James Born - Shock Wave

He slowed as he approached his turnoff.

It didn’t take much to uncover the lid to the box, buried about eight inches under the soft sand. Tasker and Sutter focused hard on the box, to give Alicia a few minutes to handle private business. Even though they offered to drive her to a restroom, she said she had used the bushes plenty of times and headed into the thick brush.

Sutter reached down into the box. “Looky here.” He held up a glass container. “Don’t need no lab tests to tell me what this is.”

Tasker nodded. “What else is in there?”

Sutter leaned back down, setting the bottle gently on the soft dirt next to the box. “Let’s see. A box of fuses, some cash.” He sat up again and ran his fingers against the tightly bound twenties. “Bet it’s close to a thousand.”

Tasker nodded his head.

Sutter said, “No, really. I bet you. If it’s within fifty bucks off a thousand, I get to keep it. If not, then it’s yours.” He flashed his smile.

Tasker said, “Funny.” He snatched the money from Sutter’s hand before he could count it and crammed it in his front pocket. He looked at his friend. “Evidence.”

“Man, you are paranoid.” He leaned back into the box. “Whoa, now here’s some evidence.” He pulled up a small Smith & Wesson.38-caliber revolver, his two fingers holding it by the trigger guard. “What would an engineer need with this?”

Tasker took the gun, also by the trigger guard, and added, “Why would he hide it out here?”

Sutter grabbed the last item, examined it briefly and said, “A map of the county.” Then he looked in the box and added, “And a roll of duct tape.”

Tasker stood up and said, “He’s done if we ever find him.”

Sutter said, “We’ll find him in time.”

“But do we have any time?”

Wells whistled a Rush tune, “Free Will,” as his Ford Ranger bumped over the entrance to his fishing hole. He was hardly paying attention until he saw the gold Jeep Cherokee. It took him a second to notice the two men near his box, then another second to recognize the state cop, Bill Tasker, and that Miami cop named Sutter.

“How on earth did they find this?” he said out loud as he spun the wheel. The Ranger turned slowly in the soft sand. He saw the men spring up from the box and turn his way. For a second, he thought they might not recognize him. Then he heard Tasker yell, “Daniel, wait!”

Wells hit the gas, spraying dirt back onto the men. The only problem was that the sudden spinning of his wheels sunk them into the soft sand. He heard some pops as his side mirror shattered. Someone was shooting at him. He ducked instinctively and steered for the break in the tree line.

Tasker was running in his direction just as the wheels finally caught on harder ground. The truck lurched up out of the soft spot, and Wells yelped with relief-until he saw that Tasker had jumped onto the rear of the truck, then tumbled into the bed of the pickup.

“Oh shit,” said Daniel, as he saw the paved road. He hammered the gas pedal and turned the wheel hard when he hit the pavement, both to get some speed and in hopes of tossing the persistent cop out of the truck.

As he headed west on 344th, he looked in his rearview and was relieved to see an empty bed.

Tasker heard the vehicle coming down the dirt path and didn’t give it a second thought. “Fishermen,” he said to Sutter. Neither man recognized the old blue pickup, but it only took a second to recognize the driver. Without thinking, Tasker shouted, “Daniel, wait.” Like he was trying to catch up to an old friend at a ball game.

Sutter didn’t hesitate. He dropped to his right knee and pulled his backup Beretta.25 from an ankle holster. He brought the tiny, nonregulation semiautomatic pistol up in both hands like it was his full-sized Glock and started to pop away at the truck as it spun wildly and sprayed them with dirt. The small-caliber bullets had little effect, and in a few moments the truck’s tires caught on firmer ground.

Tasker raced ahead without hesitation. When the truck bogged down again, he made a wild leap and landed on the tailgate, then tumbled into the bed. He felt his face rub against the rough, rusty floor of the bed, then his head slammed into the cab. He lay there for a second to regain his composure, checked to make sure his belly bag was still secure and then, finally, got up on his knees in the wildly rocking truck. He was about to set himself to kick the rear access window out when the truck hit the paved road with a thump and sent him first into the air, then back against the tailgate, then to one side. By the time the truck was on smooth pavement, Tasker was on his back, looking up at the sky, trying to determine if anything was broken. He was wedged near the cab and didn’t think Wells could see him, so he stayed put for a minute to grab a few breaths of air and devise a plan.

Sutter grabbed the bottled explosive and the pistol as he sprang to his feet. He didn’t give Alicia a second thought when he ran to Tasker’s Cherokee. It wasn’t until she darted out of the bushes, her dress still hiked up, that he remembered he couldn’t leave her.

“In the Jeep. Get in the damn Jeep,” he shouted.

She was inside before him. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Hold these.” He shoved the gun and bottle in her lap as he jerked the seat up where he could reach the gas. “Your husband just showed.” He reached down the steering column, relieved the keys were in place. He cranked the engine and hit the gas, getting much the same effect as Wells, spinning in circles and kicking up dirt. He pushed the Cherokee almost into the bushes, rubbing the thick Brazilian pepper branches hard against the gold paint to stay on firmer ground. It worked, and he darted onto the road at thirty miles an hour, immediately catching sight of the truck up ahead. “Hang on,” he said as he punched the gas.

Alicia, close to tears, said, “Where is Mr. Tasker?”

Sutter looked ahead. “I thought he was in the truck.” His stomach shifted toward his throat as he quickly scanned the sides of the road to see if his partner had been thrown from the truck.

“There he is,” said Alicia, pointing at the truck ahead of them.

Sutter felt a breath of relief come to him as he saw Tasker pop up in the bed of the truck. He had his Beretta in his hand and leaned back, holding on to the side panel as he kicked the small window in the center of the rear glass. Tasker’s foot went into the cab as the window came right off its tracks.

“Oh shit, girl, this could get ugly.”

Tasker felt the blood come back into his brain and reached down for his pistol. The truck’s motion was fairly steady now as they headed west toward Homestead. He thought about waiting until Wells stopped for something, but was afraid there might be innocent bystanders. He took a deep breath. He counted to three, then jumped up on his knees. He wanted Wells to see the gun and know what could happen. Tasker braced himself and brought up his right foot with the hiking boots he’d slipped on instead of tennis shoes. Thank God the heavy, reinforced shoes had been close to the door of his closet. He pulled back his leg, aimed for the rear access window and let fly. The force of his kick sent his foot into the cab and made him lose his balance.

Wells, apparently unnerved by the action, swerved hard one way, then the other, causing Tasker to fall again.

“That’s enough,” he said out loud, sticking his right hand-his gun hand-into the cab and up to Wells’ head. “Stop the truck, Daniel,” he yelled into the cab over the sound of the rushing wind. He then followed his arm through the wrecked rear window. He squeezed his head and shoulders through, just as Wells hit the brakes. His momentum carried him mostly into the cab, but gave Wells the chance to bat away his hand and send the Beretta rattling to the floor. The truck instantly picked up speed as Tasker balled his fist to bash Wells’ brains out. He raised his fist.