Chapter 8
Flynn exited the van and gave instructions. The chase team lined up their motorcycles on both sides of the road, turned on
the ignition, and straddled the seat. The Stinger man opened a case and crouched down, holding the end of the matrix of spikes,
preparing to throw them across the road. While that was happening, Shane backed the van into a dirt road, hiding it from the
highway. He killed the lights just as Flynn reentered. Five minutes later, Shane’s cell phone flashed with a text, Entering National Forest.
He said, “They’re still coming this way.”
Flynn said, “That’s them. That’s the target.”
There were a couple of easy ways to leave the small town of Panguitch, Utah, and reach an interstate to the east or west for
onwards travel. Going through the national forest on Highway 143 was not one of them. The only people who used the highway
were tourists searching for a campground or RV park and people like him looking for routes that were off the beaten path—away
from roads that were regularly patrolled.
Flynn’s contact had only told him the date of the movement and the fact that the transfer vehicle would want to leave the
town clandestinely. He’d studied the map and gambled that 143 was the most likely route. Everything else was either a main
thoroughfare or would require four-wheel drive.
Flynn rolled down the window and shouted, “Get ready. About a minute.”
Shane glanced down the road and saw the glow of headlights, the beams growing brighter and brighter. The vehicle crested a hill less than a hundred meters away and became twin lights racing towards them.
Flynn shouted, “Do it!”
The Stinger man flung out the spike strip, the device elongating like an accordion, hitting the pavement with rows of hollow
spikes pointing into the air. The pickup came through their position doing about sixty miles an hour, plowing over the strip
and continuing on.
The two motorcycles on either side of the road sped up to match the wounded vehicle, waiting on all four tires to deflate
and cause the truck to stop. The Stinger man jerked a cord, pulling the spike strip back and clearing the road just as Shane
raced out, hitting the gas to catch up to the motorcycles.
In seconds, he realized something was wrong. He should have been on the motorcycles within about a hundred yards—two hundred
at the most, with the motorcycle team neutralizing the driver after the pickup ground to a halt. Instead, the motorcycles
were still traveling forward, the taillights getting smaller.
He said, “What the fuck? How is that truck still going?”
Flynn said, “Run flats. He’s driving on run flats. Catch them.”
Shane floored the accelerator and began gaining on the pickup. He reached the first bike and Flynn motioned for him to move.
The bike did and Shane threaded past the second motorcycle.
Flynn said, “Pit him.”
While the pickup was able to drive on the run flat tires, it did so like a wounded deer, the vehicle struggling to overcome
the inertia of the deflated rubber. Shane came up to his right rear quarter panel and swung the wheel, forcing the front of
the van into the rear of the pickup, just behind the rear tire. The contact caused the truck’s tires to break free from the
asphalt, the empty pickup bed providing no weight to keep the vehicle on the road.
The pickup swung completely around, the van clipping it one more time before blowing past. Shane kept his eyes on the road,
fighting the steering wheel. Flynn shouted, “Turn around, turn around!”
Shane slammed on the brakes, the van sliding sideways on the empty road. He threw it in reverse, whipped the wheel, and flew backwards until the van was facing the way they’d come. He hit the gas, racing back to the wrecked pickup.
The crashed truck was in a ditch, the two motorcycles on either side. Shane saw the motorcycle team rip open the driver’s
side door, then the muzzle flash of gunfire. He came abreast and punched the brakes again, skidding to a stop next to the
pickup. He leapt out, hearing Flynn on the far side do the same. He saw the two motorcycle men jerking the driver out of the
seat, the man limp. They dumped him on the ground and fired again, the driver rolling in the dirt.
Flynn reached the passenger side first, ripping a man out of the seat and throwing him to the ground. Shane saw a scrawny
guy, his arms covering his head, thick-framed glasses askew on his face. He bent down and jerked him to his feet, then rushed
him to the van, throwing him in the back and handcuffing him to an eyebolt in the floor. He clambered forward into the driver’s
seat, seeing the two motorcycle men dousing the inside of the truck with gasoline.
They finished, then ran back to their bikes. They fired them up and disappeared down the road. He saw Flynn flick a lighter,
then toss it into the open driver’s door, the flame making a low whoosh before burning furiously.
He put the van in gear just as Flynn jumped inside. In seconds he was racing back down Highway 143, catching up to the motorcycle
team. He passed the ambush site and was joined by the Stinger man on his own motorcycle, the group of them driving flat out
back to the town.
They rounded a curve in the road and almost smacked head-on into an RV, the motorcycles splitting wildly left and right around
it, Shane jerking the wheel at the last minute, missing the front of the RV by inches and flinging Flynn against the doorframe.
He straightened the wheel and slowed down, the surge of adrenaline causing him to pant through an open mouth. He began driving
a respectable fifty-five miles an hour, letting the motorcycle taillights disappear in the distance.
A few seconds later, after he’d regained his composure, he blew out a breath, saying, “Man that was almost a mess. We came close to being a hood ornament.”
Flynn rubbed his head, saying, “No shit. I think you gave me a concussion.”
Shane smiled and said, “Who has run flats on a work truck?”
Flynn said, “Someone who’s trying to look like they’re driving a work truck but really isn’t. This is our guy.”
Shane caught Flynn’s eye and said, “Did you look at the guy? I mean, take a hard look? He’s not what I’d call a sicario. He
looks more like a skinny librarian.”
Flynn pulled out a flashlight, turned around and shone it on the passenger handcuffed in the rear, seeing what Shane said
was true.
He said, “Hey, what’s your name?”
The man in the back said, “They call me the Ghost.”
Flynn smiled, turned to Shane and said, “That’s our man.”