Page 51 of What I Should Have Done

Small pebbles around the buggy began to vibrate with the encroaching convoy. Engines filled the peaceful night air, sending the critters of the dark scurrying into crevices of protection.

Time to let the devil out to play.

Blood pumping from my heart pounded heavily in my ear as tires crunching over the canyon floor bounced through the atmosphere. They were close, so close.

And then the first glint of metal rounding a corner met my sights. Another off-road ATV similar to the dune buggy that I sat in led the convoy. Gatling gun and everything, mounted on the A-frame metal poles.

Sucking in some breath, I swallowed stiffly. They were chugging closer and closer, each spin of the tires on the first ATV drawing the entire four-vehicle convoy toward its death. Once the front dune buggy had rounded the corner, an enclosed, plain looking jeep followed behind. It supposedly carried the bomb and, as a result, was Bernie’s target.

My target followed next. Grungy and rusting at the wheel frames, the truck with a canvas stretched over the bed as a replacement to a metal shell, looked as if it came out of WWII. Tan colored and rattling so slowly, the heat from the engine working as hard as it could sweltered against the finally rising sun.

And lastly, bringing up the rear of the convoy was another sand rail. With the interior exposed between a simple roll cage, it revealed the five assailants toting along. One man stood behind the gatling gun, poised and ready for a fight. Tan clothes covered in sand and sticky sweat masked all of them. Every single combatant I could make out looked the same, so where our bogey was, I had yet to discover.

Scottie’s finger shifted on her gun, slipping over the safety as she quietly flicked it off. The buggy rocked with very slight movement from Ford shifting into position to brace against the force that would come the moment we shot out of our fortified position.

Sliding a hand down to the key, I paused, waiting for the vibrations of the convoy to hide any indication that another engine had joined the masses. Then, the moment the ancient truck carting weapons was directly in front of us, I turned the engine over.

The buggy roared to life. Keeping the brake and clutch pedals down to the floor, my right hand slid to the gear shift and hovered.

Three.

The rear bumper of the truck was directly in front of me.

Two.

The nose of the buggy now drove into our direct line of sight.

One.

Shoving the stick into gear, I gunned the sand rail, revving the RPMs to the sweet point, and released the clutch. Bolting out of our hidden post, gunfire cracked through the air—the whir of the gatling gun mounted directly behind us—snapping around the ravine.

As if the dune walls had come to life, the squad of soldiers darted out from the shadows. Brakes screeched, our enemy lurching to a halt with no way forward. Roaring around the back of the convoy, bullets peppered into part of the metal rod. Shifting into the next gear, I spun the wheel, whipping the buggy so the passenger side faced the gatling gun returning fire.

Scottie squeezed her trigger, and a swell of pride and wicked desire snapped through me as the gatling gun fell still and the combatant slumped over—the hole in his head searing red and visible from here.

Fuck, that was hot.

Shifting down, we drifted back around, spraying dust on the two other assailants who jumped out from the back of the buggy. The soldiers immediately swarmed them, one of whom I recognized was Reyes.

Then in a flurry of movements, one insurgent’s cloth slipped off of his nose and I recognized the thick beard. Our bogey. Scottie shared a quick glance with me as I slammed on the brakes and clutch, spinning us straight. Ford must have noticed too as he reached down and tapped my right shoulder twice.

Slamming the sand rail back into gear, my foot rammed onto the gas pedal as we spun to the far side of the convoy, where our secret target was engaged in some hand-to-hand combat with one of our soldiers—and winning.

The gatling gun whirred, Ford peppering the canyon wall just above both of their heads. Both our bogey and the soldier slammed to the dune floor, rolling in opposite directions.

And just as we careened up to them, sand sprayed up behind the wheels of the enemy’s final buggy. The dead body crashed out the back.

“Go!” Ford shouted as my feet found both the clutch and brakes. As I drifted the back end around, he jumped from the sand rail. “I’ll take care of the truck! You can’t let them get away!” he radioed over comms. “This will go from a missing convoy that they have to come find to—”

“To a revenge fight,” I finished for him, and the dune buggy shot through a gap between Reyes and another soldier. A gap that wasn’t supposed to be there.

“Out, Crow!” I shouted, revving the engine, ready to barrel after them.

“I’m coming with you. Go!” she demanded. A groan rumbled from my chest, but there was no time to argue.

Gripping the gear stick and steering column tightly, my feet rammed the gas to the floor and the buggy shot off. Spinning with my palm, I shot us through the gap still left by Reyes and the other soldier and squeezed against the edge of the canyon.

Up ahead, just disappearing around a corner, was the quickly fading escaping ATV.

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