The Stolen Rig

Could two exiled rogues outrun twenty tons of corporate artillery in a stolen truck? I had exactly twenty minutes before sunset to find out.

The engine of the modified Ram interceptor roared to life under my hand, shaking the corrugated tin roof of the maintenance bay. It wasn't a standard highway runner. The Syndicate had reinforced the frame with tubular roll cages, bolted quarter-inch steel plating over the engine block, and welded a massive V-shaped snowplow bumper to the front grille. Two auxiliary fuel tanks sat strapped into the bed alongside dual spare tires and steel ammunition boxes.

Tlalli slid into the passenger seat, slamming the armored door with a heavy metallic clack. She threw the Sonora Syndicate attack map and coordinate clipboard onto the dash, levering a fresh round into her Marlin rifle in the same fluid motion. Her breathing was fast, warm, and scented with crushed juniper and desert rain. Every nerve along my collarbone flared hot in response, our bond pulsing like an electric wire strung between our chests.

"How's the clutch?" she asked, racking the lever back.

"Stiff," I said, stomping the heavy pedal and shoving the transmission into first gear. "Like driving a bulldozer with a bad attitude."

"Good. Don't stall it."

Outside, the siren wailed. A sharp, rhythmic klaxon echoed across the sink basin, bouncing off the limestone canyon walls. Overhead halogen floodlights flickered across the yard, turning the desert dust into swirling amber sheets.

"Container is seventy yards out, northeast corner," Tlalli said, leaning toward the armored windshield slit. "Two guards by the door. Sniper tower on the left flank."

"Hold on."

I dropped the clutch and hammered the gas. The massive diesel engine screamed, all four rear tires biting into the gravel floor. We launched out of the maintenance bay into the open compound, shattering the hanging plastic draft curtains into ribbons.

Bullets struck the steel hood instantly. Heavy copper-jacketed rounds sparked and ricocheted off our armored plating, sounding like hail on a metal shed. Through the narrow slit in the windshield, I saw two corporate contractors in tactical vests scrambling away from the blue shipping container.

I didn't swerve. I aimed the sharp wedge of the front plow bar directly at the heavy padlock and steel locking rod on the right container door.

"Brace!" I yelled.

The impact hit my shoulders like a mule kick. The reinforced steel plow caught the locking rod at twenty miles an hour, shearing the forged steel pins with an ear-splitting crack. The container door flew open, rebounding off the corrugated metal wall with a boom that rattled my teeth.

I stomped the brake and pulled the mechanical handbrake in one sharp jerk. The truck slid sideways in the gravel, throwing up a blinding wall of caliche dust to screen our flank from the main barracks.

Tlalli was out the door before the tires stopped spinning.

She dropped to one knee in the dirt, her Marlin cracking twice in rapid succession. The first contractor took a round to the shoulder and went down behind an oil drum. The second ducked behind a stack of wooden crates, his assault rifle spraying wild dirt across our fenders.

"Xolocotzi! Move!" Tlalli shouted.

A scrawny, dust-caked figure stumbled out from the dark interior of the container, clutching a blood-soaked bandage to his ribs. His yellow coyote eyes were wide with terror, but the moment he caught Tlalli's scent, he threw himself forward.

I reached out through the open cab door, grabbed the collar of his denim jacket with one hand, and hauled him across the running board into the back seat. He landed in a heap on the steel floorboards, coughing hard and wheezing for breath.

"You're late," the coyote wheezed, curling his knees to his chest.

"Shut up and stay down," I told him, hauling Tlalli back inside by her belt as another burst of automatic fire chewed into the door frame.

She slammed the passenger door shut and brought her rifle barrel up through the firing port. "Sniper tower at eleven o'clock! He's lining up the front tires!"

High above the motor pool, on a steel gantry platform bolted to the canyon wall, a marksman in black fatigues tracked our rig with a heavy scoped rifle.

I threw the truck into reverse, spinning the wheel hard left. The rear bumper smashed through a stack of wooden pallets, sending splinters flying across the dirt.

Tlalli didn't flinch. She tracked the sniper's muzzle flash through her iron sights, held her breath for a single beat, and squeezed the trigger. The heavy .45-70 round punched through the tower's spotlight glass. The bulb exploded in a shower of white sparks, and the sniper tumbled backward over the safety rail, vanishing into the darkness below.

"Clear!" Tlalli called out.

"Not yet," I answered.

At the far end of the basin, the main motorized iron gates were grinding shut. A pair of heavy gun trucks were revving their engines by the fueling station, preparing to block the ramp that led up to Highway 93. If those gates locked, we would be trapped in the bottom of a bowl with twenty mercenaries and three mortar crews.

I shoved the gear lever forward into third, mashed the accelerator flat to the firewall, and locked my hands on the steering wheel.

The twin-turbo diesel howled. The Ram surged forward, accelerating across the packed caliche yard like a charging bull. The sheer weight of the rig shoved me deep into the vinyl seat.

"Hold onto something!" I shouted.

One of the syndicate gun trucks cut across our lane, trying to t-bone our left quarter panel. I didn't touch the brakes. I leaned into the swerve, catching the lighter utility truck with the corner of our plow. The collision tore the front axle clean off their chassis, spinning them across the gravel into a fuel tank rack. A burst of vaporized diesel ignited, throwing an orange fireball thirty feet into the twilight sky.

The heavy iron security gates were four feet from closing.

Two armed guards on the catwalk scrambled to disengage the emergency winch, but they were too late.

The wedge of our plow slammed into the meeting point of the double gates at fifty miles an hour.

The sound was pure industrial violence. The center chain snapped like thread. Steel hinges groaned, tore loose from their concrete footings, and sheared off in a fountain of sparks. The heavy iron panels buckled outward, scraping violently along our armored flanks as we punched through the perimeter wall.

We hit the steep dirt incline leading out of the sinkhole. The big tires tore into the rock, spitting shale behind us, and crested the rimrock in a single violent leap.

The tires caught asphalt with a sharp rubber squeal.

We were on Highway 93.

The open desert unrolled before us beneath a bruised, purple evening sky. Behind us, the alarms of the syndicate base faded into the roaring wind, while the twin plumes of burning fuel lit the canyon rim in flickering gold.

Tlalli lowered her rifle, resting the warm barrel against her knee. She reached out and placed her hand over mine on the gearshift. The heat of her skin soaked through my leather gloves, a steady, grounding pulse that quieted the ringing in my ears.

"We have thirty miles of open blacktop," she said, checking the cracked dash clock. "Sundown in twenty minutes. If we push this rig to eighty, we hit Mile Marker 42 before the first mortar team gets into position."

"And when we get there?" I asked, shifting up into overdrive and watching the speedometer needle sweep past seventy-five. "Macario is waiting with twelve rifles. Yaretzi has twenty. Both of them think we're traitors."

A sharp, dangerous grin cut across Tlalli's dirt-streaked face.

"Then we won't give them time to aim," she said. "We're crashing their war."

I pressed the pedal down until the steel floor hummed beneath my boot. The stolen interceptor tore through the darkening desert, racing straight toward the two Alphas who wanted our blood.