CHAPTER FOUR

Escape

Along with the rhythm of the deep and thunderous rumble, the leaves stuffing the thin bark branches shook and fell from the trees as the wiry wood fingers groped desperately to keep them attached. It was an unnatural rumbling; anyone could hear that, if anyone were there to hear. Not coming from the sky, although it was gray and cloudy enough to accommodate such natural occurrences. Instead, the pavement itself seemed to jostle and shake as the low, grinding roar echoed throughout the winding, paved road that cut a deep, jagged swath through what was once thick, green forest and nothing but. Birds’ wings fluttered briskly and carried them to the safety of the sky as the first truck roared around the sharp bend and pounded through, vigorously shattering any sense of peace and tranquility that would have otherwise been evident. Trees were thick in each direction on the side of the roads, and no other traffic was visible in the dusk hours of the late afternoon/early evening. The sky shone a dull orange, with the screaming sun trying to plow through the dull gray cotton ball clouds, but losing the battle so far. As squirrels shot out of the way, the large, looming diesel beast stormed through, a massive metal monster among what, for all rights, should have been a completely natural environment. The truck’s cab was a sleek gray metal, its hood sloped and sides angled dramatically giving it an almost sporty look, had it not been an eighteen-wheeler. The windshield and side windows were tinted heavily underneath the single row of yellow lights just under the roof, which gleamed in the twilight. A stark silver grill shone out from the sleek hood and twin halogen eyes glared out from each side. It could have passed for almost any kind of big rig in the country, although definitely a more expensive version of such, with a long, rectangular trailer that seemed to wrap around the cab instead of just being towed by it. The trailer maintained the angular sleekness and the gray metal color, almost becoming an extension of the cab and making the truck one long, powerful transport vehicle instead of the cab and trailer as two separate entities. It was a slick looking vehicle, one surely to be the envy at any truck stop or gas station it frequented. But it was also sure to draw attention in other ways as well. Unlike most rigs of its kind, there were no logos, company signs or slogans, or even vehicle manufacturing symbols anywhere to be seen. It was a blank slate, a well-crafted and slick machine, whose purpose could only be guessed. The fact that it carried official government plates from Virginia only exaggerated the mysterious force surrounding the large behemoth of a vehicle.

“You drive one of these before, kid?” the man in the passenger seat asked, his hands crossed in front of his camouflage covered chest.

“My dad was a truck driver. I went to school for it before joining up.”

The passenger glanced out of the window, which was tainted so much it almost made it appear to be nighttime just outside the truck.

“Well you handle her real nice.”

“Thanks. Probably why they gave me this gig.”

Private Griffith shifted the large truck easily, as the powerful engine gunned, sending a dark cloud of exhaust rolling from the pipes.

“Why you here, Davis?” Griffith asked the man in the passenger seat.

Davis chuckled. “Actually, I just needed a ride to Virginia. My mom’s sick, so the Sarge pulled some strings and got me in the seat, so’s I could visit her.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“S’ all right. No big deal. She’ll live.”

Griffith guided the large vehicle through another winding turn.

“Any idea what this little convoy is all about?” He glanced in his rear view mirror quickly as he rounded the bend. A second truck appeared behind him, almost exactly mirroring the first. Griffith knew the third truck wouldn’t be far behind.

“Nope. Don’t know, don’t ask. Figured, if I need to know, someone’ll tell me. Better get used to that, junior. This man’s army is all about secrets these days.”

“To be expected. Still, it’d be nice if we knew what we were doing, so we could do it better.”

Davis laughed out loud at the young man’s comment, which betrayed his naiveté.

“True…but, that would be smart. You oughtta know better, kid.”

Griffith started to laugh as the truck finished the turn and straightened out again, this time for a longer distance.

“Some road they picked, huh?”

“Yup. The road less traveled.”

“Woulda thought that maybe we’d take a more public route. Quicker, you know?” Griffith shifted again and picked up speed.

“Well, I guess whatever we’re doing is hush hush.”

Griffith’s eyes wandered as a small red dot appeared in the horizon, quite a ways down the straightaway. “Only problem is, on a road this slow, everything is a lot more visible, ya know? On ’95, no one would notice a three truck convoy, but here on this road…well, like a sore thumb, right?”

Davis’ face scrunched up in thought. “You gonna be in intelligence, son?”

“Naw.”

“Good. You’re too smart for that.”

The two men shared a long, loud laugh as the red dot drew slowly nearer.

Her back slammed into the wall of the trailer uncomfortably, twisting her cuffed hands behind her at an awkward angle. She grunted softly, her face contorting underneath her striking blonde hair.

“Back off, Frakes,” the younger man said, coming in closer.

“You back off, greenblood!” shouted the older man. He was a large, powerful man with tree trunk arms and legs and a thick, broad chest, which filled out the camouflage uniform quite well. “I got some questions for our little terrorist here, and I mean to get answers before we let the brass get their slimy hands on her!” He turned back towards the short slender woman who was dressed in prison blues with her arms trapped between her and the smooth metallic wall of the trailer. One large, beefy hand clamped against her smooth chin and her normally attractive face twisted into a hateful scowl.

“I’m not gonna ask you again, you communist floozie! What’s your name?” Frakes’ bearded face was flush, his lips pursed.

“Vypra!” His prisoner defiantly shouted, her own lips pursed.

“Lyin’ bimbo!” Frakes drew his hand back, but felt another hand wrap around it and hold tight. His head whipped back angrily.

“Look, Run and Gun, or whatever your dang name is--”

“Hit & Run,” replied the younger man, his eyes narrowing. “I’m here to guard and protect these prisoners, even if I have to protect them from you.”

“They’re terrorist scumbags.”

“Yeah, they are. Unfortunately, they have rights. As an established military man, Colonel Frakes, I would have thought you’d appreciate that.”

Frakes lowered his hand from the woman’s angry face and turned towards the young man. “Hey, just because you’re some black ops puke, doesn’t mean you get to pull rank, rookie.”

“Rookie? I’ve been with the military for twelve years, Colonel.”

“Still a rookie in my book.”

Hit & Run scowled underneath his round green helmet, his face wrinkling beneath the green and black camouflage face paint. The two men drew in closer, their faces now only inches apart, and neither one giving ground.

“Don’t think I’m going to let this go, kid,” Frakes said.

“Feel free. My C.O. is General Clayton Abernathy. I hear he has some clout in Washington, so feel free to give him a call, I’m sure he’d love to chat with you about abusing prisoner’s rights.”

At the mere mention of Abernathy’s name Colonel Frakes’ features softened.

“You one of Abernathy’s boys? Used to be under “Iron Butt” Austin, right?”

“Before my time, sir, but yes.”

Frakes smiled just slightly. “Fine then. You pass muster, if you can survive that.” He turned to the young woman and to the man who sat on the floor of the truck a couple feet away. “You two are lucky. For some reason, this joker’s standing up for you.”

“Can we get down to business, Colonel?” Hit & Run asked, not even bothering to hide the acid in his tone.

“All right. Let’s go over our set up here.” The two men walked over the floor of the trailer as the truck roared over the even pavement ground. The floors vibrated and shook Hit & Run’s boots, but not enough so to alter his balance. Once they were far enough away to not be overheard by the prisoners or the other men in the trailer, Frakes turned back to Hit & Run.

“All right. We’ve got a basic guard and escort duty here. The front truck is being driven by two new kids. Straight by the book, know nothing rookies. They have no idea what’s being transported.”

“Good. Go ahead.”

“We’re in the middle truck with the prisoners and a small group of “Weekend Warriors” who were lucky enough to get this mission as their two weeks a year.”

Hit & Run glanced over to the other men in the truck, all in camouflage, with M-16’s slung over their shoulders. They talked softly, but stood firm, eyes always on their prisoners.

“Third truck?” he asked.

“Those are the bad boys. A few S.W.A.T., some special ops men, Hostage Rescue team, the basics. They’re the main guard force should anything hairy go down. They’re trained, briefed and know how to handle themselves in a firefight. They also have standing orders to eliminate the prisoners should the need arise.”

“Why are they in the third truck and not here?”

“Well, we figure, and escape attempt would most likely target the two “escorts”. We figure if the bad guys take the third truck intact, thinking it’s where their boys are, then they’ll get a nasty surprise. Besides, we get anyone coming after our truck, it’ll take those guys about six seconds to be out and all over Route 6 with their H & K’s.”

“Sounds good. Everything is set for arrival?”

“Yup. My communications officer called ahead. We’re about three hours out, and they’re waiting for us.”

“Looks like you’ve got a good crew here,” Hit & Run said, glancing over towards the Cobra prisoners, one in particular. Vypra was looking at him as well, her piercing blue eyes glaring out from under the green headband she wore to keep her flowing blonde hair under control. Their eyes locked and once again, Hit & Run couldn’t help but smirk slightly. She was even cuter without the mask. His eyes moved over to the sitting man who was on the floor not too far away. Without the black helmet and red and blue uniform, he didn’t look quite as intimidating, but still Scrap Iron was a force to be reckoned with and a man to be watched. That was his job. Hawk had sent him as a special escort to make sure these two prisoners were taken swiftly and safely to what would be their homes for the next few decades. That is unless Cobra’s slippery attorney’s got a hold of them first. But that was another problem entirely. He strode calmly over to the two terrorists, wondering what he was going to do for the next three hours.

The red pick up truck hurtled forward, respectfully obeying the fifty-five mile an hour speed limit. It obeyed it to an absolute ‘T’, the speedometer reading exactly 55, and not a mile an hour over. The tires bounced over the paved road, but the driver was not shaken or disturbed by the turbulence. His focus was pure and undivided. Heartless. Emotionless. Driven by a simple desire.

To kill. It was what he was made for, what he was created to do. Death was his only purpose, and one that had he had a soul, would have pleased him to no end. His “eyes” scanned the road forward as his tightly clenched gloved hands gripped the steering wheel, his foot evenly on the accelerator, keeping it at the posted speed exactly.

Kill. Kill. Kill. But first, drive. Drive. Drive. Drive.

Just ahead, the first truck slowly drifted into view.

Even as the eighteen-wheeler surged forward, Griffith shifted slightly and adjusted his feet to compensate. It moved at a constant pace, not rapid, but fast enough, the speedometer hovering around sixty. He squinted through the tinted windshield as the red shape drew somewhat closer.

“That a truck?” he asked Davis.

“Looks that way, kid.”

Griffith turned towards the other man. “They didn’t close down the road?”

“Naw. That would draw more attention, Private. No worries, man. As far as he’s concerned, we’re just another truck.

Griffith smirked. “Yeah, true.” He regained his focus on the road ahead and proceeded. The red shape drew nearer and revealed itself as a pickup truck with a large flatbed, a flowing black tarp covering it completely and tied down on the sides. It proceeded at a constant pace, going forward, with no deviation.

Drive. Drive. Drive. Virginia plates. Government issue. Zoom in…scanning… scanning…scanning…number match. Drive. Drive. Drive. Turn.

The red pickup zipped along, approaching the truck quickly, but on it’s own side of the road. Griffith twisted his neck, popping some of the vertebrae, and trying to make his aching muscles more comfortable. The truck approached, and then swerved suddenly.

“What the--?” Griffith shouted quickly as his attention shot right back to the road ahead.

“What’s he doing?” Davis asked nervously as the truck suddenly lurched into their lane and picked up speed, accelerating straight for them at a quick pace.

“Hold on!” Griffith shouted. “I’m turning!!” The large steering wheel spun to the left as Griffith hauled with every muscle in his arms and shoulders, straining under the pressure of the massive axles underneath the huge vehicle. Even as the pickup shot forward, the large gray truck jumped to the left, its tires screaming as the trailer continued its forward momentum. With a sudden jolt, the eighteen-wheeler slammed back and forth, and then skidded wildly forward, but at a ninety-degree angle to its regular progress.

“We’re jack knifing!” Griffith shouted desperately as if merely shouting the fact could change it in any way. But the long gray truck merely continued to skid as the small pickup continued forward.

Hit & Run stumbled as the truck braked quite suddenly, but securely.

“Colonel?” he asked, somewhat nervously.

Frakes had a walkie-talkie to his ear already and his eyes opened wide.

“We gotta possible problem. Truck One is in an uncontrolled spin! Reason unknown.” Frakes looked back down at the radio in his hand, as the world suddenly seemed to open up around them.

The initial impact was negligible. With a muffled crunch, the red truck plowed into the big rig, striking right between the cab and the trailer, where it was bent at a ninety-degree angle. The hood dipped sharply downward as the front tires tore away, lifting the rear end into the air amidst a shower of sparks from metal on pavement. A sharp tearing and shearing of metal emanated into the cab as the small truck was reduced to torn scrap metal. Griffith’s face contorted at the sound, his mind trying to shut out the thought of a human body caught in that wreckage even as the big rig pounded into the now mangled red pickup, and tossed it back down onto the road and dragged it across the streaked pavement.

“This…isn’t…goo---.” Griffith didn’t even have time to finish the sentence as he strained to keep the steering wheel from jumping out of his hands. The red pickup almost seemed to split slowly apart as white-hot force struggled to break free of its red metal prison. The effect was completely temporary as the unstoppable force blasted free in a pounding roar of smoke, yellow/red flame and white ripples of heat. It took only a millisecond for the explosion to completely annihilate the small red foreign-made pickup, and not much longer for the rolling cloud of smoke and blasts of bright color to completely engulf the whole eighteen wheeler in an earth shattering blast. Even as Truck Two screeched to a halt, the explosion tore apart the landscape in a momentous event, sending smoke, flame and metallic debris into wild spins throughout the air, sending birds, wildlife and even insects flying for cover. The thin bark trees at the side of the road blew back by the force, and a couple of them even snapped off at the trunks, mixing thin chunks of wood in with the more man made shrapnel. The blast was loud and long, almost deafening, but lasted mere seconds, leaving only an echo and a burning husk of charred rubble that used to be an eighteen-wheeler.

Bludd lowered his binoculars, a wide smile curling his thick, black moustache.

“Nicely done, Bruiser. Perhaps a little excessive on the explosives use…”

“Who cares, mate?” Bruiser asked with a wide grin even as his ears were ringing and small bits of flaming debris still sprinkled around him. “We didn’t pay for ‘em.”

Bludd laughed out loud. “Good point! Just a drop in the bucket for Cobra.”

Bruiser stood up, lifting his shotgun and walking slowly forward, towards the road, where the last two trucks sat idling, their way blocked by the first one, which was now a burning mass of unrecognizable material.

“So where does Cobra find guys devoted enough to drive a truck into certain death?” he asked, glaring at the flaming wreck.

“They make them, mate. That bloke was a Battle Android Trooper. A robot donated by Mindbender to make our job easier.” Bludd lifted his own machine gun and followed, looking back and smirking as Body Count brought up the rear.

“I think I’m gonna like workin’ for these boys!” Body Count said happily, taking in the spreading carnage around.

Bludd glanced around the pavement, which was now littered with debris, mangled steel and charred chunks of concrete. It was a war zone, plain and simple, complete with victims.

“All right. According to Mindbender’s info, the boys we want are in the second truck. But, I’d bet good money that there’s a guard duty in that third truck, so let’s hit that firs—“

Before he could finish, the rear door of the third trailer flew open, slamming against the trailer with a sharp bang. Two men jumped down first, both dressed in black jumpsuits with thick round helmets and riot shields.

“Fall back!” Bludd shouted, directing the two with his hands.

“Don’t move!” one of the two men shouted, lifting his silenced weapon into firing position. Before the Bluddhounds could even try and talk their way out of it, a short volley of echoing shots rippled through the gray air over the lingering ringing of the explosion. The shouting man’s face disappeared under a fine red cloud as he grunted and slumped to the ground. With a shout, the second man spun and fell next to his partner under another pair of red poofs that seemed to appear from nowhere.

“Well, Stiletto is obviously in position,” Bludd said with a smile, and charged forward, his automatic weapon raised. “Bruiser, flank my position! Body Count, you’re our cover fire. Drift right and keep an eye on that door!”

Even as another man leaped from the truck, this one in full camouflage, Bludd’s machine gun roared to life, spinning sparks and smoke from its thick round barrel. Dull thuds pounded into the man’s chest in a lazy diagonal pattern, stitching dark holes in the green uniform. He thrashed as the cloth ripped and his flesh exploded with the impact, throwing him forcefully into the wall of the trailer behind him. Even as he slid slowly to the ground, more men poked around the edge of the trailer and opened fire. Bludd halted and shuffled back and to the right as small clumps of loose pavement shot into the air followed by streaks of light smoke and sparks. Bruiser fell back the other way, lifted his Remington and roared off a shot, then jacked the pump back. A cloud of smoke and sparks danced from the metal trailer just left of the opening, and a whining ricochet signaled Bruiser’s near miss. Even as the men took frantic cover and leaned back out, Bludd lifted his rifle to his shoulder and dashed forward, peppering the truck with small arms fire. His arms shook as the thunder roared in his ears, which were accustomed to such noise and activity. Shell casings spun over his head as he ran, the sparks roaring from the weapon. The first man leaned back out; his weapon lifted, but fell back quickly as Bludd’s first volley pounded into his right side and chest. He slammed back first on the floor of the trailer, then bent awkwardly and spilled out onto the oil-slick pavement, landing uncomfortably on his face. Another swift volley of return fire sent the former Major scrambling, but Bruiser covered him with a couple quick shotgun blasts. A short shout signaled a hit this time, although none was seen. Three more men came around behind the others and all opened fire, while still keeping hidden behind the wall of the trailer. Bruiser was forced into cover this time as well and both man scrambled as a winding path of sparking ricochets and spinning concrete tore a path between them.

“Keep them pinned!” Bludd thought he heard one say, but a roaring thunder of heavy fire shut out the speech. He lifted his head as Body Count strode confidently forward, his M-60 practically exploding in the darkening night. His arms and chest shook with the power of his volley and shell casings shot like bullets themselves, smoke winding around and engulfing the large, somewhat dark skinned man. His tattooed biceps bulged and clenched, desperately keeping the massive weapon under control, as his sweaty hands clasped underneath the black padded fingerless gloves. With no fanfare, the small group of men simply flew back from view into the back of the trailer, not screaming, crying out or giving any dramatics whatsoever. They were simply mowed down like stalks of wheat and thrown aside like discarded trash. Body Count continued his constant fire into the trailer until the machine gun belt ran dry and instead of shuddering thunder, there was a metallic clacking. Smoke drifted and met with the smoke from the charred truck and created an eerie fog around the large man, who lowered his powerful weapon. Bludd smiled broadly, then turned and eyed the second truck.

“Let’s finish this.”

“Is everyone all right?” Hit & Run asked, looking around. There were three other men besides the prisoners and Colonel Frakes. All appeared unhurt.

“What the devil was that?” Frakes asked frantically.

“An escape attempt, would be my guess.”

One of the men in camouflage lifted his head from the rear door of the trailer.

“I think I hear gunfire out there,” he said softly, one hand hovering above his own M-16. Hit & Run sighed and turned towards the two Cobra prisoners. Both smiled broadly.

“I knew we would not be forgotten!” shouted Scrap Iron defiantly. “Just give us up! Perhaps you will be spared, although I doubt it.”

Hit & Run glared at the Cobra captive. “We’ve got to handle this right,” he said, turning towards the other four military men.

“How do you suppose we do that? None of these boys are trained for this!” Colonel Frakes said, trying not to sound pleading.

“Yeah, but they don’t know that. This is the plan, everyone. Listen closely.”

Bludd walked slowly, but with purpose, towards the rear door of the second trailer. It remained shut, even though there were obviously people inside.

“Should I ventilate it?” Bruiser asked, pumping his shotgun.

“No. We do not know where the prisoners are. And for whatever reason, they are important to our employer. We must do this care--…”

His sentence went unfinished as the twin metal doors shot open with the force of a gale wind. Bludd stumbled back as Colonel Frakes leaped from the trailer, his face angry, but hands unarmed. He struck Bruiser headlong in the chest, knocking him roughly to the pavement, and sending his shotgun scattering across the rough concrete ground. Even as Bludd lifted his machine gun, a green and black blur shot from the trailer as well, cutting through the air with grace and trained skill. Hit & Run struck Bludd in the chest with his shoulder, knocking him to the ground, and landing on top of him. He pinned his arm to the ground, clenching his wrist tightly underneath his tensed fist. Behind him, the three men walked to the edge of the trailer, M-16’s in hand. Hit & Run looked up at Body Count through squinting eyes.

“Drop the weapon, dirt bag. We’ve got two of your guys, and you’re covered by three members of the G.I. Joe team. There’s nowhere to go.” He stood, lifting Bludd roughly to his feet, and wrapped a tight headlock around him. Body Count lowered the ’60.

“I didn’t say ‘lower’. I said ‘drop’. Now.” Hit & Run squeezed just a little while Frakes dragged Bruiser to his feet as well, who seemed to be complying, but only barely.

“Well?” Body Count asked. Bludd’s good eye scoped the area slowly. Hit & Run turned his head slightly and barked orders at one of the men.

“Come on down here and take his weapon!” he shouted. The young man nodded and started forward. The red and black blur seemed to come from nowhere, although it was merely perched on top of the trailer. It swung swiftly down and into the trailer, striking the middle man with a brunt impact, knocking him roughly to the floor of the trailer. Hit & run could only watch as the red and black blur turned into a more solid man with a jet-black crew cut, goatee, and a jagged scar running down his forehead. Before he could speak, a long, thin knife just seemed to appear in his hand and he went into action. The blade lashed out to the left as his leg shot out the other way. With a ragged tear, the young man’s throat ripped open under the strike of the sleek silver blade, spraying red all over the inside of the truck. As he fell, his eyes rolling, his attacker’s leg pounded into the other soldier’s chest, throwing him into the wall of the trailer. As the red and black blur changed momentum, he drove the knife quickly downward and plunged it deep into the middle man’s chest, then twisted quickly as he continued towards the third trooper, who was just now striking the trailer wall. Bludd smiled as Stiletto charged forward, bringing his right knee up into the young trooper’s ribs, and doubled him over. Rapid fists blasted into the young man’s face, then the Russian assassin flipped the knife over, driving it forward butt-first. The solid end of the knife handle struck the boy’s exposed windpipe and crushed it in one swift, brutal attack. He gasped one last final time and crumpled to the ground. Mere seconds had passed and three men were no longer breathing.

“G.I. Joe team? Please!” Bludd said as Stiletto dropped from the trailer, landing in a low crouch.

Bruiser elbowed back hard, driving it deep into Frake’s chest, who coughed and stumbled. The ex Rugby player spun and drove another elbow directly into the bridge of his nose. As he grunted and fell, Bruiser’s massive arms wrapped around his head and jerked quickly, snapping the neck quite suddenly and finally. Hit & Run stood in stunned silence; the only sounds the slow, soft rippling of the orange flames from the truck wreckage. His grip slipped and Bludd broke free, turning towards his would-be captor.

“My, how the tables turn,” he said with twisted satisfaction. With a flick of his wrist he removed a pistol from a holster on his brown and black tiger stripe patterned pants. He pressed the barrel flush against Hit & Run’s forehead and his finger twitched on the trigger.

“Hold on!” the voice shouted from the trailer and Bludd looked up, somewhat in annoyance. The two prisoners dropped down from the truck. The one who spoke, a female, held up a calming hand.

“Don’t kill him. Please.”

Bludd squinted at the young girl, a striking blonde who didn’t seem to him the terrorist type at all.

“And why not, my dear?” he asked. Hit & Run glanced over at Vypra nervously.

She walked over to Bludd, lifting her cuffed hands towards him.

“Why? Because…I want to do it.” Her face turned suddenly hard, cold and mean and Bludd smiled broadly. His opinion changed in that moment.

“Of course, my dear! Please, do so.” He handed the pistol to her, which she gripped in both bound hands. “But please, make it quick. We have business to take care of,” Bludd said as he turned and walked away, joined by Scrap Iron, and his three fellow Bluddhounds. Vypra shoved Hit & Run against the trailer of the truck and pressed the weapon tight to his chest.

“Vypra,” he said, stammering. “C’mon. Come with me. I can get you sanctuary. There’s a witness protection program.”

The young woman scowled as her finger moved towards the trigger.

“C’mon! Ann! I know you deserve better than this…we’ve…connected over the past month. Surely you’ve seen—“

“Shut up and die.”

The gunshot roared like thunder in the sky and from the Earth itself. It pounded in Hit & Run’s ears and swallowed all of his surroundings on one swift blast. He fell to his knees, gasping. His breath came in quick, uneven clumps, his lungs and heart desperately trying to compensate for the shock. He inhaled deeply and blew out…and breathed. He was breathing. There was no pain, only shock and profound disappointment. He pried open his eyes and saw a small, smoldering bullet hole in the side of the trailer. Vypra was gone, and the world was silent once more.