Something other than my cock had stirred when I lifted Pippa up to retrieve her arrow.
True, I hadn’t been near any women other than hookers in over a year. Maybe it was just having a fresh, relatively innocent gal in my arms that stoked my sappy, emotional flames. She had an innocent powder scent, especially between her breasts. I could breathe that in, because I’d intentionally twisted her around so we faced each other.
I could have turned her the other way and enjoyed the press of the rise of her butt against my chest, but I really wanted an excuse to brush my face against her cleavage and inhale.
What a fucking pervert. I was supposed to kill her. Now I was wondering what perfume she wore.
Only a flaming box truck could have wrenched thoughts of Pippa Lofting from my head. That did the fucking trick. I pulled my Panhead to the shoulder of the pump station access road, Wolf Glaser pulling up behind me. I even removed my shades in awe of the sight. Wolf, walking up to where I straddled my bike, had already removed his. Our jaws hung open.
Wolf said, “This is sure enough a bizarre sight in the middle of this shit.”
Frowning, I glanced sideways at him. “Apocalypse Now?”
He was back to his usual grin. “Yeah. I always wanted to say that.”
Wolf’s attempt at comedy sort of wrenched me from my reverie. Getting off my saddle, I got as close to the burning truck as I dared. The back doors had been flung open. Someone had thrown some kind of incendiary device into the interior to set the boxes of weed alight. Whenever the wind shifted, I’d get a whiff of Lytton’s prize-winning pot full in the face. I certainly didn’t fucking need that, so I whipped my bandanna into a mask tied at the back of my neck. I replaced my shades so I could get closer.
One burnt driver lay on the passenger side of the road. He was already a crispy critter, and if I stood there any longer, the stench emanating from him would get in my clothes and hair. Out of an ounce of compassion I kicked him onto his face as a way of putting out the flames. The black crust covering his face and chest was probably tar to make the gasoline and gunpowder stick. I glanced inside the cab. Two other drivers had each been shot once through the forehead.
They hadn’t been here to hijack the shipment. They’d been here to destroy it.
The dashboard cam video that Lytton had sent me showed several masked men—they could’ve been Ochoas, who knew?—stopping the truck by the rest stop back a half a mile. Some of them rustled around inside the cab, but ultimately made our driver take this access road so as not to be seen. That was enough for Lytton to call me, and that was all I’d seen. Now I grabbed the dashboard cam to save it from destruction, walking back to stick it in my saddlebag.
Wolf was still standing where he had been, next to my scoot. But his grin was even wider this time. He was deeply inhaling the smoke wafting from the truck.
Grabbing his sleeve, I rattled him harshly. “Jizzmonger! We’ve got to get the fuck out of here before pigs get here. But we’ve got to take those two bodies with us.”
He nodded, dazed. “Give them a proper burial.”
“Well, not exactly. We’ve got to get them down the road to that pump station.” Good thing it was a Sunday and no employees would be working there.
Wolf looked around. “Too bad we didn’t think to bring a cage.”
“Yeah.”
“Wait a minute.” Wolf whipped out his phone, thumbed it up and down, and punched “dial” on someone’s number. “Hey, Pedro. We need to call in a favor. A favor.”
“Necesitamos un favor,” I shouted over Wolf’s shoulder.
“Right,” bellowed Wolf, in that güero way of assuming a non-English-speaker was just deaf. “Necessary un favor. We’re on that road behind the rest stop south of your gas station. Can you bring your cage—”
“Traer tu coche,” I said into the phone.
Wolf looked at me with irritation, as though I was the one blowing the translation. “Yes, bring your coach, and take the access road to the pump station. You’ll see a burning truck.”
“Verás un camión en llamas. Llega aquí rápido.” Get here fast.
“Yes. Don’t bring your llama. That’s too slow. Get here fast. Got it, Pedro?”
Apparently Pedro got it, and Wolf hung up to let the guy jump into action.
We moved our scoots over the next rise in case any cops arrived, then waited for Pedro with folded arms, leaning back against our rides.
“That Pippa Lofting is hot,” said Wolf. “Smoking hot, I’d say. She’s a firecracker.”
I snorted at his description. “She’s pretty,” I allowed.
“There was something between you. When I got back with the smoothies, it was like I’d interrupted my parents rutting.”
“Thanks a lot!”