Robert Etheridge
Fed Up
For Readers Everywhere…
Fed Up
Copyright 2009 Robert Etheridge.
Cover Art by: Stewart Hines
A Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved.
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Published by: Robert Etheridge at Smashwords.com.
SMASH WORDS EDITION MARCH 2010
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Chapter 1
Mesha Truman liked aunt Christine but not as much as she liked her daddy. She loved her daddy. Her head hurt now and when it hurt that way her daddy would hold her tight, tell her he loved her, tell her that everything would be okay. Then he would rub her forehead with his fingers, sometimes whispering funny rhymes into her ear that made her laugh. She missed him.
Aunt Christine stood over the stove, stirring a saucepan of Tomato soup. Mesha sat on the counter watching the bubbling red liquid. It had a sweet smell.
"What has gotten into that father of yours?" said Aunt Christine.
"He had to work, auntie," said Mesha.
"I know, sweetheart," said Christine. She wiped her hands on a paper towel. "Jimmy told me you might have to spend the night with me. “Is your headache better?"
"It hurts.”
Christine picked Mesha up. She held her to her breast and rocked her. With her free hand she gently stroked Mesha's head. "I'm so sorry it hurts," said Christine. "Jimmy said he would have some real help for you after today."
Mesha began to cry softly. Christine could tell she was trying to hold back the tears. She was doing a good job for a six year old.
“When will I see Momma?” she sobbed.
"You know your momma has gone to live with Jesus.”
“Am I going there too," asked Mesha in her soft, lisping,voice.
"I don't know sweetheart."
Christine could feel the tension in Mesha's frail body. It was clear the pain was worse. Christine sensed that Mesha's time was running out. "Come home Jimmy Truman," she whispered. "Come home."
Jimmy Truman lay on his back under the '72 Chevy half ton long wide bed pickup truck. He rammed the last of eight shells into the twelve-gauge pump shotgun then lifted the gun up to snap it in place in a special holder mounted in the channel of the truck's rear frame.
"I just can't let Mesha die," he said aloud, his voice echoing in the garage.
Jimmy rolled out from beneath the truck then climbed to his feet. His eyes roamed over the ugly white truck. To a casual observer it looked like an ordinary pickup, similar to thousands of others that motored over the streets of Oklahoma City. He bought it years ago, built the engine, but never got around to the body and paintwork. Even though the title was still in the original owner's name, the truck belonged to Jimmy. Its balanced, four-bolt-main, three hundred fifty cubic inch engine produced well over four hundred horsepower even before toggling on the nitrous oxide injection system. Octane booster was a must for every fuel up. With a ring and pinion gear ratio of 3.73 in the posi-trac rear end the truck would run a hundred and thirty before engaging the overdrive.
The flickering radiance of a tiny T.V. illuminated a small area of scattered tools on the workbench. Superimposed in the lower right corner of the screen was a tiny map of Oklahoma. Multicolored Doppler radar imagery showed a line of heavy thunderstorms moving toward Oklahoma City from the northwest. A watch, issued by the National Weather Service, predicted high winds, damaging hail and the possibility of tornados.
It was a Friday in the early spring. This was the day. The storm would set off alarms over the entire area but most important to Jimmy, it would ground the police helicopter.
He reached inside his jean jacket and pulled out his old military Colt .45 automatic pistol He checked the chamber. It held a stubby, brass, .45 ACP cartridge. Its clip was full. Four additional full clips were in his jacket pocket. He opened the driver's door and climbed behind the wheel. He reached under the seat and lifted a second twelve-gauge Winchester model 1300 riot gun from its mount. He checked it. Like its twin on the framerail, the shotgun was loaded with one three-inch magnum 00 round in the chamber and seven 2.5 inch 00 rounds in the fixed tubular magazine under the barrel. He switched on the police scanner, adjusted the volume, switched on the citizens band radio then reached up to the sun visor and adjusted the sensitivity of the radar detector. All was in order.
Jimmy took a deep breath, held it for a moment then released it. He started the engine. Its carefully muffled exhaust rumbled with quiet power. Depressing the red button on the remote control he opened the garage door and backed out. A new era in his life was about to begin.
"Since I was a child I've tried to do the right thing, the honest thing," he said aloud. "God knows I have tried.”
He backed out onto the road, closed the garage door, pulled the selector to drive, and accelerated away. He wrinkled his nose at the dust that came in through the open window. He sneezed. In the distance, he could see a building black cloudbank. The smell of rain was in the air. When he turned onto state highway three, he drove northwest with the flow of traffic.
After he passed Piedmont road the traffic thinned out. The highway lay open ahead of him through countryside awash in sunlight, tinted by the brilliant greens of spring. Open fields stretched away on both sides of the road. Jimmy kicked the truck up to sixty-five and set the cruise control. He felt the rough texture of the leather steering wheel cover beneath his fingers. His thoughts went immediately to his daughter, Mesha.
Examined by three doctors over a period of several months and finally by Doctor Spence, a specialist, Mesha's diagnosis was shattering. After much testing and several visits to various labs, Doctor Spence took Jimmy aside while Mesha waited in the next room.
"I'm sorry Mr. Truman," said Dr. Spence, his voice cracking with emotion. "Mesha has an aneurysm in her brain. If we can locate a brain surgeon who will operate right away she has a chance. If not, she will die."
Jimmy absorbed the blow in silence. Mesha had been sick for a long time but just within the past few days she was much worse. He could not remember the last time he cried but he cried then, without shame.
Doctor Spence watched with tears clouding his own eyes. "I like you Jimmy," he said. "I can see you love Mesha. You do not owe me anything I just wish I could help but I am not a surgeon. I just do not have those skills. The surgeons I contacted would not consider a charity case. I was told that there was too much liability involved."
Rage boiled inside Jimmy at the thought of Mesha suffering because a doctor was worried about liability. He wiped away his tears with the back of his hand.
"Why are you crying daddy," said Mesha, a lisp in her voice. Startled, both men turned toward her. She had entered the room unnoticed.
"Oh," said Jimmy, catching his breath. "It's nothing sweetheart.” Mesha fixed her solemn brown eyes on him. "I will be okay, daddy. I am not afraid. Don't cry."
The memory was like a knife thrust. Jimmy slapped his palm hard against the dashboard.
"Damn bureaucracies," he said. Six months earlier his health insurance would have paid for the operation. Jimmy remembered the day Mr. Mercer, the new boss, called him into the office.
Clean-shaven, Mercer wore a tan three-piece suit. His black hair was slicked back. He bounced the tip of his ballpoint pen on the glass desktop as he watched Jimmy take a seat. Behind and to the right of Mercer stood a burly giant of a man from the warehouse named Johnson. His eyes met Jimmy's with a cold even gaze.
"Truman," said Mercer. "I am sure you are aware the company has changed ownership."
"Yes," replied Jimmy. "We sold out to the Japanese. My father fought them during the war."
"Right, but its a different world now, isn't it?" said Mercer, not waiting for a reply. "This is not personal, I assure you.” He paused, looking directly at Jimmy. “We won't need you after today."
Jimmy was silent. Seconds dragged by. "Seventeen years of service, gone, just like that?" he said.
“I'm afraid so, Truman."
“Just one week before I am vested for retirement too,” said Jimmy. “What a coincidence.” Jimmy thought immediately of Mesha. He needed his health insurance. Rage swelled within him. He leapt to his feet, moving toward Mercer. Johnson stepped between them. Before Jimmy could stop himself his right fist caught Johnson beneath the chin. His head snapped back. The big man's knees buckled. Jimmy hit him again, between the eyes. He fell face down to the floor. Fear twisted Mercer's face. Jimmy saw him reach for a button on the side of his desk. Jimmy slapped Mercer's hand away, grabbed hold of his tie and pulled hard, dragging him across the desk. A lamp toppled, shattering against the floor. Nose to nose with Mercer, Jimmy saw the terror in his eyes.
"I gave the best part of my life to this company," said Jimmy. "You think you have the power to ruin me, Mercer. I could kill you now if I wanted to.” Mercer’s face was deep red. His eyes were bugged out. Jimmy realized he had lost control of himself. With great effort he forced himself to release Mercer. He would not allow his anger to go any further.
Mercer swallowed then sat down hard in his chair. He adjusted his tie. Johnson sat up on the floor, rubbing his jaw.
"Just leave, Truman," said Mercer. "It ends here. There will be no charges.”
With clenched teeth, Jimmy stormed out of the building. That same day he received his severance pay and a notice that his health insurance would cost him a thousand a month if he wished to keep it. He could not afford it.
Now, as he drove along the highway with his .45 in his pocket, Jimmy remembered the day he tried to get help for Mesha from the state. A kind lady from the Department of Human Services had taken him aside.
"Mr. Truman," she said, pulling down her glasses and looking at him directly. “I don't usually tell it like it is. It can get me into a lot of trouble. You listen to me. Because of your income history you don't qualify for state help. If you want help for Mesha there are two sure ways. First, you could abandon her. Second, you could have yourself charged with child abuse. Either way the state would then take care of Mesha.”
"That is out of the question ma'am," replied Jimmy. "How could I be sure she has the best care? Besides, we need each other.”
"I understand," she said. "Good luck.”
As Jimmy remembered these things, he felt the anger grow stronger within him, like a spring being wound tighter and tighter. A black cloud of rage dimmed the light of reason.
"So much for the American Dream," he said aloud.
He remembered the day, not long after he was fired, when his wife, Sherry, handed him the notice from the Internal Revenue Service. "It is the final notice," she said. "They say we owe a hundred thousand dollars, Jimmy." She covered her mouth with her hand. "What can we do?"
"That's crazy," said Jimmy. “It has to be a mistake. Max said it was all taken care of."
Jimmy tried to call Max, his accountant. The phone was disconnected. Several days later, he learned that Max was charged with fraud. The man had disappeared.
Jimmy tried twice to hire an attorney. When they checked him out, finding he was destitute, they both declined his case. During the following months the IRS froze his bank accounts, seizing his home and personal property. Sherry grew distant. She became depressed for increasingly longer periods. She stayed in her bedroom, seldom coming out. One day, after returning home at dawn from his job as a janitor, Jimmy found Mesha asleep in her room. Sherry was gone. Jimmy thought she had gone to the grocery because their old junk car was not in its parking space.
As Mesha slept, Jimmy sat staring into the darkness of the tiny one bedroom apartment. Minutes later there was a knock at the door. A uniformed police officer stood there. She held her hat in her hand.
"Are you Jimmy Truman," she asked.
"Yes."
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Mr. Truman," she said.
"Your wife has been killed in a traffic accident."
"Killed," stammered Jimmy. "How did it happen?"
"She hit a bridge abutment at high speed. She was dead at the scene."
Jimmy stared at her, stunned to silence.
"I'm very sorry.”
She handed him a card. “We can furnish crisis counseling for you. Feel free to call. The case number is on the card”
“Thank you,” said Jimmy, examining the card.
After she walked away, Jimmy stood for a long time in the darkened entryway. Sherry had committed suicide. He was sure of it. Now, as he cruised along the highway, he could feel rage swell inside of him. He feared it. He remembered that same rage from a day when he was thirteen. A fight between another boy and himself ended when the other boy's father pulled Jimmy from on top of his son. The boy was hospitalized.
Jimmy's mother, a devout Christian, believed in the gifts of the spirit. She made Jimmy attend church. He well remembered her words that day. "Don't forget the golden rule, Jimmy," she said. "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."
The rage that was in him now was ready to explode. He let that anger out in the war but in the following years he kept it under control. Now, he could feel that control slipping away. Right and wrong were blurring together, losing any meaning. He would get the money to save Mesha. His life really did not matter against that. He was keenly aware that this day could well be his last, the end for him and for his little girl.
Crackling static from the C.B. radio preceded a familiar voice. "Hey, Gear Head," blared the voice. "Are you out there Gear Head?"
Jimmy unsnapped the microphone from the dash. He keyed up. A red light flashed on the C.B. radio’s 250-watt bilinear amplifier. Gear Head here," he said. "Is that you Bear?"
Ten Four," came the static filled reply.
“Be there in two minutes," said Jimmy. "Is everything together?”
"It is all together and waiting."
"Copy that."
Jimmy allowed himself a smile. Bear was a real friend, a man you could depend on.. Jimmy exited State Highway 3 onto a gravel road. He followed it for a quarter mile then turned in over a cattle guard onto a narrow road that wound through the trees. Bear's travel trailer was nestled under the shade of an oak tree. Bear stood beside the tiny trailer with a duffel bag on his shoulder. His hulking figure made the trailer seem even smaller. He was all muscle with just a bit of fat on the outside. His brothers of the Seminole tribe called him Bear because of his size and strength. His real name was Raymond Ballard. Half Indian and half Caucasian, his braided black ponytail made him look more like an Indian. Jimmy pulled in and stopped.
Bear laid the bag carefully in the bed of the truck, attaching it to a hook under the cab's sliding rear window. He glanced at Jimmy where he sat behind the wheel. Jimmy was gaining weight. He was no longer slender as he was in Vietnam when they served together. He had a bit of a paunch now and a bald spot shined through his thinning hair. Still, Jimmy looked good. He was as solid at he used to be, just older. Bear opened the door and got in. He felt his fear building. Although Bear was good at hiding his fear, it was always with him. He was afraid of noises in the night, of storms, of graveyards and especially of dying. He couldn't deal with ghost stories. If he watched one on TV, he wouldn't sleep well for days afterward. He hadn't given it much thought but he supposed his fear was responsible for his love of guns. He liked guns. He liked books about guns. He liked anything to do with guns. In Vietnam, he was an instructor in combat weapons. Now for the immediate future he would have to keep a lid on his fear. That would be hard because he was afraid now, more so than he was in Vietnam when he was much younger and filled with the arrogance of youth, not really believing it possible that he could die. Now he knew he was not exempt from death. It was only when his thoughts turned to the money that his fear was abated, for then he became excited, intoxicated, thinking of all the things he could buy, of all the things he could do once they had the money but underneath it all he was afraid as he had been afraid all of his life.
"Two AK47 assault rifles and four, one-hundred-round, drum magazines are in the bag,” he said. “No serial numbers.”
Jimmy spun the steering wheel, circled the trailer and drove back toward the highway. The subdued rumble of the engine, the crunch of gravel under the tires and the rush of the wind were the only sounds. Bear was quiet, as usual. Taciturn by nature, Bear’s demeanor was much like that of a wooden Indian. When Jimmy stopped at state highway three, also called Northwest Highway, he could feel the cool dampness of the coming storm. In the northwest a wall of cloud loomed high into the sky, its leading edges blocking the afternoon sun, its top shaped like a flat anvil. A gust of wind set the trees around them in motion.
"Could be a twister in this one," said Bear.
"There’s a good chance of it,” agreed Jimmy. He switched on the FM Radio.
"I repeat,” said the familiar voice of a local meteorologist. “The national weather service has issued a tornado warning for the central Oklahoma. Kingfisher, Canadian and Oklahoma counties are included. Radar indicates a circulation west of Kingfisher, moving southeast at ten miles per hour. If you are in the path of this storm and you live in a mobile home, find other shelter immediately. We repeat. ..."
Jimmy turned off the radio. Bear peered through the rear window at the rolling darkness of the building storm. As Jimmy pulled away from the stop he could see the darkening clouds in his rear view mirror.
He accelerated hard, running ahead of the storm. A sign welcomed them to Oklahoma City.
Jimmy wasn't worried about the storm for he had lived in Oklahoma all his life learning to respect but not to fear tornadoes.
"Eight miles and we are there," he said.
Bear nodded, pulled a black ball cap from his pocket, bundled his ponytail onto the top of his head and covered it with the hat. He then drew a snub-nosed .38 from beneath his denim jacket, flipped open the cylinder and checked the load. The six brass cartridges were bright against the blue steel of the cylinder.
"I'm ready," he said.
Again, Jimmy wondered if he had done the right thing by involving Bear. At first Jimmy planned to do the job alone. There was less chance of mistakes that way. Also he would have only himself to worry about. As his plans progressed, Jimmy realized that if everything went well, he would need no help. What worried him was the chance that something would go wrong. If he was pursued it would be impossible to navigate and drive too. What if he had to shoot? His war experience taught him how vulnerable one man could be, armed or not. It would be very hard to drive and shoot at the same time. After much inward debate he told Bear about his plans. The big Indian was all for it. Together, they planned the job.
"Hey Bear. Do you still feel the same way about this?"
"I have no respect for the white man’s law,” said Bear, in his deep rumbling voice. "They took from my people our land, our pride, our way of life, and even our language. They lied many times. I will take something back now.”
The string of short sentences was the most Bear had ever spoken at one time. "I hope no one gets hurt," said Jimmy.
Bear stared straight ahead in stony silence. Rockford National Bank was the target. Many hours of surveillance gave Jimmy an understanding of how the bank operated on a day-to-day basis. He knew that the cash drawers were full on Friday. He learned that on Fridays, the bank president, Milton Carmichael would often access the vault for more cash because of the many paychecks that were processed.
Minutes later they were there. Jimmy pressed gently on the brake. He switched on the right turn signal and turned into the bank's parking lot. To his right a large digital marquee flashed the time and temperature. The area around the bank was quiet. Two men stood on the sidewalk staring up into the lightening scarred blackness of the approaching storm. A thunderclap, like God's hammer, rattled the banks mirrored glass structure. The two men glanced at Jimmy as they walked back into the bank. Jimmy backed into a parking spot at the corner of the building. He put the gear selector in park but left the engine running.
Bear thrust a flat bundle of black plastic bags into Jimmy's hands. From a pouch on the front seat Jimmy lifted out two pair of wide wrap-around sunglasses, the type worn after cataract surgery.
"Wait until we start in before you put the glasses on," cautioned Jimmy. He looked directly into Bear's inscrutable black eyes. “Just like we planned, right?" he said.
"Like we planned,” said Bear.
Jimmy made sure his .45 was out of sight beneath his denim jacket. He pulled on a plain black ball cap just like Bear’s.
Bear stuffed his .38 into his belt at the small of his back. He covered it with his shirt. They got out.
As they entered the foyer they donned the sunglasses. Customers and employees stood gathered in a tight semicircle around a TV, their backs turned. Facing them, the bank’s president watched as they walked toward him. A weather bulletin was in progress.
“I don't like it,” said a man in front of the T.V, "The tornado is close."
The President’s eyes widened when Jimmy drew his pistol. Already standing beside the vault, the pudgy man threw his weight against the massive hinged door. With a ponderous motion the steel door swung inward toward its jamb.
Snatching up a wooden chair, Jimmy threw it into the gap between the door and its jamb. Cracking and popping the chair was reduced to splinters but the vault door did not close.
“Stand clear of the vault!" screamed Jimmy, "Tellers, stand away from the counter. Now! No fast moves!
The three tellers stared at him in surprise then stepped back from their windows. The two male customers raised their hands. Bear opened the vault door a bit wider then shoved the President inside. Jimmy herded the two customers and three female tellers into the vault. The boom of his forty-five made his ears ring as he shot out the two video cameras. Bits of debris scattered like shrapnel from the destroyed cameras.
Bear stood guard at the vault while Jimmy filled a garbage bag with cash from the teller's windows.
Jimmy dropped the bag of money and spun on his heel, aiming the .45 straight out with both hands. "I see.you," he said. "Come out."
A portly man with grey hair uncurled himself from beneath a desk and stood up. His eyes were locked onto the muzzle of the 45. A nametag, pinned to the white smock he wore, identified him as Dr. Meyer.
"Don't shoot." he said.
Catching movement from the corner of his eye, Jimmy saw three men rush into the bank, their faces distorted by silk stockings pulled tight over their heads. Each man held an AR15 assault rifle. For a frozen moment they stared. Jimmy kicked sideways at Dr. Meyer's feet knocking the man to the floor. An instant later Jimmy cowered with him as bullets splattered into the wall where the doctor had stood moments before. Bits of white gypsum board showered over them. Jimmy could hear the slugs as they impacted into the tellers counter in front of him. The firing stopped.
"You saved my life," whispered Dr. Meyer, the whites of his eyes showing all around.
“Stay down.”
Jimmy scrambled on hands and knees to the minimal cover of the teller's counter. Through a slotted opening, he could see three men. One of them stood behind the others with his rifle at ready. One had his rifle pointed in Jimmy's direction. He stepped toward the counter. From the interior of the vault, Jimmy heard the report of Bear's .38. The man at the rear fell. The other two opened up at Bear. Jimmy felt his .45 buck in his hand as he shot the closest man. One slug hit him in the leg. The other shot missed. Wounded, the man scrambled backwards out of the bank, clutching at his wounded thigh. His partner dove behind a desk. Jimmy's .45 and bears .38 knocked splintered chunks of wood from the desk. Somewhere a woman was screaming. Holding his AR 15 high, firing on full auto, the man leapt backwards through the double glass doors landing on his back in a shower of falling glass, his wind milling legs propelling him out of the line of fire.
Jimmy jumped over the counter, clutching the bag of money. Afraid of what he would find, he ran to the vault. "It's me," he said. "Are you okay?”
"Yeah, everyone is okay," said Bear, his voice echoing in the vault.
Jimmy stepped inside. Bear had his gun pointed toward the customers and employees who huddled in the far corner. As Jimmy walked in, the President moved to the left as if to conceal something behind him.
"What's back there?" asked Jimmy. "What are you hiding?"
"Nothing,” stammered the president. "Nothing, at all."
Jimmy waved his gun. "Move away," he ordered. The President didn't move. Jimmy shoved him aside. Behind him, in a recess between the safety deposit boxes were four large leather satchels.
"What's in those?"
Jimmy saw fear in the President's eyes.
"Don't take it," he said. "Please don't take it."
Jimmy yanked open the top of one satchel. It was filled, top to bottom, with neat stacks of hundred dollar bills.
"Is this what those men were after?" asked Jimmy. He aimed his .45 at the president.
“Staring at the .45 the President nodded his head in silence.
"Grab those two bags," said Jimmy. "I'll get these."
He stuffed the garbage bag of cash into the top of one of the leather satchels. They were heavy. On a shelf were piles of banded cash. He raked it into a garbage bag. He glanced around the vault seeing only closed safety deposit boxes.
“Is there more money in here.”
“You have it all,” said the President.
Once out of the vault Jimmy kicked the splintered chair away then put his weight against the massive steel door. It closed with a solid thud. He took a moment to slip a full clip into his .45. Bear reloaded his revolver.
His ears still ringing, Jimmy rushed through the lobby. Spent shell casings littered the floor, skittering and jingling across the tile as he walked through them. The odor of gunpowder was strong. Collapsed across his weapon, the man Bear shot was dead, a bright red pool of blood spread out from his body. Jimmy peeked cautiously outside. He saw the two men with the AR15s. The remaining glass door exploded in a rain of bullets as they opened fire. The firing stopped. The way was blocked.
“How are we going to get out of here?" asked Bear, a note of panic in his voice.
Just past the entryway, through an office window, Jimmy could see his pickup, its dual tailpipes puffing white vapor.
"Get ready to run,” he said, gripping the satchels and garbage bag tightly in his left hand. Careful to stay out of the line of fire he pointed his .45 around the edge of the doorjamb. "When I fire, we run.” He glanced at Bear. “Ready?"
Bear nodded. Jimmy fired. The boom of the .45 was punctuated by the crack of Bear's .38 as the two men rushed past the entryway. Once inside the office Jimmy heaved a satchel through the wall-sized window shattering it into pieces. In seconds, they were outside. The building's corner shielded them from fire. They heaved the satchels into the bed of the truck then scrambled into the cab. Jimmy yanked the selector to drive. Both rear tires squalled, pouring out a boiling cloud of white smoke as the truck tore out of the parking lot.
Rockford Bank President Milton Carmichael wrung his hands in despair. Well lit and well ventilated the vault held no danger yet Milton was afraid. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead. He could feel the eyes of the others upon him. Thank God they don't know the truth he thought. Today would have seen the end of his problems. The pending audit would have shown nothing amiss. The importance of the audit dwindled to insignificance as Milton considered what was sure to happen to him now. No record of the money he held for the others was on any bank document or computer. It was cash taken off the top from gambling operations, prostitution, drugs, and a host of other illegal activities, through which the others made their lucrative livings. Now it was gone. They would never believe he was not involved. They had agreed to help Milton cover up his embezzlement by arranging a fake robbery. Actually, they would only take the cash Milton was holding for them. After the fake robbery, Milton could then blame his deficiency of funds on the bank robbery. It had gone wrong though, so terribly wrong. One of their men lay dead just outside the vault. The entire horde of cash was gone. Milton knew he was as good as dead. The others did not believe in coincidence. The lights inside the vault flickered then went out. Milton could hear odd, muffled noises outside the vault. Somehow, he had to get out. Somehow, he had to get away.
Bear slid open the rear window, reached out and lifted the two Chinese made AK47 assault rifles from the duffel bag. Bear liked the feel of the guns in his hands. Both weapons were fitted with flash suppressers, black composite stocks and one-hundred-round drum magazines. With a muzzle velocity of 2,440 feet per-second the steel jacketed, 7.62 X 39, ammunition would punch a hole from front to rear through the sheet metal of any automobile. Both rifles were full auto capable, if needed. Glancing behind them Bear saw a red, Infinity, sedan careen onto the street. Both the driver and passenger were dressed in black. They no longer wore silk stockings over their faces.
"Our friends,” said Bear.
"I see them," said Jimmy, his eyes on the rear view mirror.
Bear watched the expression on Jimmy's face harden into a cold mask of determination. He remembered that look from Vietnam. Bear watched as Jimmy's green eyes shifted from the mirror to the road and back again.
“That's a hot car,” said Jimmy.
"Can we handle it?”
"No problem.”
A hailstone, the size of a grape, hit the hood of the truck. Another hit the top of the cab. Hail, some the size of golf balls, pounded randomly to earth around them. When the transmission shifted into high gear the tires squalled and the truck fishtailed. Jimmy held her straight. Behind them the Infinity lost ground.
A large hailstone hit square, in the middle of the windshield. Three cracks radiated instantly across the glass
"The next one wi11 bust it out,” said Bear.
Jimmy held the accelerator to the floor. The speedometer needle swayed past 100. Widely spaced hailstones bounced to earth around them then abruptly stopped, replaced by an ominous stillness. A quick glance behind showed the red Infinity gaining. The luxury sedan was now in its element, high speed on the open road.
"Hang on," said Jimmy. He took his foot off the accelerator. With a thump, an electric solenoid, attached to a planetary gear assembly in the transmission's modified tail shaft housing, engaged the overdrive. He shoved his foot back to the floor. With pronounced acceleration, the old pickup pulled away from the luxury sports car.
The radar detector came to life with a beep and a moment later a black and white highway patrol cruiser topped a rise sweeping past on the left. Jimmy saw the red flash of the cruiser's brake lights.
“We just blew the fuse on his radar," said Bear.
They screamed northwest on State Highway 3. Jimmy flipped up a toggle switch, actuating the nitrous oxide injection system. Another surge of acceleration brought the truck to its top end. The speedometer was buried, out of sight.
Bear said nothing but Jimmy saw the indentations on the padded dash where the strength of Bear's grip crushed it inward. The truck seemed to float above the highway as if in flight.
"Unit 37 to dispatch," said a crackling voice over the police scanner. "I am in pursuit of a red Infinity and a white pickup. Speeds are in excess of a hundred. Request backup. I'm two miles southeast of the highway three and four intersection, headed northwest on three."
"Ten four 37," replied dispatch. "Stand by.”
Bear pointed the muzzle of his AK47 toward the floor as he yanked back on the bolt. With a metallic clank, the bolt sprang forward carrying the first round into the chamber.
"Everything has gone sour Jimmy."
"I know.”
Jimmy felt the doubt well up inside of him. He loved Mesha but he balked at hurting someone else so she could live. What he was doing was criminal. It was dangerous not only for he and Bear but for every other person who became involved. He was sorry about the death at the bank but that man took a calculated risk and lost.
Jimmy did not know if he could forgive himself if someone truly innocent was killed. Overshadowing his doubt was a consuming anger at the losing hand society had dealt him. When he thought of his dead wife and his sick little girl, the rage burned away his guilt.
"Shoot if you have to." he said.
Jimmy toggled off the nitrous system then stood hard on the brakes filling the cab with the acrid odor of hot brake linings as the four-wheel discs slowed the hurtling vehicle. Just ahead was a four way stop marked by a flashing red light. A left turn would take him to Yukon, hometown to Garth Brooks. A right turn would take him into the tiny suburb of Piedmont and beyond into a vast area of section line roads that stretched like a giant checkerboard into the open country of northwestern Oklahoma. Jimmy turned the wheel slightly to the left swinging the truck across the oncoming lane to the left shoulder then turned back to the right into a wide, squalling turn. The truck bounced off the curb cut across the oncoming lanes and was headed north on highway SH-4 an undivided four-lane that stretched straight ahead into the community of Piedmont.
Piedmont Chief of Police, Duke Ketchum heaved his lanky form from behind the wheel of his squad car, shut the door, glanced at his reflection in the side view mirror, adjusted his tie then bent down and with a white napkin, dusted off his freshly polished black boots. He sauntered across the parking lot, glancing up into the swirling dark of the approaching storm. Two volunteer spotters were roving about to observe the storm. He pushed open the door and stepped into Mack's restaurant.
A pretty waitress watched him come in.
"Hello Duke.”
"Hi, Sheila," he said, sliding into a booth by the door. He placed his two-way radio on the table, his link with the storm spotters who, he was sure, would be calling as soon as the storm approached. He watched Sheila as she filled a white mug with steaming black coffee from a stainless steel urn. She was a true redhead. Like all the redheads he had known, her complexion was very white. Freckles spread over her nose and along each cheek. Her eyes were a pale blue. Her breasts were large and she wore tight blue jeans.
Sheila placed the mug of coffee on the table before him, leaning over just a bit too much, revealing awesome cleavage. She grinned.
"What are you looking at?" she asked. "If you don't watch out, you'll get yourself in trouble."
"Promise?"
Sheila ran her tongue slowly over her upper lip. "Could be," she said, her blue eyes full of mischief. She turned away and began clearing the counter of dishes. As she worked she watched Duke. He was tall and skinny with a straight nose, high cheekbones and wide set hazel eyes. His uniform was always immaculate. Not bad looking, for a man of forty-five she decided. There was an air of sadness about him, that she was sure, stemmed from the death of his wife and daughter some years before. He had not remarried. It was common knowledge that he donated half his salary to children's charities. She glanced past Duke to the parking lot.
"That Haze kid is fooling around with your car Duke,” she said. Through the window, Sheila saw Peter Haze standing by Duke's black and white squad car. Pete was eighteen but looked twelve.
He was the same age as Sheila's daughter, Dawn. Sheila felt the bite of a deep sorrow at the thought of Dawn. Dawn refused to forgive Sheila for the alcoholism that had made Dawn's childhood a living nightmare. Shaking herself free from the memory, she watched Pete Haze as he sauntered around Duke's car. Pete's narrow face was partially hidden behind a thick pair of antique style granny glasses. His eyes were magnified and owlish, out of place for his small stature. He smiled as he rubbed his fingers across the emblem that read 'Chief' on the trunk of the squad car.
Watching through the window, Duke smiled too. A chronic speeder, Pete was a good kid, although Duke suspected he was smoking pot occasionally.
Taking long strides Pete walked across the lot. He pushed open the door with his foot and stepped into the restaurant. He took a seat across from Duke.
"How you doing chief," he said, his eyes large behind his thick glasses.
"Okay Pete. How about you?"
"Dyin' slow from boredom," drawled Pete. "Nothing excitin' ever happens in Piedmont unless you like watching cars rust." He paused for a moment. "I really need my drivers license back," he continued. "Please?"
Duke shook his head. "I'm not sure I want that hot rod of yours back on the road Pete," said Duke. "You don't need a car with that much power."
"But it is such a thrill chief," replied Pete. "It’s a rush. You know. Aw, come on chief. All you have to do is say the word."
Duke sipped at his coffee. It was his duty to see that Pete learned to drive sensibly, just like it was his duty to see that every speeder he caught paid the price. He smiled. His major failing was being a pushover. It was the story of Duke's life. It seemed that lately he could not write enough tickets to keep the town alive. He always felt sorry for the speeders, especially women that cried. He just could not take it. Pete was a good kid but he drove too fast.
"Oh, all right Pete," said Duke. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out Pete's license. "I didn't turn it in."
Pete reached for the license. Duke pulled it back.
"This is your last chance," said Duke sternly. "The next time I catch you racing that hot rod Nova I will send the license to the state and give you a ticket. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand," said Pete with a wide smile, reaching for the license again.
Duke pulled it back. "I mean it,” Pete.
"Okay, chief. Okay."
Duke sighed. He handed Pete the license.
"You are such a tough guy, Duke," said Sheila in a sweet voice. Duke looked toward her. She had both elbows on the counter with her face cupped in her hands. Her eyelids fluttered over wide blue eyes.
"What would you do if you met a real bad guy," she asked.
Duke shrugged. "I don't know," he replied.
"Aw, leave him alone Sheila,” said Pete, blinking at her with his owlish eyes. "Bring me a coke, would ya.”
"Coming up."
Duke sipped at his coffee. He had to admit, Pete was right. Nothing exciting ever happened in Piedmont.
Chapter 2
It was a shame about Jake, thought Tony Marinetta, as he held tight to the wheel of the Infinity. Ahead of him he saw the old Chevy pickup fishtail. Damn them, he thought. Jake was dead.
Tony did not like the idea when he first heard it. It just did not make good sense to rob a bank to steal money that was already yours just so some crooked banker could get off the hook. Tony did what the boss told him to do. He never talked back.
Tony had only one goal now and that was to kill the two men in the old pickup and recover the money. He knew they had it for he had seen them with the satchels at the bank. He felt a surge of power as the Infinity shifted into overdrive. He gained some ground on the ragged old truck.
“Can you get a shot at him Bud?" asked Tony.
Bud Skotch held the AR-15 out the window. He squeezed off five rounds but the gun's recoil coupled with the hundred miles per hour wind made accuracy impossible.
"I'm gonna shoot us full of holes."
"You're not worth spit,” said Tony, his tone sour.
Tony's words made Bud mad. His first thought was to turn the weapon on Tony. He would dearly love to see the expression on Tony Marinetta's face as the .223 slugs tore him up. He hated the smart mouthed punk. Bud saw that Tony's knuckles were white where he gripped the steering wheel. Tony's pug-nosed face, puckered little mouth, black eyes and black hair made him look like a teen-age delinquent. He could not understand what the boss saw in Tony. For twelve years, Bud served the boss well, long before anyone heard of Tony Marinetta. Lately though, it was as if Bud did not exist. Tony, Tony, Tony that was all Bud ever heard.
"One of these days I will blow your face off,” said Bud.
"I won't hold my breath.”
Bud was a cautious man. He valued his position with the boss. Over the years Bud had managed to put a substantial sum away to take care of him in case the need arose, but now he was close to abandoning caution altogether. Tony was starting to bother him greatly but Bud's cautious side held him in check. Although he hated Tony, Bud was reluctant to jeopardize his livelihood by killing him. He switched on the safety of the AR15. The bleeding from the wound on his leg was less now. It was not serious but it hurt. He held pressure against the wound with his hand.
"That's a fast old truck," he said.
"Did you just now notice that?" leered Tony. He looked at Bud, realizing again, how ugly he was. Bud's face was wrinkled all over. His nose was large and stuck out too far. His grayeyes were turning milky with age and he needed a shave.
“That truck is not just fast, it is very fast,” said Tony. “Look how it’s pulling away from us."
The white pickup disappeared over a slight rise then, an instant later, a highway patrol cruiser flashed past them on the left.
Tony saw the cruiser's brake lights flash red.
"He's turning around. Hide the guns, quick!”
Bud laid both assault weapons on the back seat. He covered them with a blanket then spread a coat over his legs to hide the blood. He patted the 9mm pistol beneath his jacket.
Tony feathered the emergency brake. He knew the brake lights would not come on. By the time the highway patrol cruiser turned around the Infinity was approaching legal speed.
"A hundred bucks says he goes after the pickup?" offered Tony.
"I won't bite on that one,” said Bud.
Pulling up directly behind them the trooper switched on his red and blue strobe lights. Tony pulled over.
Bud gripped the 9mm.
"I have your 1icense number," said the trooper over an exterior PA speaker. "Stay where you are."
Tony waved and smiled. "Sure," he said. "You bet." Accelerating away, the cruiser left them on the shoulder of the road.
"He doesn't know about the bank job yet," said Bud. "If he did, he would have tried to arrest us."
"Maybe you but not me, old man," replied Tony.
Tony waited until the cruiser was almost out of sight, then he pulled back on the highway and followed.
Back in Piedmont, Duke Ketchum's hand held two-way radio squawked to life. Sheila stopped her work to listen. Pete and Duke leaned close.
"It is on the ground Duke. Twister is on the ground," said the excited voice of Matt Brenner.
Duke snatched up the two-way. "What is the location, Matt?"
"It is ten miles northwest of Piedmont in open country. It’s moving southeast, fast."
"Dispatch, did you copy," asked Duke?
"We got it," said the voice of Martha Dunham. "I'm dialing the weather service right now."
"Ten-four. Turn on the warning siren."
“Done.”
The wail of the town’s warning siren grew strong then decreased as the horn rotated. Through the window of Mack's restaurant, Duke watched the sky darken. Piedmont's one main intersection with its four-way stop and two tiny grocery stores looked eerie in the filtered sunlight. The siren brought both customers and tenants outside to watch the steadily darkening maw of the approaching storm.
"My car!" said Pete, banging his coke onto the table. "I'm getting out of here.” He slid out of the booth.
"Take me with you, "said Sheila. She took off her apron, balled it up and tossed it on the counter.
"It's not safe to be out in a car now," said Duke. "You two go over to the Johnson's storm cellar. You'll be safe there."
Pete ran out the door with Sheila right behind him. Duke watched them run across the street toward the Conoco gas station, a half-block away, where Pete kept his 69 Nova.
Jerry Miles, the cook, stuck his head through the serving window from the kitchen. "What's going on Duke," he asked.
"There's a tornado in the area," said Duke. "You'd best call home and have your family go to the cellar."
"Right." Jerry disappeared back into the kitchen. "Dispatch to Unit one," crackled the radio.
"Unit one, go ahead," said Duke.
“I just received a call from the state police,” said Martha. “State Police Unit 37, trooper Elwood, is in pursuit of two suspects in a white Chevy pickup. They are wanted in connection with a bank robbery that just went down. One man is dead. They just turned north onto Highway 4 off of 3."
"Ten-four,” replied Duke. “That is all we need right now.” He slid out of the booth and ran out of the restaurant. In the near distance, a quarter of a mile past the Conoco he saw the white pickup. At the same moment, Mr. Willard, a local farmer, pulled up to the four way stop in his new Dodge pickup. He waved to Duke. Duke realized that Mr. Willard was going to pull directly into the path of the speeding white pickup. Duke motioned frantically as he ran forward. Willard rolled away from the stop sign. All four tires on the white truck locked up as it bore down on Willard. At the last moment Willard stopped, his eyes on Duke, a quizzical expression on his face. Willard did not see the white truck until it passed inches in front of his bumper. The displaced air from its passage rocked Duke back on his heels. For an instant, Duke looked into the cab of the white truck. Two men stared back at him from behind wide, wrap-around style, sunglasses. The one on the passenger side held a wicked looking rifle. A moment later, they were gone. The deep bass sound of their engine was like a finely tuned racecar. In seconds, they were out of sight. Breathing hard Duke leaned through the open passenger's window of Mr. Willard's new Dodge. The odor of burned rubber was strong. "Thank God you stopped, Mr. Willard,” said Duke.
“Yes," said Willard, swallowing hard. "Thank you. They would have hit me for sure."
Both men turned at the sound of a siren. Far down the road
Duke saw a highway patrol cruiser. Brilliant blue and red strobe lights marked its passage. In front of the Conoco station, Pete and Sheila sat in Pete's brown 69 Nova. Its large rear tires and tiny front tires caused it to set at an angle as though it was jacked up in the rear. The cruiser passed directly in front of them. Never slowing down the trooper ran the four way stop where Duke stood with Mr. Willard. The sound of the siren dwindled as Duke watched the flashing lights disappear far down the highway
Pete Haze rolled out of the Conoco station in his Nova and pulled up to the stop sign. He grinned at Duke, his eyes wide, behind his thick glasses. Sheila smiled and waved daintily, her red hair tied back in a ponytail. Pete accelerated easily away moving in the direction of the fleeing pickup and the highway patrol cruiser. Duke had a bad feeling about Pete and Sheila. They seldom used good judgment and Johnson's cellar was in the opposite direction.
"What is happening here Duke," asked Mr. Willard.
"A lot and all at once," said Duke. "There is a tornado in the area and a high-speed chase."
"Oh," said Mr. Willard. "Well, I'd better be going.” He took his foot off the brake.
"Stop!" screamed Duke.
Willard stomped on the brake. A red Infinity ran the four-way stop. Its rear fender well snagged the front bumper of Willard's Dodge. A strip of chrome molding was torn loose from the Infinity. The pickup jerked to the side knocking Duke, sprawling, to the pavement. He scrambled up.
Mr. Willard slid across the seat and got out.
"Are you Okay?”
"I’m fine," said Duke. He stepped to the front of the new pickup where its bent bumper stood straight out on the left side. The chrome molding from the Infinity spun slowly in the intersection.
"I saw it all, Mr. Willard," said Duke. "I have to go. See me tomorrow and we can fill out the necessary papers."
"I sure will," said Willard. He hooked his thumbs in the suspenders of his overalls as he stood looking at the damage to his new truck.
Duke ran to his car, jumped behind the wheel, switched on the siren and emergency lights, started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot. He jammed the accelerator to the floor.
On the road out of Piedmont, Pete Haze saw the Infinity as it came up fast behind him. He pulled onto the right shoulder, took his foot off the gas and allowed the car to slow down. The Infinity went around him on the left. Pete noticed that its rear quarter panel had damage on the passenger side.
"Something big is happening," said Pete.
"A tornado," said Sheila.
"I don't mean that," said Pete. "The guys in the old pickup must have done something really bad."
"We don't know that," said Sheila. "Besides, shouldn't we be at the Johnson's cellar by now?"
The high-speed chase intrigued Pete. The cellar would have to wait. It was the same every spring with the tornado warnings. He had never seen a tornado himself despite the media flap. He was most worried about hail damage to his car. He stole a quick look at Sheila. Her red hair, blue eyes, large, firm breasts, and perfectly shaped buttocks had not escaped his notice. She was older, but a guy couldn't have it all, he thought. She would do, no doubt about it.
Sheila felt Pete's eyes upon her. She squirmed in her seat. He was just a horny little boy but his attention made her uneasy. As a waitress she dealt with men constantly. She was never comfortable with their scrutiny but she had grown used to it. Many times she was able to turn her appeal to her own advantage, which she was never reluctant to do if she had the chance, though now she was interested only in Duke. Sometimes her fantasies about him were out of line.
"Those guys are crooks or something,” said Pete.
"So what,” said Sheila.
“Why don't we chase them too?” said Pete, his voice filled with excitement.
“That's a bad idea,” she replied.
She looked around outside the car. The darkest part of the storm was to the northwest of them. The road was dry. Six white wood- frame houses stood nearby. Men, women, and children stood in the yards looking to the west. She could see that if she and Pete continued to move north it would take them into the path of the storm which was also the direction taken by the white pickup, the highway patrol and the Infinity. It would not be a wise move.
She heard a siren. In the distance behind them, she saw the flashing red lights of an approaching police car. As it drew near, she saw Duke behind the wheel. He waved as he went around them.
The thought of Duke chasing after criminals was more than she could take. "Let's go after them Pete," she said. "What are you waiting for?"
Without hesitation, Pete pulled the shifter to first gear, revved the engine and popped the clutch. Acceleration shoved Sheila, hard, into the seat as the powerful quarter-mile racer leapt forward.
“Eeehaa!" screamed Pete.
Chapter 3
As Jimmy Truman neared the crest of a long hill, he saw in the mirror the flashing red and blue lights of the highway patrol cruiser. The police scanner crackled to life.
"Unit 37 this is unit 15. I can back you. Do you copy?"
"Ten-four unit 15, I am northbound on SH-4 two miles north of Piedmont, approaching Waterloo road."
"I copy that, 37. I am west of I35 on Waterloo Road. I'll be there in ten minutes."
"Ten-four, 15."
The scanner fell silent. Jimmy knew that as long as the trooper was following they had little chance of escape. It was time to act yet he was reluctant for he feared he would kill the trooper. He had little choice now for it had gone too far. He could feel the anger inside of him. It was a cold, cruel, anger that was stronger than the voice of compassion that called out to him.
"That trooper has to go," said Jimmy. "Without him, we might slip through."
"Right," rumbled Bear.
Jimmy took his foot off the accelerator, waiting until the truck lost some of its momentum, and then he stood hard on the brakes rolling to a stop at the bottom of a hill on the right shoulder. He glanced at his watch then opened the door and got out. He held an AK47 in his right hand. Bear rolled out the passenger side with the other AK47. Jimmy jumped into the bed of the truck. He lay down on his stomach, resting the rifle across the tailgate.
Bear stretched out on the shoulder of the road. He wrapped the rifle’s sling around his left arm and planted his left elbow firmly against the ground.
A minivan, moving south, slowed down as it drew abreast. A middle-aged man at the wheel gawked in surprise when he saw them. An adolescent boy, in the back seat, said, "Cool."
Bear pointed the rifle at the man. "Bang, Bang," he said.
With a startled look the man gunned the van. He turned right onto a dirt road, rolling away in a cloud of dust as the boy in the backseat stared out at them, his face pressed against the glass.
Jimmy heard the siren then he saw the highway patrol cruiser top the hill. Its red and blue strobe lights were brilliant against the storm-darkened sky. Jimmy’s ears popped as the barometric pressure abruptly dropped. The trooper saw them too late. White smoke boiled from beneath the cruiser as he braked, leaving black marks down the center of the highway. The staccato reports of the AK47 rifles echoed through the area. The first shots blew out the front tires. The car careened onto the left shoulder, skidded up an embankment, took out a barbed wire fence, ran through a stand of small trees and stopped. Green coolant poured, hissing, from holes in the radiator.