Then Comes a Drifter, page 24
“And you really should have stayed off comms.”
Laramie pulled against Dayo’s hold as Rosche kept pummeling and kicking Gered. Dayo held her tight. Gioia stared at her boots, fists clenched tight and flinching with every pained sound from Gered.
Finally Rosche stopped. Gered shuddered, a broken sort of moan coming from him as Rosche turned him over. The warlord pulled a knife, setting it against Gered’s cheek under his eye.
“Three chances, Gered. You knew what would happen if you tried again. Three times you threw my generosity in my face.” Anger rose in Rosche’s voice. He pressed harder on the knife. “I should let every man here take a cut out of you with this knife.”
Laramie wanted to scream and fight her way over at the sight of the wide-eyed fear on Gered’s face.
“But I won’t. Yet. You haven’t finished understanding what you’ve done.” Rosche stood and sheathed the knife.
Two men hauled Gered back up from the ground. He slumped between them, breath coming in wheezing gasps. Laramie wrenched her gaze away as Rosche stepped closer.
“As for you, you’re still going to build those canisters for me,” he said. “But right now take her to my room. It’s been a while since I had someone with a little fight in them.”
Laramie’s stomach twisted.
“Or maybe,” he cast a glance at Gered, “maybe I’ll just do it here so he can watch.”
Gered’s head tilted up, loathing and hatred seeping through his battered features. Rosche only laughed and pressed his mouth against hers. Laramie froze in fear and horror for a second.
Surprise him.
Instead of fighting, she grabbed his shirt in cuffed hands and kissed him back, though every fiber of her being screamed for her to run. He withdrew, his not the only surprised expression.
“I have a better idea,” she murmured, forcing a smile.
“And what’s that?” Rosche asked, his hands sliding around her hips and daring to dip lower. She fought a shudder of revulsion.
What is my idea?
“The only thing he likes better than women and whiskey is a fight.”
I can’t beat him hand-to-hand. But maybe...
“No one’s stupid enough to...”
I’ve got nothing left.
“A challenge.”
“A what?” His voice caught in surprise and some amusement.
“A race. You and me, motorcycles and some supplies. Whoever gets back here first wins.”
His eyes narrowed. “And what’s the prize?”
Laramie straightened her shoulders. “If I win, I get a truck, supplies, and him.” She jerked her head toward Gered. “If you win...” She shrugged. “I think we all know what you want.”
Rosche’s smile tightened as murmurs of interest and speculation rippled around them.
Good. Plenty of people heard.
“I’m intrigued, but why should I accept?”
Forcing down bile and praying for a miracle, she grabbed him again and kissed him. She pulled away and smiled up for a second before smashing her head into his. Rosche stumbled back in surprise, only to catch her follow-up kick to his stomach.
“Because I challenge you!” she shouted. “And I think I can win.”
Murder shone in his eyes as he wiped blood from his nose.
“A race through the mountains. You make it back alive, or not at all.” He turned to Gered. “String him up.”
He looked at Laramie. “If he survives the heat, he’s got an appointment with the firing squad when I get back.”
Laramie kept her eyes locked on Rosche’s as she answered. “When do we start?”
Chapter 34
Rosche swiped blood from his face. “Fuel a bike for her, and give her back her weapons.” He turned an ugly smile at her. “I like a challenge.”
Laramie held his sneer for a moment, tensing her jaw in her own challenge, before turning back to Dayo. She held out her cuffed wrists.
His glare didn’t fade as he unlocked the cuffs. Her motorcycle was unloaded from the truck and a rider ran for a fuel can. She pulled open the saddlebag. If she was racing, she wasn’t doing it in the Barrack’s colors. She was doing it as a drifter.
Pulling off the baggy leather jacket, she tossed it into the dust. Her green jacket slid about her shoulders, fitting snug, like a second skin. The dust scarf went next, and she kept her braid tucked under its folds.
“Laramie.” Gioia’s quiet voice turned her.
The rider stood behind her, face still pale and drawn. She extended Laramie’s knives and pistol. Laramie holstered them, confidence returning with every piece of herself she replaced.
“He’ll kill you,” Gioia whispered.
Laramie flicked a glance at where Rosche inspected his bike.
“Guess I’ll just have to ride better.”
Gioia shook her head, pressing her lips tight. “Don’t...”
“Sorry if I’m not ready to just give up and spread my legs,” Laramie snapped and instantly regretted it at the way Gioia flinched.
“Sorry.”
A trembling smile broke across Gioia’s face. “He said you thought you could make it. What about this?” A sort of desperate belief shone through.
Laramie reached for the red helmet Gioia carried in her other hand.
“I got him into this, Gioia. I’m going to do my best to get us both out.”
A tear trembled dangerously on the rider’s eyelash. “Be careful. And if you get the chance,” her face hardened to stone, and she released her hold on the helmet, “kill that son of a bitch.”
Laramie allowed a smile. “You got it.”
“Drifter!” Moshe called.
She went to join him and Rosche. The unit leader held a map. He straightened the folds to better show a red line hastily marked across the surface.
Laramie tilted her head to see it, still staying a good pace away from both him and Rosche. It was a close-up of the mountains, topography drawn in wavy lines. A small square marked the Barracks at the foothills. The line traced sixty miles from the Barracks up into the mountains, wriggled its way south at least twice that distance until the elevation dipped, and then angling back to the starting line.
“Follow the markers for highway eight and keep south at the first turnoff up in the mountains,” Moshe instructed. “You’ll hit most of the rough terrain here.” He pointed to a spot halfway through the route. “If the road’s blocked, find a way around.” He glanced to Laramie. “It hasn’t been maintained, so there will be some patches where you’ll have to get creative.”
Laramie offered a careless shrug, and kept staring at the map, memorizing it.
“How am I getting back?” she asked.
“Maybe I’ll just leave your body for the crows,” Rosche taunted.
She coolly glared back and lifted a middle finger. He smirked.
“You’ll hit a junction for highway eight and route eighty-seven. Take eighty-seven all the way back in.” Moshe answered as if he hadn’t heard their exchange. “Your tank should last you all the way back. Five minutes until start if you had any other business.”
Laramie darted a look at him. His face stayed blank, but he gave the slightest of nods.
She turned her back on Rosche and strode back to her bike. Her steps faltered halfway there.
Gered had been cuffed to the posts in the middle of the yard, his arms stretched out to either side and slightly above his head. His head hung forward, weight shifted awkwardly off his injured leg. He looked small and vulnerable without the red jacket.
Any other business. She altered her path and went to him.
His ragged breathing hitched as she came to stand in front of him.
“Why?” He lifted his head, displaying the bloody mess Rosche had left.
“I’m not giving up, Gered.”
He weakly shook his head. “He’ll kill you.”
Laramie crossed her arms. “So I’ve heard. Guess it’s a good thing I don’t actually suck at marksmanship then.”
He didn’t answer, just lowered his head again.
“I’m not giving up, Gered. Please don’t give up either,” she whispered fiercely.
His body jolted as he tried to shift his weight again. “It’s too late for that.”
“Don’t. I’ll be back, kamé.”
His breath hitched again at the word.
“I’ll be back.” She repeated the promise, as much for herself as for him. She pressed a hand to her jacket and the pictures crinkled in response. She had to make it back.
She turned on her heel and headed to the bike. She swung a leg over the seat and settled in. The engine thrummed to life, eagerly roaring under her touch as if it had already forgotten the miles she’d pushed it that day.
The units began to gather in silent groups. The trainees stood together. Axel offered a tentative smile, but there was no hope in his eyes for her.
Rosche saluted her as he pulled his helmet on.
She did the same. The world faded to gray under the tinted visor and compressed to a narrow scope. Moshe tossed chalk onto the ground in a straight line. Laramie kept one foot down as she slowly pulled up to the line. Rosche rolled up beside her.
He looked at her again, features hidden behind the helmet. She stared back, waiting. Moshe came to stand in front of the line, drawing their attention back to him with a wave.
Laramie revved her engine, palms already sticky in her gloves.
Moshe had no words, no caution to ride safe or fair. It would have been a massive joke if he had.
She coaxed another rumble from the bike. No glances behind. Focused on the road ahead. Highway eight to eighty-seven. Then back around.
She could do it. For Gered. For Gioia. For herself.
Moshe dropped his arm. She pushed off, twisting the throttle, and tucking her foot up as the world dissolved into dust and the road and the race.
Chapter 35
Rosche stayed even with her as they roared from the Barracks and onto the road. She leaned forward into the wind, her body absorbing the rhythm of the bike on the road. The early afternoon sun left puddles of mirages ahead of them, scattering as they roared through, only to reform again and again.
He matched her speed with every shift, keeping a bare arm’s length away. A slight curve appeared in the road and they tracked the straightest path through, barely shifting their weight.
The mountains loomed closer with every mile. Foothills rose around them, scrub brush growing taller and perching on ledges where earth had fallen away to reveal the red dirt underneath. Curves came more often, forcing them to slow incrementally.
Still Rosche made no move.
The road rose higher with every bend. Laramie caught her breath as Rosche edged a little closer around a turn, bringing her arm dangerously close to the jagged rocks rising along the edge of the road.
Higher and higher, until pressure nagged at her ears, dulling the roar of the engines. Pines began to cluster and toss long spikes of shade across the road. A taller incline brought a whine from her engine before a quick shift calmed it.
A sign flashed to her right, warning the junction was only a bare mile away.
Laramie began to slow. Rosche didn’t share any of the same caution. Whispering a curse, Laramie kept her speed down. She had no idea what the junction was going to look like.
Closer and closer.
Rosche slammed on his brakes, leaning left, his rear tire squealing and smoking as he took the turn. He stayed upright and Laramie leaned into her own turn three seconds later. She accelerated halfway through and her bike leaped to catch up.
The road narrowed, pine and boulders tumbled from the mountainsides scattered about the sides.
In the shifting shadows ahead, a rock lay in the road, leaving room for only one bike. Throwing caution to the winds, she gunned the engine, barely pulling ahead of Rosche as he got the same idea. He leaned in closer.
She screamed into her helmet as she accelerated again, gaining a few inches on him and whizzing by the rock, a shudder from the narrow brush rocking her boot.
A check in her rearview showed him creeping back up on her. He’d promised to leave her in the mountains.
Too soon to make my move?
He began to match her speed again, creeping up on her left side. His right hand released the handle and grasped his pistol.
Her heart rate spiked until it nearly jumped from her chest. She leaned left, drifting closer to him. A short breath, then she kicked at his bike as hard as she could, making contact just in front of his knee.
He grabbed the handle again, swerving and braking to avoid falling.
She peeled ahead. Sparks flew off the pavement ahead of her. Hunching lower over the handles, she checked the mirrors. Rosche raised his handgun again.
Shifting her weight, she wove side to side, narrowly missing another shot over her shoulder. The road straightened ahead, shadows draping across the road. She grabbed her gun from the holster, clicking the safety off. Wrapping her arm across her body, she used the left side mirror to keep Rosche in view as she snapped off three shots.
He swerved again. She jammed the handgun back into place, grabbing the handlebar again to take another curve.
A fallen tree sprawled across the road ahead. She slowed as she approached, finding the point to pull her weight up onto the foot spikes and bounced. A quick blip to the throttle and tug up on the handlebars lifted the motorcycle up and over the tree.
But her look in the mirror as she flew over sent her into a wobbled landing. She swerved, trying to course correct her stupid mistake. Jamming a foot down in time with a tug of the brakes, she managed to keep herself from tipping over.
The heavy whine of an engine cut through. Rosche jumped the tree and whizzed past her without a second look. Cursing, she straightened out and pushed off, accelerating.
A quick glance down at the odometer confirmed her fear. Not even halfway to the second turnoff. Over fifty miles still to go.
The road curved around another bulge in the mountain. A pit yawned in her stomach at the sight awaiting her on the other side.
Rosche, turned across the road, gun pointed directly at her.
Yanking out her gun again, she scattered shots at him. He flinched away from one sparking off his bike, the others going too wide.
The slide locked back, exposing the empty chamber. DUST!
She jammed it back in the holster. He raised his gun again. A shot tore through her jacket sleeve as she swerved, heat from its passing searing her skin. Another pinged off the road, the ricochet narrowly missing her knee.
Closer, closer. There was a way around. He’d left a few feet of space between him and the edge of the cliff.
Staring down the barrel again, she changed gears, leaning precariously left toward the road’s edge and risking overcorrection back into the pavement as she whisked around his front tire.
A moment of vertigo gripped her as the back tire skidded on loose gravel, trying to draw her closer to the cliff’s edge.
The tire caught, and she lurched forward, pressing as low as she could against the bars to avoid a bullet.
Another whizzed by overhead. The mirror showed Rosche wrenching his bike around to return to the chase.
Recklessly pushing faster, she took a curve with a lean so hard her knee almost brushed the asphalt. But he remained a small spot in her rearview.
What do I do? What do I do? The questions screamed in her head.
The road curved again, taking her up another notch in elevation. One side of the road tumbled off into a gorge, the other blocked by a towering rock wall.
A glance in her mirror showed no sign of him. The spot between her shoulder blades began to prickle. He didn’t have a rifle, but he only had to get close enough to use the handgun again.
Another turn sent her slamming on the brakes. A rock fall had blocked the road four hundred yards ahead.
She skidded, tires smoking and raging against the abuse. Still too fast.
Too fast.
At the last second, she twisted the handlebars, tipping sideways and freeing her foot to scramble free.
Her ankle wrenched beneath her but held long enough to allow her to dodge away and catch herself on the rocks. Pain throbbed through her wrists under the impact. The bike lay on its side, wheels spinning madly as the engine died.
Laramie ripped the helmet off. Guess I’m making a stand here.
The roar of Rosche’s bike bounced off the gorge walls. She left the bike where it lay and shoved at a few small boulders until they rolled over the side of the gorge, bouncing and cracking their way to the bottom, leaving a convincing cloud of dust. She hobbled her way behind the rocks and squatted out of sight. Her fingers shook as she pulled out her pistol, fumbling in her pocket for a new mag and finding...nothing.
Panic spiked as she rifled through every pocket, replaced with horror as she came up empty. They’d taken all her weapons and ammo earlier that day, and Gioia didn’t have any extra mags when she’d handed them back.
Dust.
She peered over the rocks. There was a spare in her bag. But the sound of Rosche’s bike echoed off the rock walls.
Laramie ducked back down as he rumbled to a stop. She loosened a knife in the sheath, trying to bring her breath under control.
Dust. There was nowhere else to go. Time to take a stand.
A small gap in the tumbled boulders allowed her to see Rosche step away from his motorcycle and stalk his way forward, pulling off his helmet as he came to look at her fallen bike.
A little closer, little closer.
He leaned toward the edge of the gorge, peering over as dust still rose in faint bursts.
Laramie eased to her feet, tightening her grip on the knife. Rosche didn’t move, inching a little closer to look.
One more breath for courage. She placed a hand on the smooth rock surface and vaulted over. He whirled at the movement. Not quick enough to block her kick.
A gun gleamed in his hand as he recovered. She charged in close, and thrust a hand out, redirecting the gun as he whipped it up. The discharge reverberated off the mountainside. A slash down toward his wrist forced him to drop the gun.
