From Wichita on, we only stopped at major convenience stores. They were company owned, and there were no TVs. My stomach wanted anything but another round of Doritos and soda.
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We made it as far as Hobart when the check engine light came on. The temperature gauge was running hot and we still had eleven miles left to go. I pulled over at a service station.
“What are you doing?” Leeanne asked. “Why did you stop?”
“Car’s overheating,” I said. “And, we don’t have a plan.”
The attendant came out.
“Looks like she’s overheating,” the man said.
He was dressed in greasy coveralls that said ‘Clyde’ on the pocket.
“Probably need to let it sit a couple hours, then we can take a look,” he said.
“Clyde, you look like a pretty smart business man,” I said.
Clyde smirked. “You must be talking to someone else. No, I’m not going to sell you my truck for whatever you got in your pocket, I don’t care where you need to go.”
It’s amazing how quick the sound of a pistol slide gliding back sticks in your memory.
“How about now?” Leeanne asked.
We left Clyde duct taped to the toilet in his single stall men’s room. I grabbed his keys off a pegboard by the door and we went around the building to find his truck. It was big.
So much for not calling attention. Chuck’s truck was set up about three feet off the ground on huge mud tires. It was bright red, with chrome roll bars and a chrome grill and push bar on the front.
I grabbed the nail gun from behind the seat in the Sunbird, and tossed it up into the cab of the truck. I dragged myself up and pulled Leeanne up beside me. She shoved me over and took the keys. Sarah climbed in from the other side.
Bluetooth is a cool invention. Spotify can go screw itself. I had no idea there were that many revenge songs from female country artists. Sarah pulled up a play list on Leeanne’s phone and we rolled toward River Grove.
At the edge of town, we were greeted by a police cruiser, with the lights on, sitting catty corner across the road. Bert Skinner sat behind the wheel, his window was down, and a long-barreled revolver was aimed toward us.
Leeanne apparently took it as a challenge. She moved the truck’s stick shift into first and revved the engine pushing the clutch to the floor. Skinner raised the weapon. We were about a block from the grill of the cruiser. She popped the clutch and the truck settled back, the wheels spinning.
As it gained traction, we shot forward, the front wheels raised off the pavement a few inches, then slammed back, with a bounce.
Skinner pulled the trigger. His shot went low, pinging off the underside of the truck. Leeanne shoved the accelerator to the floor. We were too close, Skinner dove into the seat beside him, as the truck smashed into the side of the cruiser, then nimbly crawled right over it.
I looked back. The resulting damage hadn’t killed Skinner, I could see him pushing up on the edge of the crumpled window frame. It had trapped him inside his own car, however. Too bad. He got off another shot, and the back glass of the truck exploded. No one was hit.
“One down, three to go,” Leeanne said.
“Three?” I asked.
“Two Skinner brothers, Big Daddy Crawford and Mamma Skinner,” she said.
“I took care of Crawford already,” I said.
I patted the nail gun in my lap.
We careened into town and pulled a hard right onto Main Street. The town’s other cruiser sat parked at the curb in front of the jail.
Through the front window of the City Jail, we could see Crawford. He was in a wheelchair, a blanket thrown over his lap. He held a vicious looking shotgun. The Mayor stood beside him, hands on her hips. Hal stood guard beside the front door.
“I Wouldn’t count Crawford out just yet,” she said. “He’s like a grizzly. If you’re going to nail his balls to his, leg, you better kill him, or you’ll just piss him off.”