Chapter 9
A Dash of Leon and a Pinch of Ada
He'd discovered the flat terrain a damn bit easier to navigate than the low hills and rocky trenches thrust upward on the edges of the never-ending horizon. Out of nowhere they appeared, like pop up in a poorly programmed video game. Blink, and the earth folded itself into sloped, plateau peaks steeped in crumbled red clay soil.
The rises became less of a random obstacle and more a hindering nuisance the further they ran. He dreaded each one. His thighs burned. His feet felt like they were anchored in a strip of molasses slathered in a generous topcoat of quicksand. The mad dash over clefted, wind worn mounds the muscle pumping equivalent of wading in knee-deep snow, both directions, uphill and down.
Dragging an exercised challenged man, who Leon swore had two left feet, exacerbated an already tenuous situation. Downing didn't have a Devil's chant in church in keeping himself upright and moving at the same pace in which Leon hauled his ass. He'd seen overweight girls in middle school gym class run a quarter mile, half walking, faster than the arrogant idiot he had reattached to his wrist.
Leon wasn't sure which part of: these men aren't chasing us because they thought it might be fun, and just for toodles they had nothing better to do, Downing refused to comprehend. Would he understand it better when they emptied his brain out the side of his head?
Rapid release spray and pray machine gun fire riddled the ground. Bullets nipped their heels. Ammo blasted dirt clods struck their ankles.
They crested a hill. The last round had been close. He wondered if the next round would bring the bite of a bullet as it tore through his calve.
Leon jerked on the handcuffs. "Jesus, Downing. Come on! Move!"
Downing bent over. He clutched his side with his free hand and sucked down oxygen in deep gulps. "Listen here," he panted. "Maybe you were a track star in a former life, agent Kennedy but I, unfortunately, was not."
Leon stooped to Downing's level. He shoved his nose in his face. Perspiration beads trickled down his forehead and dripped onto the tips of their noses. He waved an arm at the two figures gaining ground in the distance. "See those men. See them. Those men didn't follow us out here in the middle of no mans land because they want to offer an invitation to dinner. We're not playing desert laser tag. They want to K-I-L-L us, Downing."
"Says you, agent Kennedy. I'm fairly certain those men don't want to kill me. In fact, I'd be willing to wager my life they're here to K-I-L-L you. I, for one, wouldn't mind putting a fair bit of distance between you and I, and whatever target you've got painted on your back. So how about you," he shook the handcuffs, "undo the restraints. We go our separate ways. If you're still alive when this infernal sun goes down, and we happen to cross paths, I owe you a Coke."
Leon grabbed him by his collar. "You listen to me, you dirty, rotten, sell-out, I plan on making it out of this hell hole with my brains safely tucked inside my skull if I have to drag your sorry ass face down, kicking and screaming, behind me every rock, rise, hill, bush, and cactus step of the way!"
"Yet another threat. May I suggest anger management?"
Another round whizzed by the clump of weeds at their feet.
"Damn it, Downing! Move!"
Downing slapped at Leon's hands, and when that didn't release Leon's grip, he plopped down on his rump like a petulant child cruisin' a temper tantrum. "Nothing doing." He looked at Leon's holster and then waved at their pursuers. "I think I'd rather take my chances with the men with the bigger guns."
Leon glanced at the heavily armed duo swimming in heat waves. They'd stopped to catch their breath next to a small rock outcrop. They passed an object back and forth between them. Leon squinted. The larger of the two tilted his head back. Leon licked his dry lips. Damn it to hell! The cocky bastards were on a water break. So confident in their ability, and in the final outcome, they'd decided to slow up for a refreshing chug without fear that Leon and Dr. Tortoise legs might actually escape.
"Have it your way, Downing." Leon jerked his arm forward. Downing's dead weight body dragged down his body as though he had morphed into an off balance, shuffling Quasimodo-Igor amalgamation.
Downing slapped at Leon's trousers. "This is outrageous, agent Kennedy. Say goodbye to your career. When my attorney-"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Leon interrupted. "When he finds out about this, blah, blah blah."
##
She cut a white line in the sky. Tail smoke sputters dotted the wild blue yonder with puffs of exhaust from the tired engine that tugged her over a desolate expanse that rushed by in a dusty, rust colored haze. The sun's glare cut through the cockpit window casting refracted, glinted light fragments over the dashboard and the controls. Thank God for her custom made Serengeti aviator glasses. Not being blinded, with style, had never felt so good.
Two specks on her two o'clock swung into view. "We meet again tall, not so dark, and handsome," she whispered into the mic attached to her headset.
She leaned into a sweeping turn and eased the nose of the plane lower.
She'd told him to move his fine behind, and apparently he'd taken her advice. They had a descent head start. The two figures bringing up their rear were a good hundred yards away.
With the flick of her wrist she lifted the latch over the button for the control valve to the canisters of Sarin gas bolted to the underside of the plane.
The toxic gas cocktail wouldn't be enough to completely stop the viral infused monstrosity that continued to call himself Krauser, but it would be enough to throw his nervous system into an uncontrollable disarray long enough for Leon and Downing to reach her when she landed.
##
Leon glanced over his shoulder. A fast moving black blip rose above a plateau and scuttled under a flock of circling vultures.
Downing pointed at the object, growing larger, and louder, as it raced toward them. "One of yours, agent Kennedy?"
Leon shaded his eyes. Ada? 'Bout time. Technically not 'one of his', but damn, close enough.
The plane's outline exploded into view as it rattled into a banked turn overhead and charged straight at the two men still guzzling a gullet full of thirst quencher only a touchdown away.
The crop duster's riveted belly inched lower and lower, until the tread on its wheels hung suspended in the air only inches from the ground, blowing the clay soil into mini dirt cyclones spiraling across the earth.
Mr. Machine Gun and Mr. Uzi tossed what appeared to be a canteen and raised their weapons.
Tin can shooting gallery pings echoed above the engine sputter.
Author's note: Many thanks to those who have read. Kudos to those who were kind enough to leave a review. Best wishes to all for a joyous New Year filled with wondrous excitement and endless possibilities.