Warrior (Freelancer Book 2) (20 page)

With help from Kristee and Eve and distraction disguised as help from Sage, Rick transformed the hang glider into a long bundle, and they carried it on their shoulders to where the bus was parked.

They used bungee cords to secure the bundle to the VW roof. Then Rick pulled a four-foot length of heavy board out of the body of the bus, set it up against the back of the sliding door, and jockeyed the Kawasaki down the ramp. The bike had just fit inside the camper with the front wheel up next to the driver and the back wheel jammed against the sofa/bed.

The plan was that Kristee and Sage would head back in the bus, and Eve and Rick would do a slow cruise, enjoying the quiet roads.

Suddenly, there was a squawk of radio static from the Citizen's Band radio tucked under the dash. Eps and Scotty had decided that channel 22 was the "household channel" so that they wouldn't have to listen to the endless "breaker breaker" of the big rigs on 19.

Eve was closest so she pulled out the microphone, keyed it, and said, "This is Turing. Who's out there? Over."

Steve's voice came out of the bus speakers. For once, his voice was clipped and terse, not exactly excited—Rick found that concept almost impossible to believe—but certainly not his usual calm and measured style. "Turing, this is Babbage. Glad you got your ears on. How's the S-meter? Over."

Eve looked over at the little meter on the radio that measured the power of the incoming radio signal. "Wall to wall and treetop tall, Babbage. We're just packing the bird away and unloading the pocket-rocket. What's up?"

"I've got something sensitive for Bike Boy. Over." "Bike Boy is right next to me. Go ahead. Over." "I'm out at the farm and I couldn't help but overhear the neighbors talking—" By this, Steve meant he was working at the NSA's top-secret listening facility at Sugar Grove, West Virginia. The NSA wasn't supposed to eavesdrop on any radio, satellite, or telephone lines inside the United States, so Sugar Grove conveniently belonged to the Navy.

"Which neighbors, Babbage? Over.," Eve said. "Sadie Crews' family?"

Eve snorted at the clumsy backward code for the Crusaders and then transmitted, "That's a 10-4 on Sadie Crews. Go ahead."

"Well, I overheard that she's coming to visit. It seems that one of their kids spotted your Beetle Box coming over the mountain and called in your '20.' Sadie's looking to pick up her little girl and she's bringing friends." There was a pause. "Turing, did you read that?"

Kristee's face had gone dead white. Eve looked coldly furious, but you couldn't hear it in her voice. "10-4 Babbage. We'll make sure the 'little girl' is ready to go. When should we set the table for guests? Over."

"Turing, it should be real soon. Repeat, real soon. I'd think you'd better stop yakking and start tracking. I'll see you on the flip, Babbage out."

"10-4 Babbage." Eve said. "Keep the shiny side up and the dirty side down. We'll see you back at the barn. Turing out."

Eve tossed the microphone on the passenger seat and turned to Rick. "I'd say this one is up to you, trooper. This bus is extremely nice but a healthy snail could outrun it."

Turning to Kristee, she asked, "That OK with you?"

Kristee seemed to be unable to talk, frozen in a mix of fear and rage, but she nodded agreement.

Rick had already pulled two helmets out of the bus and was strapping one carefully on Sage, packing her long hair in to serve as padding.

Then he measured out an arm span of nylon rope from a pile of spare glider gear on the bus's sofa and cut it with his pocketknife. He ran the rope up one sleeve and down the other of his thick leather jacket so about a foot was exposed at each cuff.

His jacket covered the little girl down below her knees, and it would offer her almost complete protection. Rick took one of the bungee cords off the roof and used it to tighten the mass of leather around Sage's slim torso. The two pieces of rope dangled down from the little girl's sleeves like the snap-ended keepers the parents of kindergartners used to attach mittens.

A pair of cheap wraparound sunglasses that Rick had for riding in heavy rain was the final touch, and Sage stood, looking a lot like a strange little brown insect with pink feet. Kristee wrapped her in her arms and squeezed her hard.

Rick put on his own helmet and said to Eve, "I think you guys should just stay here. Leave the bus as bait and hide out in the woods. If we're lucky, they'll eat up time coming all the way down this dirt road, but I don't want you to be around if they get here. If you don't see them, give it an hour and then head home."

"What's your plan?"

"Well, my first plan would be to head straight for home but, like all plans, I expect that will only last until we meet the enemy. After that, I'll ad lib."

Rick swung his leg over the green bike and kicked the engine into life. He motioned for Kristee to lift Sage up behind him. As soon as Sage was settled, Rick took a firm grip on Kristee's arm and said, "I promise that she won't get hurt, and she won't go home with anyone but me. OK?"

Kristee nodded, still unable to speak.

Rick patted with both hands to make sure Sage was seated properly, giving her a small tickle in the process. Then he took the rope ends and tied them loosely with a square knot over his stomach. "OK, kiddo. This rope will keep you from letting go but I don't want you to trust it. Can you grab your hands together? Great. Now I want you to tuck in close to my back, keep your feet right on these pegs, and hold tight. OK?"

He could feel the helmet move as Sage nodded. "First, you can let go just once to say goodbye to your mom." He waited as the little girl threw an arm around Kristee's neck. "Now, Sage, let's see how hard you can squeeze."

He grunted theatrically as the little arms tightened around him and said in a strained and choked voice, "Yep, that's tight enough. Don't worry about me, I don't need to breathe." He was glad to feel a small giggle against his back.

He started carefully, avoiding any wheel spin on the dusty road. As they bumped across the rocks and into the potholes, he kept the speed down and gently wove back and forth—testing out how the bike handled in the dirt and how well Sage was holding on. He was glad to find that she stuck on like a barnacle, bending into the turns if she'd been riding forever.

He hadn't been riding more than five minutes when the dirt road made a left and disappeared behind a clump of trees, orange dust rising on the other side. "OK, I think we're going to have company."

They were on a long-established farm, and high berms of dirt and brush had built up on both sides of the track; so there was no way to get off the road and hide. A Pontiac Firebird complete with the showy bird emblazoned on the hood came around the turn about 20 yards ahead lurching on its soft shocks.

As soon as the driver caught sight of them, the car skidded to a stop and swung to the right until it blocked the entire road. Rick slowed and checked both left and right. There was just no room to squeeze through.

He stopped the bike and put his foot down to steady it. The Firebird's doors opened, and two people got out. It was Sage's father, Gary, and Flick Crane. Both were carrying baseball bats. Clearly, shooting at Sage was out of the question.

"You OK, squirt?" he yelled. He heard a muffled sound he took to be a yes and felt a short squeeze. "OK, we're going to do something exciting so you hold on as tight as you can." Once again, he felt her tuck in hard against his back.

Flick had been driving so he was on the right side of the car. Rick kicked into gear, spun the rear wheel, and cranked it down until it was heading the other way. He drove up another 20 yards or so, made another skidding turn, and headed for the Pontiac.

Dust totally obscured the road, but Rick's eidetic memory told him exactly where the car was. He kicked up into second gear and let the bike go. He curved to the left until he could feel the edges of the road and then went right.

They exploded out of the dust cloud only yards from the car, moving fast, and heading on a diagonal right toward the left rear of the car where Gary was standing. Rick could hear Flick yelling, but he was irrelevant, blocked by the bulk of the car. Gary stood for a second and then dove behind the rear bumper.

Rick was completely focused on the high dirt bank behind the Pontiac. His front wheel hit the slope about ten feet before the car, and he accelerated. The Kawasaki's brutal power kicked in and the bike went up the bank and toward the car at about a 45-degree angle.

As soon as he knew the bike was holding on the rain-hardened dirt, Rick began to wrench the handlebars to the left with all the considerable power of his upper body. The bike went right to compensate and tilted—running for a split second perfectly horizontal about four feet up the berm like the daredevil riders in a carnival Ball of Death—only their speed kept them pinned to the bank.

As soon as they'd passed the car and the astonished face of Sage's father, Rick goosed the throttle to bring the front wheel off the ground and threw his weight to the outside. He was already forcing the bike back to the vertical when the Kawasaki's rear springs compressed and then threw them into the air, right above the road.

In the air, Rick used his weight to rotate the bike upright and pulled the front end up at the same time. They were still slightly off center when the rear wheel hit the road, but another burst of power shot the bike airborne again, and when they hit the second time, Rick had the bike under control, and they were past the car and already moving at high speed.

"Hey Sage!" he yelled. "Was that fun or what?"

He could just make out her voice screaming, "Do it again!"

Rick laughed. "Maybe some other day, squirt. Right now, I say we just take it easy and get out of here. OK?"

Another squeeze.

A green Ford Falcon was parked on the verge where the dirt road met the pavement, but the driver wasn't anywhere in sight. Rick paused just long enough to scan to the left for oncoming cars and head right. The rear wheel spun in the dust momentarily, and then he was back on the asphalt and began pulling steadily up through the gears, keeping the power within sensible limits.

Out of the corner of his eye, Rick saw a middle-aged man trying to zip up his fly as he ran from the woods to the parked car. The narrow two-lane swooped left in less than a quarter mile, and they were out of sight.

It was a great day for dancing. The sky was clear and, for once, humidity was low. Even though Rick was riding without a jacket, the cool air felt good. The road was a narrow, rural two lane, but the asphalt was new and smooth.

"How are you doing?" he shouted.

He could feel Sage's head come around his right side so she could look straight ahead. "This is so cool!"

Rick grinned. "Yeah, I think so, too. Now you just keep your hands together, and we're going to make some time."

His optimism was premature. The turns became increasingly tight, and the joints where concrete bridges and asphalt road surfaces met turned out to be so badly maintained that they could launch them into the air if he wasn't careful.

As a result, he had to keep his speed down to a very rural thirty miles per hour, and before long, he spotted the green Ford in his rear mirrors.

Well, what he couldn't do with sheer speed—at least right now—he could do with superior cornering. As the road skirted the right-angle edges of fields, he concentrated on hitting the apex of each corner precisely to cut time without gaining speed.

Sage was riding like a pro, clinging tight, and moving right with him as he dropped his weight into the turns and swooped up coming out.

After he scraped the pegs a bit on one particularly tight left-hander, he felt her small body shaking against his back. He worried for a moment and then heard a whisper of sound and realized she was laughing.

There was a red light where he needed to turn to get on Virginia Route 340, but he cut through an abandoned gas station instead. All that was left of the station was the front wall—everything behind it was gone. 340 was what amounted to a main road out here—two and sometimes four lanes of solid asphalt—the curves shaved down and the dips filled in. He brought the speed up, testing to see where the balance point was between speed and safety. He wasn't going to take any chances of dropping the bike with Sage tied on.

The powerful three-cylinder engine was running smoothly in top gear, and the speedometer was bumping against the eighty mile per hour mark as he came into the outskirts of Elkton and the first road across the mountains and back to Washington. He knew that he couldn't keep up any speed—340 was the Main Street of the little town, and, even though the old farming community had suffered the economic death that had struck most rural centers, there were still traffic lights, parking, and police.

"Well, if you can't go fast, get creative," he thought. He watched for the first 25-mile-per-hour sign, usually where a speed trap was hidden. When he saw one about a mile ahead, he cranked the Kawasaki to its top speed and then, right at the town line, he dropped all the way down to second gear and used the front brake to keep them to a sedate 30 miles per hour. They had gained at least a quarter-mile on their pursuer.

He could see the signs ahead indicating that he needed to turn right to stay on Route 340. Instead, he turned into an alleyway between a battered wood frame house and a feed store. There was a big crape myrtle in the closest corner of the worn and faded front yard. He took a chance and stopped cold right behind its massive pink and red blossoms.

Sure enough, the Ford blew right past, the driver probably angry that he'd lost ground and looking for them up ahead. When he'd passed, Rick drove slowly down the gravel alley for the next four blocks, cruising slowly up to each sidewalk, bending forward to look both ways for the green Ford, and then cutting across the street fast, and going up the alley again.

When the alley ended in a "T" intersection, he stopped again and just relaxed. Twisting around, he tipped up the big helmet, so he could see Sage's face. He couldn't see her eyes behind the bug-like sunglasses, but her smile was wide and genuine.

"That was fun," she said. "Are we done?"

"Nope, we've got a fairly long way to go." Rick laughed, "Don't worry, you'll be sick of riding on a motorcycle before we're done."

"No way!"

"You know, that's how I feel about bikes, but most people don't agree." He said, "You sure I'm not going too fast?"

"Faster!" was the enthusiastic response.

"OK," he said as they pulled slowly out from their hiding place behind a garage and turned left. "We'll see how fast we can go."

He was hoping that they could take Route 33 over Swift Run gap, but, when he reached the point where 340 and 33 split, he spotted a car on the right side. Two men were sitting in it, and he could see their reaction when they spotted his bike.

"Do they have all the ways across the mountains blocked?" he wondered as he headed north on 340 again. In his mirrors, he could see the car—some sort of boring, gray sedan—pull in behind him. They were still in the town of Elkton, so he obeyed the speed limits. He knew that on a beautiful Sunday like this a lot of city folks would be out for a drive, and the local police would be looking to boost the town budget.

Right then, a reflection shot sunlight into his eye. It had come from a dip in the road about a half-mile ahead.

"Has to be a cop," he thought.

He shouted back to Sage, "Hold on, we're going to play Roadrunner and the Coyote."

He could feel her giggle as her arms tightened around him.

He accelerated, daring the car behind him to keep up. He smiled as they took the bait and he saw the sedan grow in his mirrors.

Right before the dip, he stood on the brakes and swerved off the road. Then, tires smoking, the sedan shot past—fighting to slow down.

Yes!

He never thought that the sound of a siren could be so sweet, or the swirling red of police flashers could look so good.

He waited an extra minute or two to make sure the policeman would be out of his cruiser and too busy to notice how small his passenger was. Then he motored past and managed to resist waving at the two tough-looking guys as they sat waiting for the officer to stroll up to the driver's window.

Once they were out of sight, he picked up speed again, using both lanes to make faster turns. Sage had her head sideways and seemed to be watching the beautiful mountain scenery roll by.

Most of Rick's attention was on his driving, but he started to run through his options on the straightaways.

Clearly, Cloyes was dead serious about getting Sage back. If one of the gaps through the mountains was blocked, Rick assumed they all were, and there would be cars waiting in Front Royal where the Blue Ridge fell away to open farmland.

The good thing about these rural two-lanes was that there were more options for escape, but his pursuers were undoubtedly slamming up Interstate 81 on the other side of the ridge. Even with state police patrols, they could easily be waiting for them on Interstate 66, the fastest route back to DC

Heading home just wasn't going to work.

Then, he spotted the race-prepped silhouette of Flick and Gary's Firebird far behind them and realized they just couldn't continue running either. Eventually, the big-bore engine in the Firebird would overtake them.

Wait a minute, he thought. Racing. Now that's something I hadn't thought of.

Just as in Bruce Brown's classic movie,
On Any Sunday
, the couriers, who lived their weekdays weaving their bikes through DC traffic, spent a fair number of their weekends throwing the same bikes around a racetrack. This Sunday, the barely-organized insanity of the West-Coast East-Coast Road Racers Association was holding its season opener at Summit Point Raceway, tucked away on a back road before the Charlestown Racetrack and the historic reenactments in Harper's Ferry.

Working the speed and distance equations in his head, Rick realized it would be close.

Very, very, close.

He reached down and patted the little girl's hands where they were locked together over his stomach and thought, "No way in hell are you going back there, Kiddo."

The big helmet turned against his back as Sage looked up at him and she yelled, "This is totally cool!"

Yeah, they're going to take her over my cold dead body.

He turned left and headed up the winding twists of Route 211 through Brandywine State Park. Even without taking the extreme lines he had on his earlier solo runs, the bike had the advantage over the heavy muscle car on a road like this. When a combination of trees and curves allowed him to spot their pursuers, he could tell they were dropping behind.

Soon, a flurry of historic markers signaled they were nearing New Market, and he took Route 11 North to avoid the little market town and the bottleneck that would force him onto Interstate 81. With a bit of frustration, he kept his speed down until they passed the 50-miles-per-hour sign at the edge of town. The road was straight and flat from here to the West Virginia state line, so he let the Kawasaki run. He could feel Sage's arms tighten, and he began to slow down.

Then he heard a scream of sheer joy over the wind's howl, smiled, and nailed back the throttle.

There weren't many cars on the road—most people just took the Interstate—and he swept past the ones that were, taking full advantage of the bike's ability to squeeze through on the centerline while the Firebird had to wait for a clear space to pass. It became a pattern, the car closing in and then falling back behind some tourist or, best yet, a tractor crawling along pulling a trailer piled high and wide with bales of hay.

The town of Winchester came up, and he blew through without slowing down. He was concerned about Sage's safety, but he knew how thin his margin would be and decided to depend on his reflexes. It was his day: they caught all the lights on the green, and the police must have been somewhere else.

The Kawasaki began to falter as they turned onto Old Charlestown Pike. Rick reached down and twisted the gas cock into the "Reserve" position. That meant he had about a gallon left, 40 miles if he was taking it easy, a lot less the way he was riding now. He worked out a rough estimate and relaxed—they should make the entrance to Summit Point with a couple of ounces to spare.

Still, he tried to take it easy on the long wide turns of the Pike, accelerating gently and staying off the brakes as much as possible. Behind him, he could see the Firebird steadily getting larger. He forgot about the scenery, the road, even Sage as he focused on the pure mental exercise of balancing speed, distance, and fuel.

The faded overhead sign that marked the entrance to Summit Point appeared on his right just as he surged over a small rise and started to fall into a left-hand turn, the Firebird only yards behind. Using both brakes hard, he burned off speed and whipped through the gate. Flick, in the heavier car, missed the gate and slammed on the brakes, throwing up a billow of blue smoke.

Rick shouted, "I'll be right back!" as he flashed by the old man sitting by the side of the gate, and then he was on the rutted dirt road that led to the paddock area where the racers rested and repaired their machines. To his right, a flock of a dozen riders swept past on the main racetrack, dicing for the lead in every combination of mismatched, ripped, and filthy leathers.

Looking back, he saw that the gate attendant had stood up just in time to block the Firebird. It would only be a momentary pause: in a minute, they would either pay him the fee or simply run him over.

The paddock road made a hard right turn ahead and rose to a single-lane wooden bridge that carried fans over the racetrack. Rick knew that this was the only way into the paddock area—high fences and suicidal racers were an efficient deterrent in every other direction.

In the center of the bridge, he stopped the bike and frantically untied the rope around his waist. "Sage, jump off, run as fast as you can to those woods, and hide," he said.

As soon as she hopped off, he pulled the bike around so it was blocking the way, got off, opened the gas cap, and kicked the machine over on its side. The fuel tank was so empty that he had to grab the center stand, grimacing as his arms brushed the hot exhaust pipes, and dead lift the machine until it was upside-down—balanced on the handlebars and the saddle. Finally, fuel spurted onto the wood and tar surface of the bridge.

Stepping back, he pulled out the Zippo, lit it, and tossed it into the puddle of gasoline. A satisfying billow of flame rose up followed quickly by thick black smoke as the motorcycle's road-heated tires caught.

Turning, he ran down toward the camping area. Sage ran up to him when he reached the trees, and he caught her in his arms without a pause. The scrubby woods blocked any sight of the bridge and, in just a few more yards, stopped in front of a sea of tents, tarpaulins, and RVs. Everywhere bikers were getting ready to race, repairing their bikes after a race, or wandering around talking about a race. The smoke from a dozen barbecues drifted up, mixing with the blue smoke of hot Castrol coming off the racetrack.