Hearts Racing (15 page)

Chapter 24

The next morning, the press were beside themselves as Buck attempted to make his way to the start line. They crowded around him, asking him about the race, about rumors that Polini was a cheater, about rumors that Mexican terrorists were making trouble in the South of New France.

Buck brushed them aside by saying he was concentrating on his own riding today, but it nagged at him that the press brought up the Mexicans again. The effects of whatever was happening down south were starting to be felt in earnest now. Gas stations were completely out of gas. The race director had altered the route to help team cars running low on fuel, making it just go around Denver in a big circle like a huge crit course. Buck was worried the changes were as a result of Bernard somehow working behind the scenes to screw him over, but in the end the race was more of a parade lap than anything.

The specter of cheating had cast a pall over the race, one that none of the riders wanted to deal with. As the peloton wheeled across the landscape, rider after rider approached Buck to say they thought what Polini had done was disgusting, and they didn’t support it. Some even spoke loudly enough for Polini to hear.

Polini didn’t reply. But he didn’t look so smug anymore either.

Polini was still the green sprinter’s jersey wearer, though he’d lost the yellow overall jersey to Buck. Polini attempted to whip his team into a leadout train to deliver him to the finish line, but they would not be encouraged. They all acted as if they didn’t hear a word he was saying. Serves you right for cheating, Buck thought. No one wants to be associated with you.

In the end, one of the other teams managed to mount a decent leadout and their rider took the sprint, earning himself just enough points to edge out Polini. He would still take home second place overall, behind Buck. His connections were too strong to have him totally removed from the race. Buck felt magnanimous about it, though, which was a feeling easy to have from the top step of the overall podium of the biggest race of your life.

But he wasn’t able to properly enjoy it. Miguel had been floating around the periphery during the race, stopping in to say hello here and there but leaving operations in LeMond’s hands. Now that it was over, he was hurrying everyone along.

“We must leave Denver,” he said. There wouldn’t even be time for a nap after the race. And they’d be driving all night. He wouldn’t even let on why they had to rush, saying only that he’d fill everyone in when they were on the road outside of town.

Buck was completely exhausted. He didn’t care what was happening as long as he could lie down and take a nap.

The outskirts of Denver slid away as LeMond drove the van with the entire team, along with Faith and Miguel. Outside the van, Buck saw abandoned vehicle after abandoned vehicle. The cars had been driven until they ran out of gas then just left where they stood. Even though they were all in good condition, not burned out husks or anything, they lent the highway an eerie, post-apocalyptic air.

As the sun set behind the van, Miguel twisted in his seat to address everyone.

“First of all, let me say congratulations,” he said. “Not only have you fulfilled your role flawlessly, you have managed to win the race. Congratulations to all of you.” The team looked around at each other and smiled. A few riders patted Buck on the back. “Unfortunately, we are not able to rest and celebrate. We must get back to New Lyon. There is terrible news.”

“What’s wrong?” Buck asked.

“We have not seen it here because Denver is far removed from the military action, but I’ve just had word this afternoon from Miriam. Our facility was hit by the French air force acting on intelligence that it was a Mexican secret base.”

“Oh my god,” Faith said, her voice a gasp. “Is Miriam okay?”

“She is,” Miguel said, “but it is not Miriam who worries me.”

“Barker?” Faith asked, her voice cracking with emotion.

“As far as Miriam can tell, he is unharmed. But the blast of the bomb damaged a wall, allowing him to escape. We can only assume he is at large and attempting to make his way back to New Lyon.”

“No!” Faith said, hoarse. “If he gets back to New Lyon, he could have my brother executed!”

Miguel nodded. “That is why we are in a rush to get back. Mister Barker has a head start on us, but he won’t have the resources to drive the whole way. He will have to walk, and we have enough gas to get most of the way there if we drive carefully, and I am doing my best to contact someone who can help reinforce us.” Miguel’s phone range. He held up a finger then answered, speaking rapidly in Spanish.

“LeMond, can’t you go any faster?” Buck asked.

LeMond answered without taking his eyes from the road. “I could, but it would burn more gas. Miguel has calculated that our optimum speed is a bit slower than I’d like.”

The evening went on like that, turning into night. Miguel argued, pleaded, and cajoled, trying to get one of his contacts to agree to help them get back to New Lyon as the needle in the dashboard’s fuel gauge eased toward the E.

Faith was visibly getting more and more restless. Buck tried to calm her by holding her hand, draping an arm around her shoulders. She smiled at him, but he knew there was nothing he could do to help. So he slumped into his seat, arm still around Faith, and closed his eyes.

Buck jerked awake, and asked where they were.

“East of St. Louis,” LeMond said.

Buck’s stomach grumbled, but there was nothing to eat and they had no time to stop.

There was some good news, though. Miguel had finally gotten in touch with one of his contacts who could provide some gasoline. If they could make it to Nashville, they would be filled up.

Just a few hours later, Miguel’s contacts proved to be as good as their word. Miguel guided LeMond through a maze of suburban streets to a back alley then leaped out of the car. A weathered tarp sat next to a garbage dumpster. Miguel grabbed it and whipped it aside to reveal red plastic gas cans. LeMond cut the van’s engine and everyone hurried to fill the van’s tank. Buck thought it was lucky that no one else had happened upon the cans, but then again they could be being watched at that very moment from any direction. He looked around, but the area was deserted. Even so, he was glad when the gas was in the van and they were back on the road.

Soon they were rolling through Chattanooga, and it looked like a sure thing that they would make it back to New Lyon. The roads here were just as deserted as they’d been for the whole trip.

When they rolled into New Lyon, it would be late evening and the jail might be closed, but they could probably find someone to speak to all the same. If they had to wait until morning for an administrator, that would most likely be enough. Miguel said his contacts thought there was no way the French could plan and carry out an execution in any less than three days, which was comforting in that it meant they might have a little time, but unsettling as well. Buck wondered how they knew exactly how long an execution took to plan and carry out. He decided not to think about it.

“All we have to do is get to the jail and show this message,” Miguel said, holding up his phone. “The French have not surrendered to the Mexicans yet, but it is only a matter of time. They are providing no resistance now. Mexican forces hold most of California and are sweeping east with almost no resistance. They hold New Orleans. Florida as well.”

“Are we in any danger?” Faith asked. “Of being shot, I mean?”

Miguel looked tired. He swayed in his seat as LeMond drove the van around a stalled car sitting directly in the middle of the highway. “Probably. But with luck we will not run into any troops.”

As he said that, there was a deafening boom from under the car. Screams erupted as the van lurched to a halt and slewed sideways, tires screeching in pain. Everyone was thrown forward, including Buck, whose already injured ribcage emitted a flash of pain. He was thrown from his seat and into the open space between LeMond and Miguel, cracking his head on the dash.

“Ow!” he said, pushing himself back. He was sitting on the floor of the van now, and Faith leaned forward to examine his head. He reached up to touch it, and his fingers came away with a spot of blood on them.

“You’ll live,” Faith said.

“What happened?” he asked. “Did we get hit with a missile or something?”

LeMond was working the key in the ignition. The van responded with metallic whirring noises, but nothing else. After a few more tries, LeMond reached under the dash and pulled the hood release.

Quiet descended, except for moans as riders checked themselves for injuries. Everyone piled out as LeMond bent over the engine bay, where steam rose into the air.

“Well, I don’t know what’s wrong, but it’s shot,” he said.

“No!” Faith said “Come on, it’s got to start. We have to get to New Lyon!”

“Can’t we do something?” Buck asked.

“First we’d have to find out what’s broken, which takes time, and then find parts and fix it. Or we could get another vehicle, but that might not have gas in it,” LeMond said, turning to collapse against the van. He slouched to rest on the front bumper. There was an acrid smell that definitely didn’t smell to Buck like a working vehicle.

“Can you do anything, Miguel?” Faith asked. “Please, there has to be something.”

“I am sorry, I have already pulled all the strings there are to pull,” Miguel said. “My contacts are preparing to accept France’s surrender. We are in no man’s land now.”

Faith screamed with frustration, her hands balled into fists. She hammered them against the van, yelling at it to start working again. She then leaped into the driver’s seat and tried the key. Again, the van’s starter whirred, but it didn’t even sputter once. Still, she tried, keying the starter until the whirring slowed due to drain on the battery. At last, she gave up, crossed her arms across the steering wheel, and threw her head down onto them, her body racked by sobs.

Her crying sounded to Buck like the end of the world. All the tension and exhaustion and sorrow of the last few months were coming out. They had taken their toll on Faith. And there was nothing he could do about it. He went to her anyway, stepped close and kissed her on the ear. He then put his foot in the door and pulled himself up to reach the van’s rack where the bikes were kept.

“What are you doing?” Faith asked.

“I’m riding to New Lyon,” he said.

Faith turned to look at him, her eyes glistening with tears, then bolted down from the van’s driver’s seat and folded Buck into a hug. After he yelled due to the pressure on his rib, she apologized and settled for kissing him instead.

LeMond said “Yes!” out loud, and they both turned to look at him.

“What?” LeMond said, grinning. “I knew it.”

Buck had always wanted to ride on a deserte
d highway. With its smooth surface and gentle grades, a highway presented excellent terrain for a paceline. As usual for wishes that eventually came true, however, this one manifested in circumstances Buck could never have foreseen and would never have asked for had he known about them.

He hadn’t had more than a few hours fitful sleep in the van the night previous, and he’d completed a stage race the day before. Add to that the injury he’d gotten to his ribs during the race, plus the crack his head had taken on the dash when the van failed, and he wasn’t feeling anywhere near his best. But right now, the situation required speed. And he could still deliver speed.

They’d been about 120 kilometers from new Lyon when the van broke down, a distance Buck expected to cover in around five hours. The Miami riders had leapt aboard their bikes and were working together to make the best possible time into the city by sharing the hard work of being on the front of the group. Occasionally a rider would sense a dip in morale, and whip it back into shape with a yell of “Vamonos!” which would be echoed by the rest of the team.

Each rider would stay at the front of their single-file line for about a minute then flick his elbow to let the rider behind him know he was moving off the front, or “pulling up.” Then that rider faded to the back of the line and the second man took over. This way everyone worked as hard as they could while getting maximum recovery time.

Buck was pleased with their speed, and they met little resistance. They weren’t at race speed, but then none of them were fully rested and there hadn’t been enough water. Every time he thought about slowing the pace or resting for a few minutes he thought about Faith and her face as he’d ridden away. He knew he was her only hope for making it to the New Lyon jail before Barker got there.

One thing working in his favor was that he already knew exactly where to go. The jail complex was on the south side of the city, near where one of the most popular training rides—known as the “Airport ride,” since it looped around near the New Lyon airport—started. Buck had ridden past the jail on many a Sunday morning to join other cyclists for that ride. The rest of the team presumably had no idea where to go, but it didn’t matter. He just needed their help getting there with all available speed.

He also had the document that had been on Miguel’s phone. Miguel had forwarded it to Buck’s phone, which was in one of his jersey pockets, wrapped in a plastic bag to protect it from sweat. Buck hadn’t had time to look at it, but it looked like a pardon for Michael Racing from the President of Mexico himself. All Buck had to do was show it to the jail staff, who would surely know by this point that they were, if not at that exact moment, soon to be under Mexican jurisdiction. Miguel had said that anyone with questions about the authenticity of the document could call any Mexican embassy, or the Mexican government itself, and they’d be put through to someone who could help. That seemed good enough to Buck. Government employees tended to play things safe. Why would they execute a man if there was any doubt? They probably wouldn’t.

Unless they already had.

Buck tried not to think about that, focusing on the road and his bike and getting to the jail as quickly as possible.