They hadnât cornered Bolan yet
But it could happen if he didnât stay ahead of them. Step one was blacking out the light, before it marked his place and someone on the sidelines made a lucky shot.
He saw the glaring beam wash over his position, even though it couldnât find him in the shadow of the small communications hut. It wouldnât take the sentries long to close around him, pin him down. Numbers could defeat him then.
He wasnât Superman, wasnât invincible. A storm of fire would drop him where he stood.
Unless he found a way out of the trap.
âJeez, you get a load of that one?â Eddie Sawyer asked.
âThereâs nothinâ wrong with my eyes,â Joe DeLuca answered from the shotgun seat beside him. âTwenty-ten, last time I read the chart.â
âSo, whatâs the score, Hawk-eye?â
âIâd give her six.â
âI bet you would,â Sawyer quipped, âif you had the six to spare.â
He tried to get another quick glimpse of the blond hitchhiker in his right-hand mirror, but the armored truck was rolling at a steady 60 mph, and her form had dwindled to the size of a toy soldier in the glass.
âIâm sayinâ Iâve seen better,â DeLuca said.
âNot today, you havenât.â
âWellââ
âLetâs ask the mole.â Sawyer reached back and keyed the intercom that linked the driverâs section of the truck with the cargo vault behind. âHey, Tommy boy!â he called. âYou see that sweet young thing?â
Tom Nelsonâs scratchy voice came back at Sawyer through the speaker. âScrew the botha youse.â
It was a running joke among the men of Truck 13, Ohio Armored Transport. Nelsonâs line of vision from the vault was strictly limited, and it was well-known that he spent his travel time immersed in Popular Mechanics, trying to âimproveâ himself. He never saw the sweet young things at roadside, standing with their thumbs out, and a good deal more besides. They always asked him, though, and his reply was perfectly predictable within a narrow range.
Screw you.
Piss off.
Blow me.
The Nelson repertoire.
It never failedâand always got a laugh out of DeLuca.
âNever mind there, Tommy. Sorry I disturbed you,â Sawyer offered in meek apology before switching off the intercom.
During the spring and summer months, girl watching was a principal diversion for the men of Truck 13. Of course, they lost the female scenery in autumn, and they saw no one at all on foot during their long runs in the winter. It got boring in a hurry, then, with nothing to watch out for but the black ice on the highway, waiting for a chance to put them in a ditch.
Their long run, once a week, was back and forth from Dayton to Columbus, with a stop in Springfield on the eastbound leg. It wasnât all that far, reallyâno more than fifty milesâbut it seemed longer with the load they had to escort over open country.
Wednesday mornings, as regular as clockwork, they were out on Highway 70 with ten to fifteen million dollars riding in the back.
On Wednesdays, Sawyer had an extra cup of coffee in the barn before they hit the road. It kept him sharp, ready for anythingâalthough, in truth, nothing had ever happened on a Wednesday run, or any other time.