Peak Oil (22 page)

He held his hand in the air. “I cannot go on, I’m dying.”

Alexa pursed her lips, wiping her feverish brow with the back of her hand. “You’ll die if you stay here. C’mon,” she said, trying to drag him by his collar, closer to the road, hoping someone friendly would come looking for her. She couldn’t, she simply didn’t have the strength. “If we ever get out of here,” she said, panting, “remind me to drag your ass to the gym.”

Alexa glanced up as she heard the car, its faint lights bouncing up and down as it came closer. She didn’t care anymore. She would risk anything to get out of there.
 

She stumbled into the road, holding up a hand. She leaned forward, her hands on her knees, unable to stand up straight, sucking in deep lungfuls of clammy breaths. She shielded her eyes from the blinding light as the Humvee careened toward her and swung out at the last moment. She whimpered and slumped to her knees; then she collapsed in the road.

Neil lay on his back, listening intently, trying to control his shallow breathing. He heard Fitch bark an order; then a car door slammed and the car roared away. He had blacked out for a minute, and he felt a front tooth give way as he licked his lip. He must have slammed his face into a rock as Fitch shot him in the back.

He assessed himself for any damage and felt a couple of bruises, no broken bones. He only had a superficial graze on his throat, which wouldn’t be a problem. He had been lucky. Thank God for Kevlar vests.

He heard Alexa moan and the crunch of footsteps on gravel. It receded as she was dragged away by someone. Then he heard the sound of rubber tires rolling on gravel. He opened his eyes a fraction and rolled his head to the side.

A red Chevy hatch was being pushed toward the edge of the cliff by a tall guy wearing a Stetson and cowboy boots. Two dead men were propped up in the front seats. He recognized one of the men from the photo in the passport—Jackson, the Canadian. The guy pushing the car was the same man in one of Mary-Lou’s drawings—the mortician.
 

The mortician strained and heaved, and then the car picked up speed and scraped over the edge of the cliff, bashing into the rocks below. The mortician grunted, satisfied, then lit a cigarette, walked to the edge of the cliff, and peered down.
 

Neil bounced to his feet, bolted to the man, and then grabbed him in a neck lock before he had time to turn around. “What’s your name, cowboy?”

The man struggled, but Neil tightened his grip around the man’s neck. “You’ve got five seconds left before I snap it off.”

“What? Who . . . who are you?”

“Neil Allen.”

“That’s impossible. You’re dead, I saw it with my own eyes.”

Neil pursed his lips. He was wasting precious time. “What’s your name, cowboy?” he asked again and heard the man choke beneath his grip.

The man spat a few strained words, and Neil released his grip slightly. “Mac . . .” he stammered. “Mac McAllister.”

“Who was in the car?”

The tall man squirmed and bucked beneath Neil’s grip and then relaxed, his attempts to free himself utterly futile. “Nobody.”

Neil tightened his vicelike hold.

“Two fricking Frenchies, man,” he spluttered.

“Why?”

McAllister swallowed, trying to pull Neil’s arm from his neck. “An alibi for Chris.” He tugged on Neil’s forearm again, to no avail. “To fake his death.”

“Chris?”

“Andy’s kid,” the guy stammered.

Neil thought about this. Fitch wanted to fake his own son’s death, but why? He shrugged and let go of the mortician and then kicked him in the back, hard. He had wasted too much time already. Fitch would have to answer to him personally, after he found Alexa.

The man tried to recover his balance on the edge of the cliff, his arms flailing, but he was no tightrope walker. Neil ambled closer and peeked over the edge as the mortician fell over. The man bounced against the rock wall, his hat tumbling off as his head smashed into the side of the mountain. He heard a soft thud as the man crashed into the riverbed far below, close to the wrecked Chevy.

Neil spat out the front tooth that had come completely loose and then wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. He slipped his backpack off, pulled off his jacket and T-shirt, and unstrapped the bulletproof vest, inspecting the damage. Three slugs were lodged in the front of the Kevlar vest and another in the back. If Fitch had been a better shot, he would have aimed for his head.

He fumbled in his backpack, grabbed a notebook, tore out a page, and then quickly scribbled a quick note:

I’m okay, but they took Alexa. I’m heading off to the refinery to find her. I’ll meet up with you at the Ocelot Inn. -Neil-

He folded it up and stuck it beneath a rock on the ground. Bruce was on his way; they would track the GLD signal and find the message soon enough. He strapped the vest back on, slipped the T-shirt over his head, and pulled on the backpack as he scanned the surroundings. He jogged into the forest, determined to find Alexa.

Bella sniffed the ground, following Neil’s scent to the rock on the ground.
 

She scratched around the rock, hoping to find something tasty. When there were humans around, there usually was food to be found. She sniffed at the piece of paper beneath the rock and then scratched at it to release it.
 

A gust of wind got hold of it, and she watched as it blew over the edge of the cliff.

Another cat sauntered into the clearing, noticed Bella, and growled viciously. White tendrils of mucus foamed from its mouth. It leaped toward Bella, snarled, and then started circling the female ocelot.

Before Bella could react, it leaped again and sunk its incisors into her neck. Bella yelped and rolled onto her back, kicking at the undersides of the vicious beast, trying to get it off her.
 

The wild cat bit into her ear, tearing away a chunk before Bella could kick herself free.

The large cat snarled at her and then turned around and sauntered away.

Bruce glanced up, the light from a pale moon trying its utmost to penetrate the thick fog around them. He was cruising past the refinery for the third time today. They had been refused entry into the facility, and Laiveaux could only secure a search warrant by the following morning. The dense fog wasn’t making the search any easier.

Bruce had ordered his men to concentrate on a search grid closer to town, while he and Voelkner searched along the perimeter of the refinery. He glanced down as the two-way radio on his lap hissed.

“Major, we have some major activity at the outer perimeter of town, over,” Rosh’s voice crackled over the speaker.

Bruce grabbed the radio. “What type of activity? Over.”

Rosh hesitated for a moment. “A roadblock is being set up by Harvey and his merry band of misfits, over.”
 

Harvey hadn’t been helpful when Bruce requested him to join the search for Alexa. Why the deputy was setting up a roadblock was a mystery.
 

If only Alexa hadn’t refused to wear her GLD, she would have been much easier to track down. Zachary Cohen, Alexa's biological father, had developed the device. She had stopped wearing hers ever since finding out that her dad had blackmailed her to save his own life. The watered-down version was now selling commercially as a GPS unit. Bruce could understand that it would bring up some bad memories, but the girl needed to be practical.
 

The refinery grounds were brightly lit up and quiet, with no obvious activity. Bruce drove past the grounds, heading east toward town. He scanned the road to the left and right and then slammed the steering wheel in frustration.

Voelkner tapped his shoulder. “Look, over there,” he said, pointing excitedly.

Bruce reduced his speed to a crawl. He noticed glimpses of light moving deep inside the forest, like a man walking with a flashlight, shining it haphazardly, searching for something. He surveyed the sides of the road with a powerful Mag-Lite, straining his eyes to make out any discernible shapes in the haze and shadows cast by the trees beside the road.
 

The Humvee’s headlight bounced over a shadowy figure a hundred yards ahead, and Bruce accelerated toward it. A person was plodding toward the main drag. He walked into the road and lifted his arm, shielding his eyes with the other arm. Bruce swerved as the man walked in front of the Hummer and narrowly missed him.

He shot past. His pulse accelerated as he ripped the wheel to the right, pulling the handbrake, bringing the vehicle around with smoking tires. Alexa? The shape was right, but she was unrecognizable. Still, it had to be her.

He skidded to a stop on the grassy shoulder, shoved the door open, and bolted toward her. She was a mess. Her hair was caked with blood, face beaten up, eyes swollen.
 

He grabbed her by her shoulders as she sagged to the ground. Her clothes were torn and filthy and wet. She wore one shoe; the other foot only had a sock on it. She had a gunshot wound to the shoulder. Her wrists were raw and bleeding; she had obviously been tied up. Bruce tasted bile in his mouth as he was overcome by anger and disgust. He swallowed hard. He needed to stay calm and focused. Find out the facts. And then make somebody pay.

“Jesus, Alexa, what did they do to you?” he whispered, unable to control his trembling voice.

She looked up at him and he recognized her green eyes. “Get Dr. Ryan,” she hissed through gritted teeth and nodded toward the forest. “He’s back there.”

Bruce nodded and dispatched Voelkner to fetch the doctor.

Alexa tugged at his sleeve. “I need to get to the hospital, my insides are killing me.”

Bruce’s heart hammered in his chest. He had never seen Alexa like this. Sure, she had been injured before, but she was a wreck. Bruce picked her up gently and loaded her into the front seat of the Hummer, where she curled up into a fetal position, hugging her legs and rocking back and forth. Voelkner dragged the old man into the back seat and then slammed the door.
 

“He hurt me, Daddy,” Alexa whispered as Bruce sped toward town.

Bruce didn’t know what to say. He was afraid, fearful for his daughter’s future, and then enraged. This mixture of emotions was unfamiliar to him. This was going to change everything.

“Who?” Bruce asked.

“Fitch,” she sobbed.

Bruce ground his teeth. He now had a target, something to work with. His mind raced. He needed to get Alexa to safety, get her patched up as best he could, emotionally and physically. He glanced at her. He needed to hurry.

Up ahead, Bruce saw strobing blue lights through the haze. He slowed down and stopped a hundred yards from the roadblock. Harvey ambled toward the car, his head cocked to the side, questioning. He noticed Alexa in the passenger seat as he came closer and drew his weapon, pointing it at Bruce.

“Please get out of the vehicle and place your hands on the hood,” Harvey shouted.

“Not going to happen.” Bruce shook his head, keeping his hands firmly on the wheel.
 

“We have orders to arrest Alexa Guerra, the woman in the car next to you. Do not obstruct justice, mister.”
 

“Not going to happen,” Bruce shouted. “Either you let me through and allow me to get her proper medical attention, or I shoot my way through.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Harvey asked, motioning at Alexa with his gun. He lowered his weapon and walked closer. His eyes widened in shock when he saw her beat-up frame. He spun around, waving his arm. “Clear out,” he shouted at the men behind the barricade. “Open the road, we have a medical emergency.”

They pulled their squad cars onto the side, allowing Bruce to pass. He stamped on the accelerator and sped down the blacktop with screeching tires.

Five minutes later, he screeched to a loud stop in front of the clinic, picked her up from the seat, and carried her inside, her blood dripping on the polished linoleum floors. Wide-eyed bystanders looked on in shock, covering their mouths with their hands.

“Who’s in charge?” he shouted.

A short man with a goatee ran up. “I’m Dr. Klein. What happened to her?”

“I need a bed and some anesthesia,” Bruce barked.

“Put her in the gurney. We’ll take it from here, sir.”

“Bugger off. I want a bed and anesthesia. I’ll clean her up. Nobody’s touching my baby.”

Bruce looked up as he heard a soft rap on the door. “Come in,” he called.
 

He stood at the sink, brushing the final flecks of coagulated blood from his arms. Alexa was in an induced coma. She had two broken ribs, a shattered collarbone, internal hemorrhaging, and lacerations and bruising over most of her body. Most of the scars would heal over time. But not all of them.

He’d had to stitch her up; eight stitches to the face, twenty-five in total. Painstaking work to do properly, but overall he was satisfied. He patted his hands dry and glanced over his shoulder as Voelkner shuffled in.

Voelkner saluted stiffly, casting a furtive glance at Alexa. “How is she, Major?”