Usual disclaimers.
Blondie had never seen such a deserted spot as Comstock Valley was. Jesus, the girl was right, the policewoman thought. It's as if the thirties came and went and preserved the whole place like a museum. The dirt road ahead of her showed signs of disturbance, and in front of her two other bikers—two tall men called Junior and Red Joe, respectively—were already walking themselves through the scene.
"They were here, Blondie," Red Joe said, pointing at the masses of clumped dirt and skid marks. "I'd say they regrouped here." Long red hair glistened in the midday sun, and a dark pair of glasses and black leather hid bright gray eyes and tanned skin.
"Kyle? And the doctor?"
"Best guess is they were with them," Reid Joe said in resignation. Pointing a long finger up towards what looked like a wide, old shop, he said, "The bulk of the footprints go in here. I was just about to head in."
Blondie looked at Gail, who was looking at the building apprehensively. "Something wrong, hon?" she asked.
"This was the place," Gail said. "Where—where they kept me. There's a big room in the back."
"Show us," Red Joe said, and the young woman started up the rickety steps towards the front door.
"Where's Junior?" Blondie said.
"Saw some tracks leading away from the bike stop," her companion replied. "Said he wanted a better look. He's armed, but I tried to get him to see reason."
"He won't," Blondie said as she inhaled the stale air trapped in the ancient shop. "Takes it hard when a bust goes bad. You know that."
"I told him to call Big Dog, get everyone up to speed. He was on the phone with 'em when you showed up."
"Over here," Gail called out. "I think I found something!"
-----
The heat of the California sun beat down mercilessly onto Kyle's back. His shoulders ached from being forced into one position for so long, and his left arm was beginning to blister from the copious amounts of UV and Vitamin D it had received since he'd been forced onto the back of Boss Salvador's dresser. There had been no stopping since the group had peeled out of the deserted ghost town some three hours earlier, and Kyle wondered if there would be a stop soon. A pair of numb legs and an aching backside pleaded for it.
Bright blue eyes glanced over burned shoulders, and the investigator could make out Reid's long hair flapping against his diamond-shaped face. The look of determination set into the doctor's features was anything but light. The bike the tall man was perched precariously on the back of seemed small considering the height discrepancy, and Kyle could see Reid's feet brushing the pavement of the highway in spots.
That's it, Kyle thought. Letting his anger take over, he picked up his hands and poked the bike leader in the shoulder as hard as he could. The thin man's head turned, but Kyle couldn't get a good enough look at his lips to read what he was shouting.
"Stop!" the Virginian shouted, hoping his voice was clear. To clarify his point, he also made the sign for 'stop'—the side of his right hand slamming into his left palm. Ahead of him, the teardrop-shaped head turned back towards the road, stringy hair flying like the tails of a wind sock, and the deaf man could feel the machine underneath him pick up even more speed than it had already. There was no way he could know for sure, but Kyle swore that the bike leader was laughing.
The stretch of highway before them curved around the mountain, and Kyle took in the sight of pine trees and broadleaf limbs that mercifully provided a second's worth of shade. The smell of water hit his nostrils, and Kyle saw a flash of something bright glint up from the earthen shelf where the highway sat. The sight of water streaming north towards a thick wood almost made the investigator wish he had a camera.
My ass is sore, my arms are worse than one of Chase's turkeys, and a psychopath and his merry band of murders and rapists are dragging me to Alaska, Kyle thought grimly. Add to that I'm about a hair's breadth away from being turned into hamburger by a bike accident on the road, and yeah, I'm having the time of my life.
The bike traveled northward, passing through more woods and hilled countryside. Kyle thought about the group's current plans, made just before the engines had started—the ones Reid managed to translate for him. –They're taking us to finish their 'run,'— Reid had signed, the agent's face full of silent anger and determination. –Says that their buyers will get a kick out of the 'insurance policy' we're providing.—
--What did they say about the buyers?—
--Nothing I could pick up. Just that we're expected in four days in Fairbanks.-- The grim look turned even more black. –Apparently we're behind schedule.—
Kyle focused back onto the present, and the sight of the water made him realize it had been a long time since either he or Reid had been allowed to 'take care' of themselves. A tug on his waist reminded him that a simple leap off the seat he was perched on was not possible, and the thick rubber stayed firmly bolted in place as Boss Salvador expertly rounded yet another corner. What I wouldn't give for my knife about now, he groused silently.
Suddenly the bike started to slow. The seat underneath Kyle seemed to jerk forward with each application of the machine's brakes, and finally the vehicle tipped on its kickstand and the driver slid off. Kyle knew he was saying something, but once again, he was not looking at the deaf man to give him a good view of his lips.
"Hey, look at me!" the investigator yelled, hoping his voice was loud. "I can't understand you if you look the other way!" He pointed firmly to the thin leader and then at himself, making a point to accentuate the concept of 'eye contact.' Kyle hadn't bothered with sign, not because he didn't want to speak as he would normally but because the movements would be lost on the outlaw in any case.
Cold eyes moved forward, a look of pure contempt drawing nearer Kyle's line of sight. "Get off," Boss said, jabbing his finger at the treeline near the ridge. "Five minutes, and don't get cute."
Finally, Kyle thought. He realizes people need a break. Swiveling his head around him as he dismounted the motorcycle, he saw several of the bikers stepping forward to relieve themselves. A couple bikers pulled out clear plastic bottles to catch some of the stream water falling over the side in a thin waterfall. On one side Kyle found Reid scanning the group around himself and edging closer and closer to a small 'corner' made up of the ridge and a thick pocket of trees. The sizable 'warden' that had woken them earlier that morning was standing close to the profiler, matching each step that Reid took. We're not getting out that way, Kyle realized, understanding what his friend was attempting to do. They'll be on us in five minutes…
Suddenly Kyle found he had a new 'friend' shadowing him as well—the new second-in-command, it seemed; the man called Jake. No matter how Kyle moved, the large man seemed in step with him, ready to overpower the investigator should he think about trying to escape. Okay, you've made your point, the deaf man thought, heaving a large sigh. He turned towards the ridgeline and decided to 'take care' of himself while he had the chance.
Once finished, Kyle managed to catch Reid's eye. He made the sign for water, and the agent's long hair wiggled up and down in approval. Turning on his heel, he stared Jake in the eye. "Water," he said, hoping his voice was clear.
"What?"
"Water," Kyle said again. "Please." He made the signs to match.
"The hell?"
A shadow cast over Kyle's head, and the look on the biker's face improved somewhat—he wasn't happy, but he wasn't confused either. Soon a small container of water found itself shoved into Kyle's hands. "Drink," the large man said, glaring at him. "And share."
Kyle took a long pull off the makeshift glass, letting the icy water roll down his parched throat. He suddenly realized just how hungry he was, but a quick look at the rest of the group told him dinner was not forthcoming. Another pull from the glass worked its way down Kyle's system, and he then passed the container to Reid, who took it gratefully.
Strong hands seized the investigator by the arms, and Kyle knew he'd cried out on some level from the pain of pressure being exerted onto his now badly burned forearms. He thought he saw the words saddle up come from his warden's lips, but Kyle couldn't be sure. He tried to resist being pushed back towards the dresser he'd been perched on most of the day, dragging his feet in refusal. Something hard pressed flush with his back, and the investigator instantly began to cooperate. Don't need to be shot too, on top of everything else, he thought.
Once Kyle was strapped into the iron horse he unwillingly rode, he craned his neck to see Reid forcibly shoved back into his assigned seat. Soon the engine vibrated violently into life underneath him, and the posse started back up the highway headed north.
