Regan Wolfrom - Coyote

“No one is pissing themselves.”

“I am… a little…”

The Toyotas were speeding away, faster than you’d usually see on concession road in the middle of winter. They didn’t want us to catch up to them.

We reached the rail crossing.

I glanced to the left, and then to the right. “Nothing,” I said.

“So where’s lucky number three?”

It felt like the airport all over again. Two in front, a third hidden somewhere…

“Maybe I’m not the target,” I said.

“Who’s the target then?”

“They want us to give the all-clear. They want us to chase them toward Cochrane or Clute or something, and then the third truck will take its shot.”

“At the Walkers?”

“At the Marchands, maybe… or Sara… or both.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, Baptiste. You’re the one who tried to kill them.”

“And they’re doing a piss poor job of trying to kill me back.”

“What?”

“Call Sara and tell them to stay put. Don’t mention anything else.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “Clear channel.”

He pushed for Sara. “Sara and Marchands, this is Stems. Stay where you are. Repeat. Stay where you are.”

There was no response.

“Sara and Marchands. Come in.”

Nothing.

“Shit,” Stems said. “Does she know how to work a handheld?”

“Something’s wrong. If she’s not responding… something’s happened.”

“Could be jamming.”

“But if they want us to give the all-clear…”

“They knew we wouldn’t. I said they were cowards… I didn’t say they were idiots.”

“So we turn back.”

“No, wait… I think I see them.”

“She couldn’t get through to us and so they decided to come looking for us?”

“I never said the Marchands weren’t idiots.”

I stopped the truck. “We’ll go together, I guess. I’ll ride with the Marchands.”

I hopped out.

The first of the Marchands trucks slowed to a stop; the second passed in front before slowing down a little further ahead.

Eva rolled down the passenger-side window. Sara was crammed up beside her.

“What’s going on?” Eva asked.

“I’m riding with you,” I said.

“There’s no room.”

“I’ll take the back.”

“But you’re the one they’re after.”

“We were chasing two trucks. We’re not sure where the third is. So I’m with you until we find it.”

She nodded.

I walked around to the back and climbed into the bed of the pickup.

The skinny kid was there, holding his hunting rifle with a serious look on his face.

“Together again,” I said.

He nodded.

I tapped on the cab and the truck started moving.

Stems took the lead, rushing ahead with his three trucks.

The other Ford pickup started up as well, falling in behind us.

We drove past the first concession road with no sign of the third Toyota. For all I knew there were three gray pickup trucks a ways in front of Stems, and I was just wasting our time. But I couldn’t think of a downside to a little extra caution.

A minute or two later we reached the junction with Highway 579. We couldn’t see the Toyotas.

To the right was Cochrane.

To the left was Clute and Silver Queen Lake.

Stems turned left.

We all followed.

As Stems passed a yardsite in the gravel truck I saw the truck swerve. He slammed on the brakes.

His second truck didn’t stop in time and rammed into the gravel truck.

His third drove into the ditch.

I was almost tossed over the cab as the pickup I was standing on lurched to a halt.

A gray Toyota pickup pulled onto the road, a man in armour and a helmet painted like an eagle standing in the back with the mounted.

He pointed it at Stems’ three trucks but didn’t fire.

A second Toyota came out behind. It turned onto the highway and drove toward us. I could see the helmet of its AA gunman, painted with leopard spots.

The Marchands slammed their two trucks into reverse. The boy and I did our best not to fall right out of the box

We sped backward to the junction. The second truck reversed onto the concession before switching back into drive and heading back onto the highway, to the west toward Cochrane.

I braced myself as our truck did the same.

I turned to the skinny boy beside me. “It’s up to us,” I said. “We need to hit the driver or the tires. Both difficult targets.”

He nodded. He wasn’t smiling like I’d remembered from before. I think he was starting to understand how quickly it could all go to suck.

I took out my SIG and knelt down by the tailgate, as close to the driver’s side as I could get.

“You need to stay lower,” I said. “Let them aim at me. No… move more to your left.”

He laid down on his stomach, probably in his best imitation of a sniper. He was in way over his head.

The gunman in the back of the Toyota opened fire.

His aim was not nearly as good as I’d expected it to be. Few of the rounds were even hitting the truck, and so far none had come close to my head.

I waited for the Toyota to come close enough, and then I started firing back.

From the back of a moving pickup, my aim wasn’t much better.

The skinny kid took a few shots as well, staying low as I’d told him.

I heard a loud blast from in front of us. Our truck pulled hard to the left and I lost my balance, slamming into the bed of the truck.

For a moment I thought we were about to roll, but the roll didn’t come and we landed upright in the ditch full of snow.

I looked for the second truck. It was on the ditch on the other side of the road, blown onto its side, the hood and at least half the cab on fire.

“Get everyone out of the truck,” I yelled. “Stay low in the ditch.”

I turned to the skinny kid. “Get into the snow. Take a shot every ten seconds or so. How much do you have left?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Two or three rounds.”

“Shit.”

I hopped out of the truck bed and landed in the snow, the skinny kid right behind me.

I had eight rounds. That’s not much against guys with as much body armour as you.

The Toyota stopped less than five meters from us.

The gunman opened fire on the truck.

I opened fire on the gunman.

There are still two weak spots on most sets of ergonomic body armour after years of so-called improvement: the delts and the kidneys. The delts are harder to hit, and less lethal if you do.

I aimed for the kidneys.

It took three rounds before I got one.

The gunman fell from his mount.

I charged at the truck.

The driver slammed it into reverse.

I took two shots just to keep them moving.

With the Toyota flying up toward Clute and Silver Queen Lake, I had the skinny kid stay in position with the two other gun-toting Marchands while Sara, Eva and I checked on the burning truck.

It looked like something out of my past.

The bomb had been crude and it had been dirty, either radio-activated or weight-triggered… I had no idea which. The five Marchands inside had been ripped open by thousands of pieces of shrapnel, probably screws and nails and any other scraps of metal you can find at Home Hardware.

They weren’t wearing helmets or armour. They hadn’t stood a chance.

It didn’t take long for Stems to show up. I didn’t do a headcount or anything, but it looked like they were all in one piece.

One of Stems’ men was once a medic out of Petawawa, and he looked over all five bodies, not that he could do anything about them.

Two of the surviving Marchand boys were throwing snow on the fire; I guess they needed to do something. The skinny kid remained on watch. Eva Marchand was still, staring into the flames like she was sitting in front of a campfire.