Shane glanced down the road and saw the glow of headlights, the beams growing brighter and brighter. The vehicle crested a hill less than a hundred meters away and became twin lights racing towards them.
Flynn shouted, “Do it!”
The Stinger man flung out the spike strip, the device elongating like an accordion, hitting the pavement with rows of hollow spikes pointing into the air. The pickup came through their position doing about sixty miles an hour, plowing over the strip and continuing on.
The two motorcycles on either side of the road sped up to match the wounded vehicle, waiting on all four tires to deflate and cause the truck to stop. The Stinger man jerked a cord, pulling the spike strip back and clearing the road just as Shane raced out, hitting the gas to catch up to the motorcycles.
In seconds, he realized something was wrong. He should have been on the motorcycles within about a hundred yards—two hundred at the most, with the motorcycle team neutralizing the driver after the pickup ground to a halt. Instead, the motorcycles were still traveling forward, the taillights getting smaller.
He said, “What the fuck? How is that truck still going?”
Flynn said, “Run flats. He’s driving on run flats. Catch them.”
Shane floored the accelerator and began gaining on the pickup. He reached the first bike and Flynn motioned for him to move. The bike did and Shane threaded past the second motorcycle.
Flynn said, “Pit him.”
While the pickup was able to drive on the run flat tires, it did so like a wounded deer, the vehicle struggling to overcome the inertia of the deflated rubber. Shane came up to his right rear quarter panel and swung the wheel, forcing the front of the van into the rear of the pickup, just behind the rear tire. The contact caused the truck’s tires to break free from the asphalt, the empty pickup bed providing no weight to keep the vehicle on the road.
The pickup swung completely around, the van clipping it one more time before blowing past. Shane kept his eyes on the road, fighting the steering wheel. Flynn shouted, “Turn around, turn around!”
Shane slammed on the brakes, the van sliding sideways on the empty road. He threw it in reverse, whipped the wheel, and flew backwards until the van was facing the way they’d come. He hit the gas, racing back to the wrecked pickup.
The crashed truck was in a ditch, the two motorcycles on either side. Shane saw the motorcycle team rip open the driver’s side door, then the muzzle flash of gunfire. He came abreast and punched the brakes again, skidding to a stop next to the pickup. He leapt out, hearing Flynn on the far side do the same. He saw the two motorcycle men jerking the driver out of the seat, the man limp. They dumped him on the ground and fired again, the driver rolling in the dirt.
Flynn reached the passenger side first, ripping a man out of the seat and throwing him to the ground. Shane saw a scrawny guy, his arms covering his head, thick-framed glasses askew on his face. He bent down and jerked him to his feet, then rushed him to the van, throwing him in the back and handcuffing him to an eyebolt in the floor. He clambered forward into the driver’s seat, seeing the two motorcycle men dousing the inside of the truck with gasoline.
They finished, then ran back to their bikes. They fired them up and disappeared down the road. He saw Flynn flick a lighter, then toss it into the open driver’s door, the flame making a lowwhooshbefore burning furiously.
He put the van in gear just as Flynn jumped inside. In seconds he was racing back down Highway 143, catching up to the motorcycle team. He passed the ambush site and was joined by the Stinger man on his own motorcycle, the group of them driving flat out back to the town.
They rounded a curve in the road and almost smacked head-on into an RV, the motorcycles splitting wildly left and right around it, Shane jerking the wheel at the last minute, missing the front of the RV by inches and flinging Flynn against the doorframe.
He straightened the wheel and slowed down, the surge of adrenaline causing him to pant through an open mouth. He began driving a respectable fifty-five miles an hour, letting the motorcycle taillights disappear in the distance.
A few seconds later, after he’d regained his composure, he blew out a breath, saying, “Man that was almost a mess. We came close to being a hood ornament.”
Flynn rubbed his head, saying, “No shit. I think you gave me a concussion.”
Shane smiled and said, “Who has run flats on a work truck?”
Flynn said, “Someone who’s trying to look like they’re driving a work truck but really isn’t. This is our guy.”
Shane caught Flynn’s eye and said, “Did you look at the guy? I mean, take a hard look? He’s not what I’d call a sicario. He looks more like a skinny librarian.”
Flynn pulled out a flashlight, turned around and shone it on the passenger handcuffed in the rear, seeing what Shane said was true.
He said, “Hey, what’s your name?”
The man in the back said, “They call me the Ghost.”
Flynn smiled, turned to Shane and said, “That’s our man.”
Chapter 9
I lucked out and found a parking spot in a residential zone, just a block away from where we were meeting the team. I pulled our GRS company Jeep into it and Jennifer said, “You’re going to get a forty-five-dollar ticket.”
It was only a two-hour spot without a residential tag, and we were guaranteed to be parked here longer than that, but I figured I was good. I said, “Nobody’s coming by marking tires this late at night.”
