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With the help of a multi-tool, and years of experience, Gator fired up the backhoe. Not a full-size model, but it'd do. It roared to life at his command, and he swiveled the arm, preparing to set forth. Tyrone and Smitty removed the fence before him and he trundled up on to the road. The tilting car sat a couple hundred yards away, on the precarious edge, with the child crouching by the rear bumper. All he had to do was get up beside it and pull the car back onto the road. Tuck the claws of the bucket under the far side of the vehicle and pull. Oh, yeah, racking up the hero cred today, for sure!
Someone topped the verge at an angle, pulling free of the muddy salt, waving her arms, then crossing them in an X over her head. Good grief. Did the woman never believe they knew what to do?
Joe, Monty and Flick, standing well back on the roadbed, started forward at Jessica's appearance. With his big earmuffs on, Gator couldn't hear a thing, but she clearly wanted him to stop. Lots of arm raising and finger pointing ensued, then Monty beckoned to the others, and most of the team raced forward, in pairs, leaving a little space.
Flick hustled back and banged on the cab.
"What?" Gator hollered.
"Too much vibration! You keep rolling, car rolls in. Driver's dead, Rowe, too." He shrugged. "How bad you want to know about that wreck?"
Gator sighted down the road, where Monty and Joe plunged into the salt at a distance from the vehicle, slushing their way forward.
"They're gonna stabilize, then you come in! So if you want to go for death by Cat, you better work fast." Then he grinned. "Or else our split gets bigger."
"Can't squash Monty, he's too valuable."
With a shrug, Flick hopped down and stood back.
Dang. Rowe's story, even the one on the tape, wasn't the first time since they got to Baja that he'd heard of this wreck and the sheer amount of wealth it might contain. He could hold out a little longer. "Lemme know when to roll!"
Flick gave a thumbs-up, then positioned himself partway down the road, ready to pass the word. The other four men disappeared around the car. Jessica stood on the slope, watching intently, maybe giving instructions like she was the sergeant. Maybe she had been.
Suddenly, her arm went up, and Flick beckoned him forward. Gator cut across the road, letting the backhoe get one track on the opposite slope. Best he could do under the circumstances. Flick moved in tandem with him, keeping to the middle, keeping the comms open, old-school. Gravel bounced and puddles shivered as they drew closer to the car. Tyrone and Monty visible near the trunk, human props. Smitty and Joe must be at the hood.
Jessica jumped down from her perch and entered the salt pan, circling wide, holding her arms up to direct his approach. Valid. From here, mostly he saw the undercarriage, with little notion of where to apply his bucket.
She gestured him forward, then along the road. Forward again, the distance between her hands shrinking along with the distance between them. Her arms flashed the "stop" gesture, and Gator extended the bucket arm over the top of the car, sinking it slowly down.
Inch by inch, he lowered the bucket, reaching again, lowering, then finally drawing the bucket back toward him. With a clang that shuddered the arm, it contacted the car, and somebody screamed.