boulevard and turned left heading for Coronado and the Bay Bridge. He had lots of time. He rolled up to the first light and stopped, putting his right foot down. Oh, yeah, now this was traveling. He might take a thirty-day leave and do the country. Be more fun with another biker. Might be a thought. He’d think it over and look for an another biker.

The Harley-Davidson dealership in San Diego was busy when Lam parked his Hog outside and went in. He got his saddlebags and just had them mounted when three bikers in leather jackets came by and waved.

“Brand-new machine?”

“Hell no, she’s three days old,” Lam said. They all laughed. The others looked to be in their thirties, maybe one younger.

“You looking for a ride? We’ve got a short run set for tonight and we need one more man to round out the foursome. Want to go on about sixty-five?”

“Sixty-five, like in miles?”

“Right, up toward the Laguna Mountain area,” the red-head said. “Wherever we happen to light. Should be back before midnight.”

Lam considered it. The three looked normal enough. All had black leathers but no gang markings. One guy had a full beard that he kept trimmed.

Lam shrugged. “Hey, why not. I haven’t had her out on the open road before. Be a kick. When are you going?”

“Just as soon as you get your new Hog wound up. We’re all set.”

“Let’s move,” Lam said. The three strode to their bikes, started them, gunned them for show, and then angled out of the parking area to the street and toward the nearby freeway. Lam cruised in beside the back man and they rode in a foursome square onto the freeway and headed
out on the U.S. 8 interstate toward El Centro.

“Oh yeah,” Lam whispered as they raced along at seventy miles an hour, slanting into the fast lane as one square entity passing everyone in the left lanes, now and then swinging into the number two lane to pass a slower moving rig. They raced through El Cajon and then quickly past Alpine on the freeway. Lance eased the helmet to adjust it a little, glad that the clear plastic shield kept the wind out of his eyes. They rolled up the freeway, edging up to 80mph when the speed limit changed to seventy

Flying!

Gradually they reduced speed and took the Descanso off ramp. They powered around the corner in front of the Descanso store and kept heading north. Lam didn’t ask where they were going. He was too pleased just to relax and ride after a vigorous day of SEAL training. He might have a sore muscle or two tomorrow, but he doubted it. He was in the best shape of his life. What more could he ask for? A great job, a career with the Navy, and now a Harley Hog like he’d wanted for half of his life.

The front bikers slowed when they came to a small store set in a wide place in the road. There was parking just off the pavement, and neon blur that said “Beer” in a sign in the window. The first two bikers swung in, stopped and put down their kickstands. Lam and the other man did the same.

Lam held out his hand to his riding partner. “Hey, I’m Joe Lampedusa.” The man with red hair and a trimmed beard took off his helmet and snorted.

“Goddamnit, I hate these fucking helmets, but we got to wear them.” He was maybe thirty, built square and heavy with huge arms and an iron-pumped chest. He wiped sweat off his face, rubbed his palm on his jeans and held out his hand to Lam. “I’m Cooley Burdett. Those other jaspers are Woodenhead Woodward and Johnnie Downfield. Not that you’d want to know much more about them.”

They walked toward the store where the first two had already stepped inside. “What do you do for a living?” Lam asked.

“I’m manager of a grocery store, a big new Albertson’s. We’re kicking ass in our area.”

They went into the small store. The first two men were already unscrewing the tops of beers. They passed cold ones to Cooley and Lam.

Lam held out his hand to the other two men and found out Downfield was a bank loan officer. He was tall, on the thin side, with long blond hair and dark eyes that tried to bore right through you. He had a three-day beard and must not have owned a comb. Woodward was a personal fitness trainer, he said. He had an athletic build, wide shoulders and narrow hips, and walked like a cat on the prowl. They sat on a bench outside the small store and watched the traffic go by as they tipped their beers. Not many cars on this side road. They talked about their jobs.

“Hate being in the damned bank,” Downfield said. “I get all the little old ladies who can’t balance their checkbook. Drive me bonkers.”

They had another beer and then worked on a third. Lam had watched the men get a little more drunk all the time. He guessed they weren’t usually heavy drinkers. They might take these rides to blow off steam. He wondered if they could ride back to town.

Woodward emptied his third beer and snorted. “Had me this old bitch today who wants to be thirty again. She’s fifty-five or so and skinny. Now she wants to build up some tone and a little bit of arm muscle. I told her it would take her two hours of work a day and she threw a vase at me. Luckily I caught it. Hell, this is the only way I can blow off steam. All day and half the night I got to be nice to the rich tits.”

Cooley had stopped with two beers and he watched the other men with a growing frown. “Come on, guys, we better be getting back to town while you two can still ride,” he said. “We don’t want to repeat what happened two months ago.”

“That was a fucking accident,” Woodward said. “Hell, I’m getting another round of beer.” He went inside, and a minute later they heard the loud voices.

“What the fuck you mean no more beer?” Woodward
screamed. Cooley rushed inside with Downfield right behind him. Lam hesitated. Maybe he should just ride away. It could get ugly in there. He lifted his brows and stepped inside. Woodward had grabbed the shirtfront of the old clerk and twisted it until the man could barely breathe. Lam figured the old guy had to be seventy-five.

“Look, granddad. I said we want two more beers. Ain’t my money no good in here? Now, get me the beers.” Woodward let go of the man’s shirt and glared at him. The much smaller clerk cleared his throat, rubbed his neck, and then slowly shook his head.

“You’re on bikes, you get drunk and go down, you could sue me. No sir. No more beer for you boys.”

“You sonofabitch,” Woodward bellowed. “You old fucking bastard. I should knock your head in. We ain’t half-drunk yet. Now get us those beers.”

The old man, who Lam decided must be more than eighty, slowly shook his head and reached under the counter. He brought up a revolver but held it with the muzzle pointing down at the floor.

“Guess it’s time you boys left,” the clerk said.

Woodward shrugged. “What the hell, maybe so.” He started to turn away, then spun back, his fist shot out and hit the store man on the side of the head and dumped him sideways behind the counter. The gun went flying from his hand. Woodward rushed behind the counter and scooped up the gun, then stared down at the old man.

“I should stomp you good, you dried up old bastard,” Woodward said. “Pulling a piece on me that way.”

“Let’s ride,” Cooley said. “You put him down, Wood-ward. Don’t mess him any more.”

“Bastard,” Woodward said, looking down at the old man still on the floor. “I should stomp some sense into him.” Woodward kicked the old man in the side and he yelped in pain.

“Come on, Woodward, leave him, let’s get the hell out of here,” Cooley said.

“Hell no. He owes me. Pulled a piece on me. I don’t take shit like that off an old cocksucker like this one.” He kicked the old man in the ribs and Lam could hear the
bones breaking. Then Woodward kicked him again and once more.

“I’m out of here,” Cooley said.

Woodward looked up. “Yeah, okay. Wonder what’s in the damn money till?” He pushed a button on the old-fashioned cash register and it popped open. “Oh, damn, some bills.” Woodward scooped them up and grinned.

Lam jolted for the door, ran to his bike, and kicked up the stand. He pushed the Harley down the slight hill, jumped on board, and started the engine. Then he raced down the road. What the hell had he got himself into? That Woodward guy hurt the old man bad, could have put him in the hospital if one of those broken ribs punctured a lung. What the hell was he thinking riding with three guys he didn’t even know? He raced away and heard some shouts behind him. Oh, damn. Now the three of them were going to come after him. He wasn’t one of them, and he witnessed an attack that could be called attempted murder and robbery. Damn, he had to ride fast and get away from them.

Now Lam could hear the snarl of the heavy bikes behind him on the twisting road. They were gaining. How could he get away from them? The big trouble was all three of them were better bike riders than he was. He had to think of something fast or he would have a tough fight on his hands. Or maybe they would just run him off the road and hope that he died in the crash. He looked back and saw the three bike headlights boring through the darkness. What the hell was he going to do?

Lam swept around a sharp curve, gunned the engine, and barely kept on the two-lane roadway. He slashed through the next corner and could hear the engines of the three bikes growling behind him. He looked frantically for a house, a store-anywhere there were people. A California highway patrolman would do just fine. No such luck. No houses, not even any cars coming past. Ahead to the left he saw what looked like a narrow dirt lane slanting off the blacktop. He slowed. Yes, it might work. He turned off and saw a clump of trees ahead in the darkness.

There was a good chance. He killed his engine, killed his lights, and coasted down the slight incline thirty yards into the trees, then pushed the bike deeper into the dark shadows until he was sure no one on the road could see him. Yes, he had a chance. Lam felt his heart pounding in his chest. His blood pressure must be off the scale. Then he heard the wail and whine as the three motorcycles came around the last curve and down the straightaway. He saw the lights; three of them glaring into the night like some strange, vicious, three-eyed beast.

Before he realized it, the three bikes had passed the trail and growled on down the highway heading toward Descanso. He had no idea how far away the small settlement was. His move might just work. His bike was heavier and bigger than the other three. Theoretically it could out perform all of them. When they didn’t spot him in Descanso or on the mile or so to the freeway, they just might think that he’d outdistanced them and was away.

Time. They might drop off one rider to wait and watch
for him. He would have to outwait them. Right here was a good spot for a two-hour stop. They would quickly get tired of watching. Riding as well as they were, they must tolerate the booze better than he’d figured they would. He’d had only two beers, so it wouldn’t hurt his ability to ride his bike, even though he could drink six beers and hardly feel it. SEAL basic training.

Lam parked the bike and sat down so he could lean against a tree. A small nap might be good. He closed his eyes.

His eyes snapped open and he checked his wristwatch. A quarter of two. They would be sleeping it off somewhere by now. He sat up and then stood and turned his bike around. He started the engine and eased out from the woods to the dirt trail he had come in. At the edge of the blacktopped roadway he paused and watched both ways, then rode out and down the road toward Descanso. He went through the sleeping settlement quietly. There were only a restaurant, a couple of stores, and a filling station. That was about it. When he came to the turnoff for Interstate 8 he paused. He could ride it right into El Cajon and then on to the bridge and home. Or he could take the back route, go east on the interstate to the turnoff due south on S-1 and ride into Campo almost on the U.S./ Mexican border. From there it was an easy ride on Highway 94 right into Spring Valley and directly to the bridge to Coronado. Longer and slower, but maybe safer.

He was due at the Quarterdeck at 0800. The time was pushing at 0200. He shook his head and turned west on the freeway. He’d risk that one of them was still watching for him. He doubted it. And anyway he could take one of them with no trouble.

The miles raced by until he came to Alpine. On the ride back a stray thought kept nagging at him. Nobody might find the old man at the small store until morning. He could be in bad shape by then. He had to report it. How? Then he remembered the WETIP phone number. Tips to the police were anonymous and were taken seriously. He turned into Tavern Road just outside of Alpine and found a closed filling station with an outside phone. He sat on
his bike and dialed, then gave a concise report about the old man who was beat up in his store above Descanso. There were no questions. He hung up at once and rode away from the booth and back on the freeway.