CHAPTER 2
"Okay, now what?" Myka queried as the sleek speedy sport bike continued to draw away from them.
Given the nature of the machine, the thief could have seriously outdistanced his pursuers in no time; therefore he wasn't relating the SUV and its passengers to the damaged bar he'd left far behind. Tucking the wallet into his inside coat pocket, he kept his eyes peeled for the police. It wouldn't do for them to chase him. And it certainly wouldn't do him any good if they found someone else's credit cards in his hands.
Pete almost had the SUV redlined and wasn't happy about it. If he blew the engine, they'd be stranded and the artifact would get away. That latter problem would be far worse than the former one, particularly once Artie got his supervisory control over them again.
"Mykes, tell me again why that Silver Skull guy didn't go berserk right away and why this new biker doesn't go insane now that he has it."
Frowning, she said, "I don't think I remember reading about this one. Only Artie can tell you and he's," she pointed over her shoulder, "back there. So let's just keep following this guy and once we neutralize it, we can get our answers."
"Ya know, if this thing belonged to Spike Barnett from the Hell's Angels like Artie said, why would this Silver Skulls guy have it now?"
Myka gave him an exasperated look and said firmly. "Pete, did you see that guy?"
"Yeah, of course, I…oh, gotcha." Anything he wants, he takes, Pete reasoned. He passed a bunch of slow moving trucks and a couple of smaller vehicles which got out of his way when he practically rammed the nose of his SUV up their behinds. Still, it wasn't getting him any closer to his target. If anything, the motorcycle looked farther away and getting smaller with every mile.
Watching the tach, Pete gave it a bit more gas but that only kept them from dropping too far back. They passed a sign heralding a town with an unfamiliar name and a gas station/fast food establishment. "Let's hope this guy gets a craving to have it his way at Burger King so we have a chance to gain on him." His stomach growled loudly at the thought of downing a few whoppers once they successfully snagged the wallet.
Rolling her eyes in exasperation over his endless hunger, Myka pressed her own taut stomach to hide the gurgling it was doing.
The sport bike did some weaving from lane to lane a few more times and they thought for sure he'd get off; assuming that this highway version of a pickpocket probably lived close to the bar, but the thief bypassed the exit.
"Great!" Myka muttered. "How's our gas?"
A quick look at the gauge told him the sad story. "Quarter of a tank. We weren't expecting to chase anybody. I was gonna gas up the station across from the bar once we got the artifact."
A weak sigh escaped her lips. "Maybe we should call Artie. Where's the Farnsworth?"
Reaching into his suit coat inner pocket, he pulled out the olive green rectangular box and handed it to her. She adjusted the frequency for his particular device and placed the 'call'. Unfortunately, there was no answer.
A flickering motion in his rear view mirror caught his attention and he laid his hand over Myka's. "What the hell is that?"
"What?" she queried with a confused look.
"Something's coming. Behind us. Looks sort of like bat wings flapping. Big bat wings."
She turned around as the ominous vision drew much closer and prepared to pass them. Myka saw immediately that it was a motorcycle and a single rider. The bike, a Heritage soft-tail classic, was large, black with blue flames, displaying lots of chrome. Loud pipes heralding his approach, the rider glanced up into the truck before flashing by.
"Oh. My. God!" Myka and Pete hollered in perfect unison.
"That was, that was…" stuttered Myka in disbelief.
"Darkwing Duck!" Pete finished for her, clearly as shocked as she was.
"What?" she hollered in confusion.
"I am the terror that flaps in the night! You know, Darkwing Duck?" His waggled a finger in the general direction of his boss. "Well, I guess we know why he didn't answer the Farnsworth," Pete added. "No room to carry it."
Nielsen's dark vest was slapping outward as the wind caught it, giving him the illusion of flight but he appeared oblivious to it.
Fishing for her cell phone, Myka watched him veer into their side of the highway to avoid a slow moving semi in the left lane then with a twist of the throttle he bypassed the vehicle. A quick lean took him in front of the truck and he sped off. Myka wasn't sure if he would answer his cell phone. She wasn't even sure he could hear it over the cacophonous noise made by the exhaust. But that didn't stop her from trying.
To her surprise, she heard a curt "What?" He said it so loudly that Pete smirked.
She cut right to the chase. "He's up ahead, Artie. You're almost there." Then as an afterthought, she yelled, "Where's your helmet?"
"South Dakota…legal to…no way…lice," She leaned straining her ears to hear him. Then she lost the call. A quick glance down showed zero bars and the "no service" message on her phone.
"Follow that Duck!" cried Myka, pointing after Artie who looked much rounder as the wind tugged his loose fitting clothing outward.
"Let's get dangerous," Pete crowed and pushed his engine just a little harder.
Together they hung on with rapt attention to the sight of that sleek machine controlled by a man that seemed just a bit too small to handle so much power as it whipped around a station wagon crammed to the gills with kids and luggage.
The fleeing biker was little more than a speck and still didn't seem to know he was being followed. Pete had to slow down a second or two to make his way safely around the station wagon without spooking the Camaro driver in the left lane by any sudden movements.
The dark Harley with its rider of dark hair, dark eyes, dark vest and dark pants, drew closer to two vehicles driving side by side. Neither of these cars was particularly large and both were driving closer to their respective shoulders leaving just enough…
With a lurch of his heart and quick stab in his gut, Pete saw Artie's fist crank down on the right handlebar's grip and plunge his bike into the gap. At first the spectators didn't think he'd make it. Neither did the drivers of the two cars who swerved out of his way, widening the gap significantly. Artie squeezed through them like a greased pig through the hands of kid at a county fair. He never slowed down.
The car in the left lane made a nearly panicked swerve to the right a few feet ahead of the station wagon. He'd seen the black SUV suddenly appear in his mirrors and wasn't taking any chances. Pete took advantage of the driver's unexpected 'courtesy' and barreled past him.
Meanwhile, in the distance, they caught sight of Artie, head lowered, leaning into the wind, steering the bike right onto the shoulder, utilizing that expanse to pass two tractor trailers traveling side by side.
The SUV slowed down as Pete hoped the trucker in the passing lane would do just that…pass. He waited and waited and…waited.
The semi in the left lane was slightly ahead of his fellow professional but not outdistancing the other truck. In the next heartbeat Pete decided following Artie's example was the best course of action. With Myka's right hand unconsciously clamped onto the door handle, Pete executed a quick swerve across both lanes onto the shoulder. The agent hurtled past them just as the shoulder narrowed for a small bridge spanning a ravine.
Myka released a loud gasp of relief as he made it back onto the highway just in time.
"Call him!" Pete demanded in one of his uncharacteristically serious tones as he realized he could no longer sight his quarry or the pursuer.
"Pete, I don't think he's got any free hands at the moment," suggested Myka in a terse voice. Then she softened it and added. "He's been at this thirty years. We'll just have to trust that he doesn't need any help from us."
Pressing his lips together, he turned to study her a second. His brown eyes shot her a look that said he believed her but didn't like it anyway. Then he returned his attention back to the roadway.
A couple of minutes later, Myka's arm gestured at a small plume of dark smoke in the distance. As they got closer, they caught the distant flicker of flames. Pete's fear intensified and he gave up caring about the SUV's transmission, flooring the gas pedal. He slid the vehicle past the shoulder, onto the ground bordering it, spraying dirt and rocks in all directions. Pete yanked the keys from the ignition with a clatter. The engine had barely ceased functioning when both agents flung open the doors and ran toward the flaming wreckage.
Pete spotted it first, just beyond the downed bike. Cloaked behind the roiling black column of smoke, another motorcycle, bigger and of classic styling, was standing just beyond the flaming wreck. Myka was no more than a step behind him. Together, they stood surveying the damage and noticing the most important fact. No bodies. A solitary full face helmet was upside down on the ground near the wreckage of the crotch rocket but there was no blood on it. Some small patches of darkening red fluid was clotting near the asphalt but there was no telling how bad the injuries actually were.
Then they heard it. Sounds of a scuffle. Bone hitting flesh, grunts of pain, hard soles hitting the dirt drifted over to them. The noise emanated from just around the curve of a rocky hillock bordering the highway.
Locating the disturbance, both agents weren't terribly surprised to see two men rolling around on the ground. The stranger, a youngish man, with shockingly red hair and stereotypical freckles topped by the greenest eyes Myka had ever seen, trying to pummel his opponent without much success. One wildly flailing fist connected with the older man's temple but all he got for his success was a quick left jab to the nose, causing blood to flow. His head, already on the ground, wagged from side to side.
"Stop!" the heavier man ordered but the kid wasn't going to give up that easy. He tried to roll but Nielsen, firmly planted astride his stomach, wasn't allowing him to succeed. Groping hands clasped Artie's neck and closed with surprising strength.
The older agent didn't waste any more time with him. He brought both of his hands inside the forearms of his attacker, forced them apart with a quick outward motion and popped the guy twice more in the face. The sound of fist on bone carried some distance, seemingly bouncing off the surrounding boulders in something akin to an echo. Before the sound had faded, the guy's eyes rolled up and closed.
Groaning with relief, Artie rolled off the man so that he lay flat on his back, arms thrown wide in apparent supplication, drawing deep heaving breaths. He allowed his eyes to close for a second, and then twisted his head sideways to hunt for his glasses. Myka fetched them and handed them down to him. Without sitting up, Artie inspected them for damage, carefully dusted off the lenses with one forefinger, and reseated them on his face. Then, and only then, did he stretch up both arms for assistance. Without hesitation or comment they grasped his hands and dragged him, complaining the whole way, to his feet.
"Wallet…find it," he stated bluntly, as he brushed the dirt of his slacks. He wasn't very successfully.
Without hesitation, Pete jogged back to the SUV. He returned with a silver bag and purple gloves.
Kneeling down beside the prone thief, Myka gently peeled back his leather jacket and immediately spied the large flat wallet poking out of the pocket, the chain half dangling out beside it.
Despite the neutralizer gloves, she handled it gingerly, lifting it between thumb and forefinger as if it were diseased.
"It won't bite," Artie informed her with a serious expression.
"That's not what I'm worried about." When he lifted one eyebrow in question, she explained with a pinched expression, "Do you have any idea how many biker butts have rested on this thing?"
A tiny twitch lifted one corner of Artie's mouth. "Okay, you win with that one. Just bag it already and let's get out of here before he wakes up."
A solar flare issued forth from the open bag as the wallet was slid inside it, followed by an amazing assortment of gold, red and purple sparks. The fireworks display lasted at least thirty seconds and everyone was flinching and covering their eyes for most of it.
"Ei chi wah wah, that was a nasty one," Pete observed, taking a final peek inside before sealing it up.
"Lots of rage and hate trapped in that thing," Artie explained.
Myka's brow wrinkled as she recalled Pete's earlier question. "So why didn't it work on the Silver Skull biker all the time and why not on him when he first jacked it?" She gestured with her chin toward the supine form lying nearby.
Following her gaze, Artie scratched at his goatee a moment in thought. As he withdrew his hand, he noted the smudges of blood on his fingertips. Grimacing, more from frustration than discomfort, he carelessly wiped the blood off on his dirt covered slacks. That would eventually earn him a serious lecture from Leena but, at that moment, he simply didn't care. Finally, he answered her question. "I suspect the anger only manifests once the fighting starts. The big guy back there didn't go crazy until he took a couple of blows. Pain triggered fight hormones. Catecholamine, epinephrine, norepinephrine and testosterone immediately ramped up to critical levels, thanks to the pent up rage stored within the wallet, and viola, instant berserker."
His fingers gently probed a bruise on his cheek before continuing, "The thief was fine until he realized I was in pursuit. Then he did something stupid, took a spill, and tried to run. I…stopped him…he started throwing punches. I hit him a few times and I saw the look on his face change. The wallet took over. He got a lucky right cross in-" he gestured to the blossoming purple bruise by his eye. "-and I beaned him with a rock."
"Artie!" Myka said, sounding shocked but unsuccessfully hiding a smile. If there was one thing she knew it was that Artie disliked physical altercations. But he never shied from it either particularly when it became necessary to engage an opponent influenced by artifacts. Quick and dirty and down they went. That was his style.
Ignoring her scandalized expression, Nielsen finished his story. "With the rage on him it barely fazed the guy, so I hit him with a bigger rock. He went down dragging me with him. And that's where you came in."
Nudging the downed man with a sneakered toe, Artie pulled his cell from his pants pocket and flipped it open. Dialing 9-1-1, he waited. "There appears to have been an accident. He'll need an ambulance." There was a brief pause. "No, no one else was injured. He must've hit something on the road and wiped out." More silence. "I have no idea. I saw the smoke and didn't know if anyone else had already called. Right." He rattled off a number which Pete knew by heart because that was the same number he and other Warehouse personnel were ordered to give in cases such as this. Oh, someone would answer at the other end, someone involved with the security net overseeing the Warehouse and the Regents. But they'd deflect any police calls efficiently and the investigation would dead end, at least when it came to tracing the one reporting the incident.
Slipping the phone back into his pocket, Artie hopped on the motorcycle, got its engine roaring like full blown earthquake and turned it in the direction of the bar.
"What're you doing?" Myka inquired in surprise.
"Returning Uzi's ride. It was the only bike not tampered with, and I got it on one condition. I promised to bring it back, undamaged, and-" Artie shrugged expansively, bestowing a wan smile on them, "he promised not to kill me if I caught the guy who damaged their bikes." With a wave, he gunned the throttle, sending a fluming stream of dirt and dust into the air, and roared off down the highway as siren song grew in the distance. His compatriots quickly followed his lead and soon they were no more than a fading memory upon the landscape.
Epilog
Nearly a week had gone by when a package arrived at Leena's Bed and Breakfast. The UPS woman had simply handed it over with a bright smile and walked off. Glancing down Leena noted the box was for Artie.
Walking into the sunroom, where all the agents were sitting around a table filled with empty breakfast dishes, she listened to them discussing an artifact that had been difficult to trace but may have come up on Artie's 'radar'. As soon as there was a lull in the conversation, the recipient of the package noted her standing, patiently waiting.
Quickly, she offered the package to him. With a quizzical expression knitting his furry brows and pursing his lips, Artie pulled a pocket knife from his pants and carefully slit the tape open. Myka offered purple gloves she'd stuffed into her pocket that morning but he waved her off with a dismissive gesture.
Inside the box he found a silver skull bandana and leather vest bearing the enormous Silver Skulls embroidered patch on the back. For the first time in at least a month, Artie allowed a broad smile to pull at the corners of his mouth and a generally pleased expression to wash over the rest of his face.
"Arthur," a warm yet authoritative voice sounded behind them making everyone unconsciously cringe. "How lovely to see you've found some new friends. Tell me all about it, why don't you."
FIN