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It wasn't tribal shrieks or drumbeats that woke me. Instead, it was the tires of Sanitoro's sedan skidding across a highway half-covered by sand, asphalt cracked seismically and missing large chunks of itself. In its prime it had been a two-lane road, but with the desert reclaiming every spare meter it wanted, the highway had been whittled down to one lane—generously speaking. Sanitoro gripped the wheel, keeping us from slipping sidelong into soft earth as treacherous as quicksand.
The grinding motors of dirt bikes approached from our six, their headlights flashing in the side mirror as they gained on us like cheetahs chasing down an overweight gazelle.
"They sound hungry," I muttered, reaching for the .38 revolver in my shoulder holster.
Sanitoro cursed under his breath, gunning the engine as he fought to keep us on the highway. The bikes easily overtook us and started jumping from one side of the road to the other, launching into the air like stunt performers in some kind of desert circus, crossing through the glare of our headlights as they landed. The riders wore plaid shirts buttoned at their throats, and the face shields of their helmets had been modeled after classic luchador masks. Entertaining, if not for the semiautomatics they wielded with aplomb, firing at Sanitoro's bulletproof windshield as they made their passes. The thuds of the rounds sounded like somebody pounding a trashcan with a hammer.
"Border gang." I squeezed the grip of my snub-nosed Smith & Wesson.
Sanitoro nodded, tapping his dash console. What was the range of that fancy radar? According to the display, we were fifteen kilometers behind the helicopter, and it wasn't slowing down for us.
So much for my theory that the Blackshirts were leading us straight to the detention facility. Wishful thinking. If this gang had its way, Daichi's abductors would leave us far behind, languishing in the dust.
Bikers ripped past us on both sides, one after another, gunshots thudding into the sedan's armor. Spanish obscenities and commands to halt echoed in their wake. Sanitoro had his foot planted on the accelerator, swerving to keep from hitting the bikes landing their jumps. Not because he didn't want to plow into them. He knew it wouldn't take much to send us careening out of control. The swerving itself was bad enough, tempting fate.
I glanced at the radar screen. "How long until we're out of range?"
"Not an issue—yet." Sanitoro focused on the rearview. "That, on the other hand..."
A massive semi loomed behind us, its grill shaped into the chrome jaws of a savage monster. "Is that what I think it is?" I hoped I was wrong. "When you mentioned cannibals—"
"These scavengers are not interested in flesh or blood." Keeping one hand on the wheel, Sanitoro drew the .45 from his shoulder rig. "But they will cut through us to get what they want under the hood."
A mobile chop shop? Inventive.
The semi roared behind us, giving the back of Sanitoro's sedan a forceful nudge that sent us lurching forward in our seats. Sanitoro fought the wheel to keep us on the drivable surface of the road and gunned the engine, ramming into one of the bikers and sending both him and his bike flying in the same general direction. No more Mr. Nice Yakuza.
Yet another pair of bikers raced by, one on each side of us, their rear tires spitting gravel that pinged across the surface of Sanitoro's car. They rode double, the masked deviants in back brandishing gas-powered chainsaws retrofitted with whirling steel cutters.
"Don't see that every day."
"Welcome to the Wastes." Sanitoro cursed.
As one of the riders leaned over to dig his chugging chainsaw into the sedan's hood, Sanitoro tapped a command on the console before him. Immediately the car's exterior flashed with a momentary charge, and the rider jerked back, crying out as he nearly dropped the saw.
"Nice move," I said. "How many volts?"
"A few hundred," Sanitoro replied.
Gotta love Japanese technology.
The semi plowed into the sedan's rear end, sending us jolting off to the right. Both hands on the wheel now, Sanitoro struggled to recover control.
"Try to keep it steady." I unfastened my seatbelt and rolled the window all the way down.
"What are you doing?" Sanitoro glanced over as I climbed halfway out and sat there like a circus performer preparing for my next stunt.
Half a dozen bikes tore out of the semi's open trailer, popping wheelies under the moonlight in a berserk display of bravado before racing after us. I counted too many smoking chainsaws grinding all too eagerly for my liking.
It didn't take long for a dirt bike carrying two leering luchadores to get yours truly in its sights. Revving the motor, it bore down on me.
I retrieved the EMP gun from my belt and took aim, squeezing the trigger without taking a moment to second-guess myself. The fiery blue pulse round streaked through the night and slammed into the bike, killing its motor instantly. As it seized up and capsized, the riders vaulted into the air, screaming Spanish obscenities and landing in one of those soft patches of sand along the roadside.
Shouts erupted from the other riders as I fired at the semi—two rounds this time, just to be on the safe side. The behemoth shuddered as blue lightning flexed across the grill and hood, shutting down the engine and immediately activating the emergency braking system. The trailer slipped sideways, dropping its rear axle into the sand and sending a plume of dust upward. Instead of bearing down on us, the other bikers backed off. They didn't know the range of my pulse rounds; neither did I, truth be told. Even those trigger-happy stunt jumpers decided to keep their distance.
With them out of the way, Sanitoro had the road to himself, and he put as much room as possible between us and the bikers. Dropping back into my seat, I tucked the EMP gun into my belt and left the window wide open. The blasting night air was invigorating. And I wanted to be the first to hear those dirt bikes if the riders changed their minds and resumed the hunt.
"What the hell is that thing?" Sanitoro glanced at my high-tech weapon.
"Classified." I gave him a wink and checked the side mirror. The broken asphalt behind us lay vacant. No sign of the official Wastes Welcome Wagon. The only lights came from Sanitoro's sedan, glowing like a furnace behind us and bleaching the cracked pavement ahead. "One of those top-secret UW weapons you've probably heard of."
"From your Blackshirt friend."
Friend? Not so much. Agent Adams and I had what you'd call a mutually beneficial relationship. She kept Ivan the Terrible from killing me, and I helped her out with the bizarre case from time to time, as the need arose.
"Works great on mandroids," I offered.
"You think that is what will be waiting for us?"
Was that why I'd brought the weapon along? Did I really think the Feds would have mandroids guarding their top-secret detention center?
I sure as hell hoped not. Those things gave me the creeps: unnaturally tall robots shaped to look like humans, complete with faux skin and hair. But not the eyes. Nothing human about them. As red as Sanitoro's taillights, they had an uncanny ability to slice a soldier in half. That's right, folks: laser cutters blasted right out of their unhuman eye sockets. The models I'd encountered in the war also sported meter-long bayonets, welded to their arms. Came in real handy when they decided to sneak up on your unit and decapitate your men in the dark. Or skewer half a dozen with one thrust.
Gory living nightmares I'd somehow managed to survive—they'd be sticking with me until the end of my days. The men in my unit? Not so lucky.
According to the display on Sanitoro's console, we were gaining on the chopper now. But after that warm welcome at the border, I had no idea what else could be waiting for us once we finally caught up with the Feds.
No way I could've even guessed.