Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star (33 page)

The sports car swerved, almost losing control and missing Bishop’s front bumper by mere inches. It then accelerated away, the deep-throated rumble of its V8 exhaust audible over the roar of the wind.

Bishop inserted a fresh magazine, chambered a round and engaged the safety. The cab again grew calm as he rolled up the window.

The Corvette’s tail light disappeared over a rise, the blistering fast car easily outpacing Bishop’s truck. Eyes on the prowl as he crested the hill, Bishop ducked when the strobe of muzzle flashes erupted from behind the now-parked car.

A hole appeared in the passenger window, the round traveling up and tearing the cloth lining in the cab’s roof.

“Shit!” Bishop grunted, instinctively ducking until he was past the highwaymen. After verifying Terri and Hunter were unharmed, the Texan’s blood began to boil.

The headlights reappeared in his mirror, the pursuing car now back on the road and gaining quickly. Bishop watched, judging their intended route. Trying to time it perfectly, he swerved into their path, barely keeping control of his own ride.

The speedy two-seater zipped past, apparently unflustered by his attempt. Again, the tail lights faded, finally disappearing from view.  

That’s a bad tactic
, he realized.
Swerving a pickup at 80 isn’t wise. Would have probably been worse if I’d hit them.
Bishop let off the accelerator, letting the truck coast to a stop.

Sitting in the middle of the interstate, the Texan pondered his options. The attackers could keep up their little game of cat and mouse all night. Eventually, they were going to get lucky and put a bullet into a critical engine component, tire or worse yet, Hunter or Terri.

On the other hand, hiding wasn’t an option either. Terri was growing worse every moment, and eventually Hunter would require nutrition. He could park the truck and go after them on foot, but that would leave his family exposed.

“Maybe a fast as
hell ride isn’t so stupid after all,” he whispered. “Maybe I should trade in this beast for a fast-mover when I finish paying my debt to society.”

In a flash of blue paint, the
‘vette appeared at the peripheral of Bishop’s headlight, speeding directly at him without using its own lights. When it was close, the Corvette switched on its high beams, nearly blinding him. Sparkling flashes showed from the passenger window as the speeding car blew past. He was sure he’d heard a round impact somewhere in the bed.

Engaging
the accelerator, Bishop floored it, knowing he had very little time before the nimble attacker turned around and made another pass.

A
green sign announced an exit ahead. At the last moment, Bishop steered off the interstate and up the ramp. The thoroughfare was littered with relics, but he managed to squeeze through, cross over the intersecting road and continue down the entrance ramp without stopping. Pulling off the shoulder and into the weeds, Bishop hid behind an abandoned 18-wheeler. At least there would be some metal between the road and his family. He jumped out of the pickup and hustled to use the big hauler’s rear axle as cover.

Evidently
, his evasion had surprised the attackers. Ready for them to appear either on the main road below or behind him on the ramp, Bishop was going to give them a little of their own lead-laden medicine. But they never showed.

He stood ready for
what seemed like half an hour, listening, watching and waiting on the blue car to charge. Terri’s moan through the still open driver’s door brought him back to reality.
Maybe they decided to give up
, he pondered.

He scanned with the night vision, then the thermal imager. Nothing. He decided they had headed back for Santa Fe.

He paced around the truck once, checking for any bullet holes, happy the gas tank wasn’t leaking. He considered starting for El Paso again, this time using the night vision to drive. The idea was quickly dismissed. They would catch him again, and it only would take one lucky shot to destroy his life. There had to be a better way.

Anger swelled up inside the Texan. The bad luck of the snake bit
e was just nature behaving badly. It happened. These punks and their go-fast were either bored or wanted to loot his truck.

The stress was overwhelming Bishop’s g
ood sense. Logic and wisdom evaded him, replaced instead by an animalistic desire to execute the men trying to kill him. Bishop became the hunter; his prey was blue.

Jay was fuming mad. Rojas’s poor marksmanship was making his hangover worse. “Jesus, bro, how many shots does it take to hit one f’ing truck? We’re going to use more gasoline stopping this guy than what’s in his tank.”

“Dude! Chill! If you want me to drive while you shoot, then let’s trade places,” responded the equally frustrated passenger.

They both fell silent, staring out the front glass at the entrance ramp where their quarry had disappeared. Both ignored the two bullet holes in their car, courtesy of Bishop’s pistol.

“He can’t go anywhere but back down onto the interstate,” Rojas commented, “That road up there is completely blocked going both directions.”

“He’s gotta move sometime. We’ll spot his headlights over the hill. I’m going to buzz him one more time on the passenger side where he can’t shoot at us. Do you think you can at least hit a tire?”

“And how am I supposed to do that? Hang out the window and shoot while you’re going 120?”

Shaking his head in disgust, Jay responded with a demeaning tone. “No, stupid shit, I’ll roll down my window, and you fire the AK in front of me. Here, practice one time.”

The electric buzz of the window motor sounded. Rojas lifted his battle rifle, first banging into the console and then almost cracking
the barrel against the windshield. He finally managed to point the weapon through the opening, holding it slightly above Jay’s arms as they rested on the steering wheel.

“Yeah! Like that.”

Jay glanced at the dashboard clock, growing inpatient and fiddling with the wheel. “Where the hell did he go?”

“I don’t know
, man. Blast past the exit, and I’ll check it out. We don’t want him getting too far ahead of us.”

The C
orvette accelerated, Jay having to utilize his headlights to avoid the rusting hulls of once operative machinery, now strewn about the highway. As the overpass drew closer, a shadowy form stepped from behind one of the support columns, white flashes sparkling in the glare of the roadster’s high beams.

Bishop was pulling the trigger, the red dot of his optic centered on the ground directly between the approaching headlights. It was stupid to aim for the car. The angle, speed of the target, and narrow profile lowered the odds of hitting anything critical. Instead, he was shooting low and in front of the oncoming speedster, knowing many of his rounds would skip off the pavement and into the machinery spaces of the engine compartment, or better yet, strike a tire. He might even get lucky and bounce a round into the fuel tank.

Jay knew instantly they were in trouble. Whacks,
thuds and ringing metal told him bullets were striking his beautiful ride. When the windshield cracked and then spider-webbed, his heart began to race. Rojas was trying to return fire, struggling to get the AK out the window.

Jay glanc
ed down at the speedometer, noting he was already climbing above 70. He could still see out one small section of the front glass, and he aimed the nose right at the man firing at them.

Bishop waited as long as he could, daring the charging car to
venture his direction. He bounded two steps toward the concrete pillar just as the blue streak flashed by, missing the support by mere inches.

“I’m going to flip around,” Jay yelled at Rojas. “Get ready!”

His friend didn’t answer. “Hey!” Jay shouted as he slowed to turn the car around. Still no response. He reached over to shake his partner, and Rojas slumped forward against his seat belt.

Slamming on the brakes, Jay flipped on the dome light and started trying to find out what was wrong. “Dude! Dude! Where are you hit?”

His hands patted Rojas up and down, feeling for blood – hoping to initiate some reaction. The frisking pressure caused the passenger to slump, his neck twisting slightly toward the driver. Half of Rojas’s head was missing.

Jay freaked, screaming at the grotesque sight, his repulsion
quickly replaced by insane rage. The need for revenge pushed sanity from his thoughts. His eyes narrowed and then darted away from the horror that was his best friend as he contemplated his next move. An image of the smart ass truck driver centered in his mind’s eye.

The
speedster’s tires burned rubber as he accelerated out of the turn. The powerful engine growled with a deep purr as torque was applied to the back wheels.

Jay wasn’t worried about
raiding Bishop’s truck, his own fuel usage or anything else. His brain was alive with the frenzy of murderous fury, bombarded with wrath for the man who had blown his friend’s head off.

Again, Bishop appeared beside the column, the M4 pushing rhythmically into his
shoulder as fast as he could re-center and pull the pain-lever. Some of the bullets produced sparks, visible in the dark space between the onrushing headlights.

Jay had just topped 60 when the left front tire blew. The loss of pressure caused the car to swerve,
his natural reaction to let off the gas pedal. He then made a common mistake, overcorrecting the sensitive steering. The ‘vette spun, a molten layer of liquid rubber forming between the road and the tires. Slick as grease, the loss of traction made the vehicle as uncontrollable as if it were crossing a sheet of ice.

Bishop watched the car spin in
to the median, jump the opposite lane, and flip over. The blue racer finally skidded to a halt, resting on its roof and encompassed by a cloud of dust and smoke.

Bishop lowered his rifle, the violence of the wreck shocking. “Spectacular,” he whispered, changing to a full magazine.

Watching the dust settle around the now-disabled attacker, Bishop was sure no one could have survived such an event. Approaching cautiously, relief flooded his mind.

“And now switching t
o the eyewitness traffic copter - John, what is going on out there on I-25?” he said, doing his best television announcer imitation.

“We’ve got two young fuck-sticks who tried to mess with an old dog,” he replied to himself, using a different voice. “They got their hotrod shot out from underneath them, and now the evening commute south of Santa Fe is going to suck mule ass. Our viewers can expect a significant delay because of these two pricks. I suggest everyone flip off these punks as they drive by.”

He pulled the flashlight off his vest, holding the M4 with one hand and shining the light inside the Corvette. “Oh, fuck,” he whispered as he found only one body inside. The driver-side door was open.

Bishop’s head snapped up, immediately extinguishing the light. “Terri… Hunter,” he groaned, rushing toward the truck.