Vehicles On Fire

Vehicles On Fire
The truck rolled steadily along the two-lane road, the rhythm of the tires on asphalt a constant low vibration through the metal above Lucy’s head. She held on tightly in the narrow space under the chassis, every muscle still tense even though the prison walls were already miles behind her.

After a few minutes, the tension cracked and a short, disbelieving laugh escaped her. It had actually worked. The doors had opened. The underside had not been searched carefully enough. She was out. She was on her way to freedom, although it was the type of freedom she truly wanted.

It didn't matter though. Now that she was out, she would be able to prove her innocence and get justice for her murdered partner. However, before she could even begin to think about all that, there was still the matter of making it to the city and reuniting with her stepdad.

About fifteen minutes after leaving the gates, the truck slowed and came to a complete stop. Lucy heard the driver’s door open and footsteps move away across gravel. She waited, listening. When the footsteps faded, she carefully shifted position—her shoulders and hips had begun to ache from the cramped space—and lowered herself to the ground. She crawled out from under the vehicle on the side opposite the building and crouched low beside the rear tires.

They were still outside the city. A small sandwich shop sat alone at the edge of the road, its windows lit. Through the glass, Lucy could see the driver standing at the counter, getting her order ready.

She moved quickly to the back of the truck, lifted the latch, climbed inside among the stacked crates, and pulled the door shut behind her. The interior smelled of cardboard, diesel, and old produce, but at least it was better than being cramped underneath the truck.

A few minutes later, the driver returned, sandwich and milkshake in hand. The cab door slammed. The engine started again and the truck pulled back onto the road. Music drifted faintly from the radio—Celine Dion’s “I’m Alive.”

The driver ate while she drove. They were crossing a bridge at speed when the truck suddenly shuddered. A sharp, localized burst of fire erupted near the rear. Flames spread with terrifying speed.

The driver fought the wheel, trying to keep control of the vehicle which was already starting to skid across the road, heading for disaster. But the fire reached the fuel tank and the entire vehicle erupted in a ball of flames. The burning truck smashed through the low barrier and plunged off the bridge into the water below in a mass of fire and smoke.

.

.

.

Across the city, three of Carolina’s men followed the last known signal from Carla’s phone. They found the black car she had driven parked in the lot of a quiet motel called The Lasting Sleep. The vehicle was empty. Continuing to track the phone led them to a first-floor room. They forced the door open and made their way inside.

Carla’s body lay on the floor. They moved closer to the body to inspect it, and it was quite clear to them that she was dead, and had been dead for a good while now. One of the men swore under his breath.

“We need to report this right now,” the senior of the three said.

He dialed Carolina. The Queen answered on the first ring.

“Speak.”

“We found her, my Queen. She’s dead. Looks like she was stabbed.”

A short, cold silence on the other end. Then Carolina’s voice, tighter than usual, “Bring the body back to the mansion. I want to see her myself. Do not stop for anything.”

“Yes, my Queen.”

He ended the call and looked at the other two guys. "The Queen wants us to bring the body back to the house. Both of you, grab some limbs and carry her out. Now."

The three men carefully lifted Carla’s body, carried it down the stairs, and placed it in the rear of their vehicle and they quickly shut the doors, looking around to make sure no one saw them. The car pulled out of the motel lot and headed toward the Rossi estate.

While they were enroute, they began speaking to each other about Carla's sudden demise, trying to determine what could have gotten her killed and why.

"You know, she always scared me. Ever since she started working for the Queen, I always thought she was unkillable," the first man said.

"Yeah. She was so effective and strong, always getting the job done every single time. I can't believe she's actually dead. I mean, who could have even managed to kill her?" The other man said.

The third man sighed and looked at the others. "It doesn't matter now. She's dead. And I'm telling you, the boss is not going to be happy about this at all. This is just going to be another problem on a long list of already growing ones."

They reached a sharp turn in the road. As they rounded it, an SUV sat blocking the lane. Several men stood beside it. One of them raised a heavy weapon to his shoulder. It was a bazooka and it was aimed directly at their moving car.

"What the hell?" The first soldier said, "Isn't that...?"

One of Carolina’s soldiers recognized the faces. “Those are King’s Knights—What are they doing out here, and why is that one aiming a bazooka at us?”

There was no time to brake or reverse. The weapon fired. The car was struck and destroyed in a violent explosion that killed all three men and erased the evidence they were carrying.

Gawain put the bazooka down from his shoulders and gave Bedivere his cellphone. The other knight quickly dialed Lancelot's number and waited until their leader picked up.

"Is it done?" He asked from the other end of the line.

“Yeah, it's done. The problem’s taken care of,” he said.

"Good. I'll soon move the package out of the mansion. You and the others should get to the rendezvous point, and we'll meet up there."

"Yes, Lancelot," Bedivere said before hanging up.