Chapter 6: The Long Haul
The headlights of the Ford cut twin tunnels through the impenetrable darkness of the New Mexico desert. Inside the cab, the heater blew a faint, lukewarm breeze that smelled faintly of old dust and antifreeze. Cale lay sprawled across the bench seat, his head resting in Maya’s lap. The little girl’s small fingers were pressed firmly against the makeshift bandage on her father’s shoulder, trying desperately to stem the slow, rhythmic seep of blood that continued to soak through the wool blanket.
Jack glanced in the rearview mirror every few seconds, his eyes straining against the glare of the empty highway behind them. There were no headlights following—yet. But he knew the men in the Durango weren't the type to give up easily. They had satellite tracking, local police scanners, and the kind of bureaucratic backing that turned every state line into a trap.
"How is he, Maya?" Jack asked, his voice softened just a fraction as he kept both hands locked onto the vibrating steering wheel.
"He’s cold," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the roar of the truck's aging exhaust pipe. "His hands are shaking, Jack."
"Call me Uncle Jack," he said instinctively, surprised by his own words. He hadn't been an 'uncle' to anyone since the old days in Tucson, before the prison sentence and the breakup of the chapter had turned him into a solitary nomad of the asphalt.
"Uncle Jack," she repeated softly, testing the weight of the words. "Are those bad men going to catch us?"
"Not while I'm breathing," Jack replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.
He reached down and clicked on the CB radio mounted beneath the dashboard. The speaker hissed with static, punctuated by the occasional burst of truckers trading road condition reports and speed trap warnings. Jack twisted the dial, searching for the clandestine frequency used by independent haulers—the underground network of outlaws, smugglers, and disenfranchised riders who kept their own counsel and answered to no federal badge.
"Breaker one-nine, this is Iron Jack calling outbound," he spoke into the heavy metal microphone, his voice cutting through the electronic hiss. "Looking for safe pasture near Gallup. Got freight that needs hiding and cargo that’s leaking oil."
For a long, agonizing minute, there was only static. Then, a low, gravelly voice crackled back through the speaker, carrying the distinct twang of an old-school road tramp.
May you like
"Takes a lot of grease to hide an oil leak in Gallup, Jack. Especially when the state boys are offering a bounty for a missing blue Ford."
Jack’s grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles turned white. "The price just went up, Preacher. I've got something you've been wanting to read for five years."
