Up ahead, the Liebherr had reach the oval track and ran across it. It bounced up a twenty-foot-high berm — built so that curious photographers couldn’t spy on track testing — and then dropped over the other side. The truck was so tall that he could still see part of it above the top of the berm. Then it reached the outer fence. Thirty yards of hardened steel mesh were torn apart and flew up and over the truck.
They had at best two minutes before the truck reached a populated area. They couldn’t follow over the berm, so Grant sped through the tunnel.
Locke got on the walkie-talkie.
“Open the gate immediately! Grant Westfield and I are in the red car. Do not shoot! Acknowledge!”
“Who is this?” came the response.
“This is Tyler Locke! Repeat, do not shoot at the red car! That’s an order!”
“Yes, sir!”
The Tesla shot out of the tunnel, and the gate was ahead, still sliding open. Grant didn’t let up on the accelerator. Locke grimaced as they whizzed through the gate, missing it by inches.
Grant wrenched the wheel around and aimed for the bright yellow dump truck, which was now a half mile ahead. There was no chance they would lose it. It was like watching a McDonald’s restaurant suddenly take off and barrel down the road.
The Tesla quickly reached 100 mph. Within 30 seconds, they caught up with the Liebherr. Looming ahead was the first sign of civilization, a warehouse district outside of Deer Valley. The truck showed no signs of slowing down.
Police cars were now following, their sirens blaring, and the few cars in front of them scattered at the sight of the approaching behemoth. Locke used his cell phone to tell the police to stay back. He didn’t want any more crushed cars, and there was nothing the police could do. Armed with pistols and shotguns, they couldn’t damage the truck in any significant way. It would take a bazooka to make a dent in the truck’s 12-foot-diameter tires. And the engine itself weighed 20,000 pounds. Bullets would just bounce off. It would take a miracle to hit anything vital.
Grant pulled up behind the truck.
“We need to stop it,” Locke said.
“You do realize that it outweighs us by about 398,000 pounds,” Grant said. “I can’t exactly run it off the road.”
“That’s why I need to get on it.”
Locke would rather just hold back and follow safely behind, but the thought of innocent bystanders getting killed by a truck that was in Gordian’s hands made him sick. If it crashed through a mall, the casualties would be horrendous.
He wouldn’t have to take out the driver. The Liebherr’s engine bay was exposed on both sides for ease of maintenance. Halfway up the right-side stairway, he could access the engine and shut the truck down. Then when it came to a halt, he’d let the police take over.
The driver’s accomplice was the biggest problem. Locke would have to disable the gunman so that he wouldn’t be shot while tinkering with the engine.
Locke told Grant his plan.
“You are nuts,” Grant said.
“Can’t argue with that,” Locke said.
“But that’s what I like about you. No fear.”
Locke glanced at Grant and gave him a wry grin. “None whatsoever. Now let’s do this before I come to my senses.”
Grant accelerated until he was next to the rear wheels. There was little chance that the Liebherr would be able to swing over and crush the nimble Tesla, especially with Grant driving, but Locke braced himself for that possibility anyway.
Instead, the second gunman leaned over the platform that surrounded the cab and looked out over both sides of the truck. He aimed the AR-15 and let loose a volley. Bullets pinged off the ground around the Tesla, and Grant fell back behind the truck out of the gunman’s sight.
“Now what?” Grant said. “With those huge rear-view mirrors, they can see which side we’re coming up on.”
“Then let’s take care of those mirrors.”
On each side of the Liebherr, there was a mirror the size of an end table. It allowed the driver, who sat in the cab in the middle of the truck, to back up to the massive loaders that fill the bed with ore. With one man driving, the other hijacker would have to cover both sides with the AR-15. The driver must be directing him as to which side the Tesla was approaching.
Locke took the Glock out of its holster, glad that he’d brought it with him on this trip. When he nodded, Grant gunned the engine and pulled around to the left side. The gunman was out of sight, and before he could move to their side, Locke popped up and squeezed off six rounds at the mirror. Two bullets hit, disintegrating it.
The gunman appeared and trained his weapon on them, but Grant was already pulling around the back of the truck to the right side. Locke put another six shots into the right mirror.
“Nice shootin’, Tex,” Grant said.
The driver was now blind to what was behind him. They’d have a 50/50 shot at getting to the stairways at the front of the truck without being seen. At least it was better than no chance at all.
Grant whipped the Tesla around the left side and raced to the front of the truck, which crushed the rear ends of two cars crossing through an intersection as if the vehicles were made of balsa. Locke instinctively ducked under the debris flying over his head, and Grant barely missed colliding with one of the destroyed vehicles.
Locke loaded his only reserve magazine and replaced the pistol on his hip, readying himself for the jump to the stairs.
There were three stairways: one each on the left and right sides of the engine bay, and a third stairway that crossed the radiator diagonally from the right side at the top to the left just above the ground. The left-side and radiator stairways met at the bottom left corner of the engine block at a small platform.
The Tesla pulled even with the platform. If he were Catholic, this is when Locke would cross himself. Instead, he just muttered, “What am I doing?”
He leaped across the four-foot gap onto the platform and clanged onto the steel, grasping the railing so that he wouldn’t slip off. Not only would a fall at 40 mph result in a spectacular case of road rash, but he’d most likely be flattened by one of the truck’s tires.
He steadied himself and gave the thumbs up to Grant. He pulled out the Glock again and crept up the radiator stairway, air whistling past him into the howling engine. As planned, Grant wheeled the Tesla away to draw attention away from Locke.
It worked. The gunman sprayed another round of shots in Grant’s direction. When Locke reached the top, he saw the man leaning over the railing, looking toward the rear of the truck. He took aim to shoot the guy in the back.
Before Locke could pull the trigger, the glass of the cab shattered, and bullets ricocheted off the metal around Locke, sending him ducking down the stairway. The driver was using his weapon to defend the cab.
The second gunman appeared at the top of the staircase. Locke got off a shot with his Glock, but the gunman knocked it out of his hand and over the side using the rifle’s muzzle. Locke grabbed hold of the man’s shirt, and they both tumbled down the stairs. In an effort to catch himself, the man let go of the AR-15, which fell over the railing.
As they rolled down the stairs, Locke desperately tried to slow himself, the image of those massive tires in his mind. He came to rest at the ground level landing and found himself on top of the gunman, who thrashed underneath him. Locke held him down, trying to get leverage either to knock the man unconscious or toss him off the truck. He didn’t care which.
Locke heard the beep of a car horn tooting. He looked up and saw Grant in the Tesla next to him yelling and pointing straight in front of him.
With his knees on the gunman’s chest, Locke twisted his head around and felt every muscle in his body tighten like guitar strings when he saw what Grant was pointing at. Locke was about to slam into a brick wall.
