Blacktop Wasteland(67)

“Tyree, this car heavy as fuck. Come on, man, let’s just move it and get on,” one of the Hoodie Brothers said to Dreadlocks. Beauregard inched closer to the road.

Tyree set the rifle down on the road. He took a position next to the Hoodie Brother on Kelvin’s left.

“I ain’t messing up my jersey,” Tyree said as he placed his Air Jordan on the trunk.

“Hey, I feel ya. Alright, on three,” Kelvin said.

“One.”

Beauregard put the binoculars back in his pack and crept over the dry ditch bank. He crouched down until he was crab walking again. He inched his way up to the driver’s-side door of the van. His rubber-soled shoes slipped over the gravel and asphalt like a sigh.

“Two.”

Beauregard pressed his back against the side of the van.

“THREE,” Kelvin exclaimed. The four men pushed and kicked the Lincoln. The screech of metal against metal filled the night as the brakes ground against the rotors.

Beauregard stood up and aimed his .45 at the driver. The man had a wide face with a light, almost tan complexion. He stared at Beauregard’s gun like a bird staring at a snake. The driver’s hand hovered above the horn but Beauregard shook his head. He pulled a piece of white paper out of his pocket with his free hand. He pressed the paper against the glass.

“TURN OFF THE DOME LIGHT. DO NOT MAKE ANY NOISE. GET IN THEBACK AND LIE FACE DOWN. IF YOU DON’T I WILL KILL YOU” was written on the paper.

The driver hadn’t shut the door completely so Beauregard grabbed the handle and opened it slowly. He motioned for the driver to get in the back. The man slid his considerable bulk over the center console and lay down in the back of the van. Beauregard balled up the paper, put it in his pocket and climbed in the van. He saw that the man had followed instructions as carefully as a dutiful child. He shut the door softly then slipped out of his pack while still holding his gun. Using his free hand he retrieved two sets of handcuffs from the knapsack. He handed both pairs of cuffs to the driver.

“Handcuff one end of one set of handcuffs to one of the straps holding down the pallet. Hook the other end to the chain in the middle of the other pair. Then put that pair on. Do it quickly,” Beauregard whispered.

“Are you gonna shoot me?” the driver asked. His voice was a tremulous whistle.

“Not if you put on the handcuffs,” Beauregard said. He checked his watch. Taking control of the van had taken a minute and a half. They were right on schedule.

“That should do it, fellas,” Kelvin said. The smoldering Lincoln was at a lackadaisical diagonal angle in Pine Tar Road’s northbound lane. They’d moved it just enough so they could all slip by.

“Yeah,” Tyree said. He retrieved the AR-15 and aimed it at Kelvin again. Kelvin held his hands out in front of him. He dropped his work shirt and took a step back.

Beauregard watched the scene through the windshield. All the saliva in his mouth instantly evaporated. His breath came in ragged bursts.

“Don’t you do it,” he murmured.

“Hey man, come on,” Kelvin said. Tyree walked up to him and placed the barrel against his cheek. He pushed forward until the barrel was making a dent in Kelvin’s face.

Beauregard planted himself in the driver’s seat. He had the .45 in his waist but shooting through the windshield would throw off his shot. The van was a 6,000-pound deadly weapon if it came to that. Beauregard watched as Tyree pressed the barrel of his gun even harder into Kelvin’s cheek. His whole body flinched.

“No, no, no, you gotta talk this motherfucker down,” Beauregard said, not caring if the driver heard him or not. He saw Kelvin’s face in the bright bluish headlights. It was terribly animated. His eyes were big as dinner plates. Snippets of the conversation reached him in muffled chunks. The words were indistinct but the AR-15 made the nature of Dreadlock’s threat perfectly clear.

Beauregard shifted the van into drive. He could close the distance between the van and Tyree in less than three seconds. Which wouldn’t matter because if Tyree pulled the trigger Kelvin would be dead before he hit the ground.

Beauregard clutched the steering wheel in a death grip.

“If I was you I would forget all about tonight. I see you again, anywhere, your wife a widow. Ya feel me?” Tyree said.

“Forget about what?” Kelvin said.

“Come on, Tyree, we gotta go,” one of the Hoodie Brothers said.

“Be gone, homes,” Tyree said. Kelvin put his hands down and picked up his shirt. He grabbed the spent fire extinguisher and walked around the three men. He glanced at the van as he walked back to the truck. He climbed in and shut the door. Beauregard’s bandana rustled as he exhaled deep from within his chest.

“Get in the car,” Tyree said. The other two men hustled back to the SUV. As he made his way back to the vehicle he slapped the hood of the van. The windows and the windshield had a dark, smoke gray tint. In the faded gloom of the North Carolina night, with the blinding LED headlights blasting his retinas, Tyree failed to notice Beauregard sitting in the driver’s seat.

“Let’s get on, Ross,” Tyree said after slapping the hood. He climbed into the SUV. Beauregard put the van into gear and hit the gas. The caravan was once again on its way. Kelvin counted to fifty before taking off as well. By the time he’d crested the next hill the tail lights of the SUV were just red pinpricks.