“Hey! Stevenson told you not to take Highway Twenty-seven,” said Leo.
“We need gas,” said Rakkim.
“You got half a tank,” said Leo.
“Sit back and shut up,” said Rakkim. “Go over the periodic table or something.”
“Dad told me you took some getting used to. He didn’t tell me how much.” Leo pulled computer chips and switches from his top pocket, bits and pieces he had stolen from the toys in Stevenson’s shop, examining them in the flex light from the dash, the tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth. “You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to go to New Orleans. Don’t I get a vote? Don’t I?”
Rakkim followed Highway 27, checking the darkness on the sides of the road as often as his rearview. The tourist rush from Mount Carmel had thinned out hours ago, but traffic flowed on, mostly truckers, restless teenagers, and families where the dad was too cheap to stop and get a motel. Twice he slowed, approaching gas stations, but the stations were surrounded by flatland and he drove on, Leo too busy working with his tinkering to notice. A few miles farther, a Freedom gas station blinked OPEN ALL NITE near an overpass. Within the shadow of the overpass, Rakkim spotted a Texas Rangers cruiser. He pulled into the station.
The air smelled sweet and syrupy, almost rank. Rakkim looked around. Combines chewed their way through the surrounding fields of sugarcane, headlights gleaming on the bright green shoots. Rakkim undid the gas cap as the attendant hurried over, a middle-aged guy, in a faded but neatly pressed khaki army uniform.
Massive hurricanes from the big warm had pretty much shut down oil production from the Gulf, the few rigs left expropriated by the Aztlán Empire. Coal and imported oil supplied most of the energy needs of the Belt, but the chain of Freedom stations was owned by retired vets, and sold only ethanol, with every drop coming from domestic sugarcane.
“Fill ’er up?” said the attendant, lifting the hose.
Rakkim pressed his credit chip against the pump, heard it chirp. “Thanks.”
“Come from Mount Carmel?”
Rakkim nodded, watching the cruiser over the man’s shoulder. peters was stitched above his left breast pocket, sergeant’s stripes on each arm. A combat infantryman badge was his only decoration. The only one needed. “Where did you serve, Sergeant?”
“Where didn’t I serve?” The attendant still had the military posture, shoulders back, stomach in. A little stooped, but clean-shaven, his gray hair buzzed. Probably still did a hundred push-ups a day. “How about you, boy? You look like you seen some action.”
“Did four years in the Kentucky National Guard, but it was just mostly smoking cigarettes and watching the border. Never even saw a towelie the whole time.”
“I don’t much like that term,” said Peters. “Insults the Muslims and insults the men who died fighting them.”
“I apologize, Sergeant.”
Peters nodded. “No harm done.” He checked out Rakkim’s car. “Nice machine. Old but solid. Might run a little rough for a few miles, but she’ll adjust.”
“I know. Worth it, though, isn’t it?”
“Damn right,” said Peters, jaw jutting. “Some folks and their fancy new cars won’t run anything but gasoline, no matter where it come from or what it cost. I ain’t talking just money, either. If we had grown cane a hundred years ago, we might still have the country. The whole country.”
“Amen,” said Rakkim.
Peters grinned. “What did you think of Mount Carmel?”
“Impressive…not sure how accurate the reenactment was, but-”
“Accurate? I saw it on the TV with my own damn eyes,” snapped Peters. “I was just seven years old, but I knowed there was going to be a reckoning.” He shook his head, disgusted. “It’s in the history books. Don’t they teach you Kentucky boys anything?”
“Well, sir, I wasn’t much for school,” said Rakkim, still watching the Rangers’ cruiser.
“Well, here’s your lesson for the day, youngblood,” said Peters, replacing the hose nozzle onto the pump. “While Muslims were attacking our embassies all over the world, the U.S. government was busy gassing kids in Texas, shooting a nursing woman in the mountains of Idaho, and taking a little Cuban boy at gunpoint and sending him back to practically the last commie on earth. Didn’t need a weatherman to tell which way the wind was blowing.” He banged the gas cap back into place. “I talk too much sometimes.”
“No, sir, you don’t.”
Peters opened the door to the car, waited for Rakkim to get behind the wheel. He nodded at Leo, but his eyes never left Rakkim. “That overpass up ahead, you can’t see them from here, but there’s two Rangers holed up underneath there like a couple of hairy spiders. You be careful. Don’t give them any excuse to pull you over.”
“I’ll be careful, Sarge.” Rakkim pulled out of the station, driving slowly at first, then gunned it past the overpass.
“What are you doing?” shouted Leo.
Rakkim checked the rearview. Saw the cruiser pull out from the overpass, headlights on. The cruiser followed, but kept a distance. The Rangers must be waiting until Rakkim and Leo were near their special spot. Someplace private, where no one would interrupt their fun.
Leo kept glancing behind them as Rakkim continued to accelerate.
A few miles later, Highway 27 narrowed from four lanes to two, the trees thicker as the road paralleled a river. Oncoming traffic continued to thin out at this late hour.
The cruiser’s light bar flashed blue-blue-blue behind them, the Rangers coming up fast.
“What do we do?” said Leo, his face bathed in blue light reflected off the windshield.
“We obey the law,” said Rakkim, looking for the right spot to pull over. The right spot for the Rangers. They would know the terrain, the perfect place. There it was…a gap between the trees, only briefly visible from passing vehicles. Rakkim slowed.
“Please don’t do anything stupid,” said Leo. “Anything else.”
Rakkim eased into the clearing, tires crunching up dry branches. “Whatever happens, don’t react. Stay thick as a brick.” He got out of the car, keeping his hands in plain sight as the cruiser came to a stop, headlights pinning him. Rakkim waved, looking sheepish. Leo got out, stood by the side of the car, staring at the ground.
The Rangers killed the headlights, left the blue flasher blinking. They took their time getting out, enjoying the moment, the same black and white team that he had seen at Mount Carmel. They were even bigger close up, hitching up their gear, meaty, wide-shouldered hombres who looked like they wrestled steers when they weren’t molesting tourists. Big men, big smiles, their teeth flat and white, almost fluorescent in the blue light as they ambled closer, flanking Rakkim.
They might have been wholesome once, dedicated lawmen risking their lives to keep the peace, but that was a long time ago, and missing a few paychecks didn’t have anything to do with it. It was power that had rotted them out, too many years of people paying deference to the badge, lowering their eyes, taking care not to let their shadow fall on them. Every brave man needed a mean streak, a willingness to mix it up, a slight sadism to make the wolves slink away. The Rangers’ mean streak had grown year by year, fed by the fear of the citizens who depended on them, fed by the excuses good people made for them. The Rangers were bad clean through now, more dangerous than any other predator loose among the sheep.
“Problem, Officers?” said Rakkim. “I know I was speeding-” He saw it coming, saw it in the white Ranger’s eyes before the man reached for the shock stick on his belt. Rakkim relaxed, pretended surprise as the stick jabbed him in the chest. He didn’t have to fake his cry of pain as he was jolted backward, thrown against the car. Ears ringing, he slid down the front fender of the car, lay crumpled against the wheel well.
Leo didn’t move. Just stood there with his head bowed, mumbling softly to himself. Rakkim was impressed. The kid remembered what he had been taught. Kept his cool.
“You think the speed limit doesn’t apply to you, sir?” said the white Ranger, looking down at Rakkim. “You think you’re some special case?”
“No…no,” said Rakkim, tasting blood where he had bitten the inside of his cheek. The tips of the Ranger’s boots were so shiny that Rakkim could see the stars reflected in them. “Sorry…I’m sorry.”
“A sorry son of a bitch is exactly what you are,” said the Ranger. “What’s the other one’s story, Daryl?”
The black Ranger jerked Leo’s Ident collar, pulled him close.
Leo mumbled louder but didn’t raise his head.
“Some kind of indentured idiot,” said the black Ranger, reading the collar. He released Leo. “Got a three-year tag.”
Rakkim pushed his way up against the side of the car, got unsteadily to his feet. He smelled burned electricity when he breathed through his nose. “I…I didn’t know-”
“Ignorance of the law is no excuse, sir,” said the white Ranger.
“In fact, sir, we count on that,” said the black Ranger.
Rakkim listened to them laugh.
“Three-year term of service,” said the white Ranger. “Seems to me we could use us an idiot for the scut work around the barracks.” He twirled the shock stick, eyeing Rakkim. “You might be able to get yourself out of trouble by signing the idiot over.”
“He…he’s already bought and paid for, Officer,” stammered Rakkim. “There’s a farmer in Greensboro counting on him for this year’s harvest.”
The black Ranger felt Leo’s arms, and Leo giggled. Rakkim was more impressed with Leo than ever. The black Ranger sidled over to Rakkim. “Boy hasn’t got any muscle to him at all. He’s not right for fieldwork. Seems to me, sir, you might have cheated that poor farmer in Greensboro.”
“Is that what you did, sir?” said the white Ranger. “You cheat that farmer? You promise him a good strong back and instead plan to deliver this tub a guts?”
“Ten years on the job, Jerry Lee, and I’m still surprised at the duplicity of the human heart.” The black Ranger rested one hand on the butt of his pistol as he watched Rakkim. “It’s enough to turn even a strong man to violence and drink.”
“Do you see what you’ve done, sir?” The white Ranger kneed Rakkim, doubled him over. “You’ve gone and upset my partner, and he’s a sensitive soul.”
“You best turn this boy over to us, sir,” said the black Ranger. “We can use someone to scour the floors and swab the toilets. We used to have a beaner for that but he ran off.” He flicked Leo’s collar. “No problem of that with an Ident.”
“How much is the contract on the boy?” said the white Ranger.
“Fifteen thousand dollars,” said Rakkim, “but I can’t-”
“Fifteen thousand?” The white Ranger shook his head. “That’s grand larceny last time I checked. Tell you what, sir, we’ll pay you five hundred dollars for the contract. Just submit a bill to the State Bureau of Law Enforcement.”
“I can’t…”
“What’s the security code for the collar?” asked the white Ranger.
“Officer, please…” said Rakkim.
The white Ranger cuffed him.
Rakkim stayed on his feet. It was probably a mistake, better to hit the dirt, but his patience was about at an end.
The white Ranger cocked his head at Rakkim. He had good instincts, but he wasn’t listening to them. The blue light from the cruiser strobed away behind him, his face in partial shadow. “I want the code. Now.”
Rakkim swallowed. “Code…code’s 78455.”
The white Ranger tugged at his Stetson. “Thank you kindly.”
The black Ranger remote-popped the trunk of their patrol car. Jerked a thumb at Leo. “Climb on in, idiot.”
Leo looked at Rakkim.
“Go on.” Rakkim flexed a muscle in his wrist, felt the Fedayeen knife slide into his hand. “It’s going to be all right. These nice men will take good care of you.”
“I don’t want to get inside the trunk,” wailed Leo. “I’m afraid of the dark.”
The black Ranger grabbed Leo by the scruff of the neck, dragged him to the back of the patrol car, and tossed him into the trunk.
“Please…” said Leo.
The black Ranger slammed the trunk lid down.
“Almost forgot.” The white Ranger snapped his fingers at Rakkim. “I need the tracker. Wouldn’t want the idiot to run off.” He quick-drew his pistol. Fast too. Probably practiced for hours at the barracks. “Hard keeping good help. Don’t know why.”
Rakkim raised his hands. “Please…I’ll do what you want.”
“Anything?” The white Ranger centered the barrel of the pistol on Rakkim’s forehead. “You’re a right certain accommodating fella, aren’t you?”
“What…what else can I do?” said Rakkim.
The white Ranger showed those big flat teeth of his again. The cruiser’s blue light seemed to be flashing faster and faster. “Yeah, what else can you do?”
“Quit toying with that man, Jerry Lee,” said the black Ranger, getting behind the wheel of the cruiser. “Blow his shit away and let’s get out of here. Faye’s stops serving the buffalo steak special at three a.m.”
Rakkim watched the vein along the side of the white Ranger’s neck pulse. Looked like about eighty-five, ninety beats a minute. He still had time.
The white Ranger held the pistol steady. “How about you pass over the tracker and I promise to say a few words over you when the deed is done. I’ll give you a real sweet send-off. I’m a church deacon.” He grinned again, his teeth like chalk in the blue light. “’Course, I’m not saying all my prayers been said over consecrated ground.”
Rakkim slowly reached toward the white Ranger, holding the tracker out with two fingers, just as he had been told. His other fingers curled around the Fedayeen knife, its blade resting invisibly against the inside of his forearm.
The black Ranger beeped the horn.
“Daryl’s impatient,” said the white Ranger. “Me, I’m not all that fond of buffalo steak,” he added, reaching for the tracker with his free hand.
Rakkim bumped the white Ranger’s gun hand as the man fired, slashed his throat in the same motion, and ran toward the cruiser. The black Ranger fumbled for his pistol, started to raise it when Rakkim drove the blade through the bulletproof window, glass shattering as he slid the knife deep into the Ranger’s windpipe.
The black Ranger sighed, the sound filling the stillness. His eyelids fluttered like moths.
Rakkim eased the knife free. The black Ranger’s blood splashed across Rakkim’s wrist. Warm, but already cooling in the night air. People died so quickly, the heat fleeing from them…Rakkim reached in, turned off the light bar. The darkness was soothing. He listened to the rush of the river and the sound of Leo beating against the trunk lid, then walked over and checked on the white Ranger.
The trooper lay facedown in the dirt. Jerry Lee, that’s what his partner had called him. Jerry Lee’s blood puddled black in the moonlight. A mirror reflecting the stars. Jerry Lee and Daryl. Good to know the names of the dead. Rakkim shuddered. Where did that come from? He never needed to know their names before. Killing wasn’t counting coup, wasn’t keeping score. It was a last resort. Always had been, anyway. He wiped his hands on the grass, washed himself with dirt, still turning things over in his mind. He looked toward the river, his eyes already adjusting to the dim light. Caught in the mangrove roots that bordered the river…something…a tailfin of a car, only the very tip visible. Rakkim wondered how many other vehicles were piled up under the water, how many others had been carried downstream. He looked back at Jerry Lee and spit.
Leo cried out from inside the trunk.
Rakkim had started toward the rear of the cruiser when the trunk lid popped open. Leo rolled out onto the ground, gasping for air. Wires protruded from one hand. He had bypassed the trunk security lock somehow.
Leo saw the body of the white Ranger. Saw the mess inside the cruiser. His knees buckled. “Rikki…what…what did you do?”