Clive Cussler - The Kingdom

“We tie them up and . . . Oh, no. That’s not good.”

“What?” Remi glanced at her husband. Sam’s narrowed eyes were staring over the heads of the soldiers toward the cab of the second truck. She followed his gaze and saw a silhouetted figure sitting in the cab. The figure ducked down suddenly.

“We miscounted,” Sam muttered.

“I see that.”

“Get in the driver’s seat, Remi. Start the engine. Check for-”

“You can be sure of it,” she replied, then turned on her heel and sprinted toward the front of the truck. A moment later the engine started. The four soldiers shuffled nervously and glanced at one another.

“All aboard!” Remi shouted out the cab window.

“Coming, dear!” Sam replied without turning.

Sam shouted at the soldiers, “Move, move!” and gestured with the rifle. The men sidestepped away, leaving Sam a clear shot at the truck’s radiator. He raised his rifle and took aim.

The fifth man, until now hidden in the second truck’s cab, suddenly stuck his torso out the driver’s window. Sam saw the silhouette of his rifle coming around toward him.

“Stop!”

The man kept twisting his body, the rifle coming around.

Sam adjusted his aim and fired two shots through the windshield. The soldiers scattered, diving into the underbrush bordering the road. Sam heard a crack. Something thudded into the tailgate beside him. He ducked down, lurched sideways around the opposite bumper, turned again, and snapped off a trio of shots into what he hoped was the truck’s radiator or engine block. He turned, raced to the truck’s passenger’s door, jerked it open, and climbed in.

“We’ve worn out our welcome,” he said.

Remi put the truck in gear and mashed the accelerator.

They hadn’t gotten a hundred yards before realizing Sam’s gunshots had either missed their mark or had been insufficient. In the side mirrors, he and Remi saw the truck’s headlights pop on. The four soldiers scrambled from cover and hopped aboard, two in the cab, the other two in the bed. The truck surged forward.

Remi called, “Narrow bridge ahead!”

Sam looked. Though still a couple hundred yards away, the bridge in question looked not just narrow but barely wider than their truck’s girth. “Speed, Remi,” he warned.

“I’m going as fast as I can.”

“I meant, slow down.”

“Joking. Hold on!”

The truck hit a rut in the road and slewed sideways, lurched upward, then slammed back down. The bridge loomed in the windshield. Fifty yards to go.

“Oh, of course,” Remi said, annoyed. “It had to be one of these.”

Though wider and more heavily buttressed, the bridge was simply a larger version of the one they’d crossed on foot earlier that day.

The truck lurched again. Sam and Remi were bounced from their seats, heads hitting the cab’s roof. Remi grunted, wrestling with the steering wheel.

The bridgehead was almost upon them. At the last second, Remi slammed on the brakes. The brakes squealed, and the truck skidded to a stop. A cloud of dust enveloped them.

Sam heard the clank-clank of gears and looked over to see his wife shifting the transmission into reverse. “Remi, what’s on your mind?” he asked.

“A little reverse chicken,” she said with a grim smile.

“Risky.”

“As opposed to everything else we’ve done tonight?”

“Touche,” Sam conceded.

Remi slammed down on the accelerator. With a groaning whir from the engine, the truck started backing up, slowly at first but rapidly gaining speed. Sam glanced in the side mirror. Through the dust cloud created by Remi’s hasty stop, all he could see of the second truck was headlights. He leaned out the window and fired a three-round burst, then a second. The truck slewed sideways, out of Sam’s view.

Eyes fixed on her own mirror, Remi said, “They’re stopping. They see us. They’re backing up.”

Over the roar of the engine they heard the pop-pop-pop of gunfire. They ducked down. With her head below the dashboard, Remi leaned sideways for a better view of her mirror. The pursuing truck was in full reverse mode now, but the combination of Remi’s collision-course ploy and Sam’s gunfire had clearly rattled the driver. The truck careened from one side to the other, the tires bumping over the berm alongside the road.

“Brace for impact!” Remi shouted.

Sam leaned back in his seat and jammed his feet against the dashboard. A moment later the truck jolted to a stop. Remi glanced at her mirror. “They’re off the road.”

“Let’s not stick around,” Sam prompted.

“Right.”

Remi shifted back into drive and pressed the gas pedal. Once again the head of the bridge appeared.

“It didn’t take,” Remi announced. “They’re back on the road.”

“Persistent, aren’t they? Hold the truck steady for a bit,” he said, then opened his door.

“Sam, what are-”

“I’ll be in back if you need me.”

He slung the rifle around his neck and then, using the cab’s door-frame for support, climbed down onto the running board. With his free hand he grabbed the canvas side cover and jerked, ripping free the snap enclosures. He grabbed the vertical brace, hooked his left leg over the side, then pulled himself into the bed. He crawled to the cab’s rear wall and slid back the slot window.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi, yourself. Hold tight, I’m closing your door.”

Remi jerked the truck to the right, then to the left. Sam’s open door banged shut. She asked, “What’s your plan?”

“Sabotage. How close are they?”

“Fifty yards. We hit the bridge in ten seconds.”

“Got it.”

Sam crawled to the tailgate. In the dim light, he groped along the truck bed until his hand found one of the other rifles. He picked it up and dropped his own, then hurriedly collected the other magazines.

“Bridge!” Remi shouted. “Slowing down!”

Sam waited until he heard the overlapping thud of the truck’s tires bumping over the planking, then stuck his upper torso through the rear flap, aimed the rifle at the bridge deck, and opened fire. The bullets thudded into the wood, punching through the gaps and sending up plumes of wood chips. He ducked back through the flap, changed magazines, then opened fire again, this time alternating between the bridge deck and the oncoming truck, which had just crossed onto the bridge. Their truck swerved left, bumped into the side rail, then straightened out. Sam saw an orange muzzle flash from the window. A trio of bullets slammed into the tailgate below him. He threw himself backward onto the bed. Another salvo of gunfire shredded the rear flap and peppered the cab wall.

“Sam?” Remi called.

“It didn’t work!”

“So I gathered!”

“How do you feel about the wanton destruction of fossil artifacts?”

“Generally against it, but this a special occasion!”

“Buy me some time!”

Remi began braking, then speeding up, in hopes of spoiling the shooter’s accuracy. Sam flipped over onto his belly, groped until he found the first ratchet strap securing the crates, and hit the Release button. In short order he had the remainder of the straps free. He crawled to the tailgate and flipped the release; it crashed down.

“Bombs away,” Sam called, and shoved the first crate out. It bounced off the bridge deck, slammed squarely into the truck’s bumper, and burst open. Wood shards and packing hay went flying.

“No effect,” Remi called.

Sam waddled backward, put his shoulder to the entire stack of crates, then braced his feet against the cab wall and began pushing. With a groan, the stack began sliding along the bed. Sam paused, coiled his legs, and shoved hard, like a linebacker going after a blocking sled.