Yeager's Law Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Yeager’s Law

  Copyright © 2014 by Scott Bell. All rights reserved.

  Second Kindle Edition: September 2015

  Thank you for downloading this Red Adept Publishing eBook

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  Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  For my parents, who read my early stuff and pretended to like it, and for my wife, who suffered through too many drafts to count.

  CHAPTER 1

  Highway 67

  Near Judsonia, NE Arkansas

  Two hours after dawn, at the wheel of his Peterbilt, Abel Yeager glanced at the fuel gauge. His frown turned into a deep scowl. Maybe it’s just kidding. He tapped the gauge with a blunt finger, as if he thumped it hard enough, fifty gallons of diesel would reappear. Instead, the needle sank closer to E.

  He shook the last two antacid tablets from the family-sized bottle he kept in the center console and crunched the cherry-flavored chalk. If Tums had nutritional value, he would never have to stop for food again.

  Yeager did the math. Again. He would need to refuel before Chicago. After that, he could either hang around the terminal looking for a load, or dead-head back to McAllen, making at least one more fuel stop along the way. Another chance at plasticide, playing Russian roulette with Visa, MasterCard, and American Express. He maybe had one more attempt at a balance transfer before they caught on to his bill shuffling.

  Traffic had thinned the farther he got from Little Rock. A black Lexus was pacing him in his rearview mirror. The driver hung back at a steady half-mile distance, not passing, not pulling off, and not falling back. It itched like a bug bite that was just out of reach. Probably nothing more than a civilian who happened to be going the same way. That happened sometimes on long stretches of Interstate.

  Nothing to get your panties in a bunch over. Yeager twisted his neck, making it crackle, and decided it was time for a pit stop.

  He pulled his rig into a rest area on US Highway 67 outside of Judsonia, Arkansas. A block building stuck on the edge of a soybean field, with state-maintained toilets and concrete picnic benches, was flanked by parking lots for trucks on one side, cars on the other. He had the place to himself at eight o’clock on a Monday morning.

  He grabbed a dog-eared copy of Field & Stream, locked the cab, and headed for the john. A mild June breeze ruffled the soybean fields that stretched as far as a rifle shot across the red clay soil to a distant tree line. A rabbit bolted from the mown grass of the rest area and bounded into the field, white tail flashing.

  Yeager paused to watch it. We’re hunting wabbits. A kid in his old platoon, Sonny, could imitate Elmer Fudd as if channeling the spirit of Mel Blanc. Platoon C, sweating, tired, and edgy, would be on the trail of some Taliban bad guys deep in Indian country, then Sonny would turn around and whisper, “Be vewy, vewy quiet. We’re hunting Tawwiban. Heheheheheh.” The guys would crack up.

  The New Jersey boy had stayed in Southern California after mustering out. He, his wife, and two kids shared a three-bedroom bungalow with his brother.

  Sonny had called him last week and said, “Yo, Staff Sergeant, you’ll never guess. I got a job.”

  “What? Hey, that’s great.”

  “Yeah, I’m a route man for the Bud distributor. I drive around with cases and cases of beer, man. Can you believe it? Beer, beer everywhere and I don’t even drink.”

  “That’s good news, Sonny. Glad to hear it. Don’t make the mistake I did and buy your own truck, amigo. It ain’t worth the hassle.”

  After a long pause, Sonny cleared his throat. “Ah…”

  “Spit it out, Private.”

  “It’s about the money, Staff Sergeant.”

  “What money?”

  “Yeah, funny. Look, man, I’ll pay you back.”

  “Bullshit you will,” Yeager said. “What you’re gonna do is go into HR tomorrow and start taking out ten percent—not five, not eight, but ten percent—of your pay, and you’re gonna put that in a college fund for your yard monkeys.”

  “But—”

  “Did you just use the word ‘but’ with me, Private? Did I hear that come out of your mouth? Because if I did, you know I’ll reach through this phone and rip your lungs out through your mouth. You feelin’ me, Marine?”

  “Yes, Staff Sergeant.”

  “Good. Now give Maria a kiss from me, and go do what I say.”

  “Aye-aye, Staff Sergeant.”

  Pushing open the door to the restroom, Yeager cracked a tiny smile and sent Sonny a silent prayer of goodwill.

  The black Lexus glided into the rest area and purred to a stop behind the dumpsters, concealed from the big rig.

  “Now?”

  “Yes, Jaime, mi hijo,” Humberto Cruz said. “You know what to do?”

  “Of course.”

  “Julio, back him up. Hector, stay here and keep an eye out. You have your tire iron?”

  Hector nodded and slapped the length of iron bar into one hand. Cruz had seen him use it once. From what he could tell, Hector had enjoyed the experience.

  Car doors thudded, and Cruz watched the team go to work. Several times, he had considered telling them his real objective, but in the end, he’d decided to keep that to himself. Sharing family business with a bunch of kids seemed… unworthy.

  Those three were all he had available. Talent was hard to find with the cartels ratcheting up the pressure for shooters. Getting men who wanted to train for something as simple as hijacking wasn’t easy.

  Jaime practically skipped toward the target.

  Cruz smiled. To be so young… He shut off the engine, climbed out of the car, and stretched his aching back.

  Jaime went to work on the truck’s door while Julio kept watch. They moved quickly, a
nd Cruz nodded in approval. In a minute, maybe less, they would have the truck, leaving Señor Yeager without a livelihood.

  Cruz sneered as an American phrase popped into his head. Payback’s a bitch.

  Yeager washed his hands and face with the pinkish soap from the dispenser. In the mirror over the sink, he saw a man he hardly recognized. Tiny crow’s feet attacked the corners of his eyes. Sad eyes, women said, on those rare occasions when a woman had gotten close enough to comment on them. To him, they simply looked bloodshot and tired, more defeated than sad.

  He dried off with a wad of paper towels, headed outside, and followed the concrete path back to his truck. A slim Hispanic kid was leaning against the fender.

  Where’d he come from? Yeager spared a quick glance around. The parking area remained vacant, aside from his truck. A sparkling green quilt backdrop lay across the surrounding fields, the dew not yet burned off.

  The guy wore jeans, cowboy boots, and an untucked Western shirt. Though his hair was cut high in the back, a long chunk of it fell over his forehead. The boy had to keep flipping it out of his eyes with a head toss.

  He’s gonna ask for a handout. One of those come-ons like: Hey, can you lend me a dollar for the bus, so I can get back home. A scam. It’s always a scam. Yeager sighed and patted his pockets to see if he had any change.

  Hairflip whistled through his teeth, and another Mexican kid barely old enough to shave popped his head up from behind the rig’s steering wheel.

  What the hell? I locked the cab. Yeager stalked closer, throttling his temper. Maybe they weren’t trying to steal his truck. Maybe it was all a big mistake. Sure. And chocolate milk comes from brown cows.

  Too often lately, anger simmered near the surface. Not much feeling remained in the black hole where his heart had once lived, other than a pulsar of annoyance and bitterness that flared when he was upset. Like matter collapsing into the gravity well of a dead star, every other emotion had been crushed, condensed, and compressed by an unending implosion of bad luck and trouble. Divorce. The wreck. Six months of physical therapy. One damn thing after another.

  Law Number Eight: Never fight angry.

  Well. Fuck that. “You boys lost?” Yeager smiled, jaw clenched. “You needing a ride?”

  A growling rig climbed the rise on US 67, downshifted, and rattled off into the distance. The breeze carried the scent of compost and diesel.

  Hairflip held up his hand in a stop gesture. He strutted over and jabbed that hand into Yeager’s chest, fingers spread. A lava flow of irritation bubbled from Yeager’s belly.

  The one in the cab had a ragged caterpillar of a mustache, and his gelled hair made him look like a teenage maître d’. His eyes peeping over the top of the steering wheel were as big as hubcaps.

  Hairflip shook his head. “Señor, is best you go.”

  “Can’t do that, amigo.”

  The puffed-up little delinquent tried a tough look, but his response came out petulant. “Go! We are taking this truck, Señor. Go away, and you will not get hurt.”

  Yeager snapped the boy’s hand into a wristlock and took him down to one knee. “Now, son, I need this here truck. I borrow it every month from the bank, and they’d be upset, I was to lose it. You boys can walk away from this. Just nod your head if you understand.”

  The kid’s mouth opened, and his eyes widened as he squirmed, trying to ease the pressure on his wrist, but Yeager had a solid grip. Yeager twisted the thief’s hand back until the wrist turned white. He let out a breath and held short of the breaking point. Another half-ounce would do it. A tweak, really. Yeager grimaced and eased the pressure, gaining control of the bubbling little flare of hot violence.

  The young hijacker in the cab scrambled down like a kid on a jungle gym. He hit the ground and dug into his waistband.

  Law Number Six. Do something. Right or wrong, do something, and do it fast.

  Yeager hit Hairflip with the force of a diesel piston firing, clubbing him with an iron fist framed by heavy bone and ridged with calluses. Something cracked in the punk’s face, and he tumbled down, eyes rolling back in his head.

  Yeager stepped over him and closed on the other kid, bull fast. He had another gear when it came to hand-to-hand combat. He shifted from DEFCON 2 to Wrath of God mode.

  The boy’s mouth flew open with a startled squawk. He scrambled back, whipping out a lock-blade knife with four inches of wicked-sharp steel. He flashed the blade—a poor man’s Zorro sword—and rattled off something in Spanish. The kid lunged, stabbing at Yeager’s belly. Yeager deflected the blade and snared the kid’s wrist, inverting the knife-arm. Using his right hand like an ax, he chopped the back of the kid’s elbow.

  The arm made a wet, popping sound, like a turkey being torn up at Thanksgiving dinner. Screaming, the kid dropped the knife. He folded over, cradling his broken arm, and yammered away in Spanish, bawling and screeching.

  Sounds a lot like my ex-wife. Knows some of the same words, too. Yeager kicked the knife, sending it skittering under the truck.

  Footsteps scuffed behind him, and he pivoted. A third guy rushed around the front of the Peterbilt, a tire iron cocked, set to take off Yeager’s head. Older and bigger, the new attacker had deep-set eyes and a mat of black hair cropped tight to his skull.

  The pure, blazing-hot joy of action flared in Yeager’s belly. Like the cool crust over a lake of boiling magma, his shell of indifference cracked, and golden warmth poured out. Fighting was something he could do. That, he understood.

  Yeager ducked, and the metal bar whooshed past his ear. He came up into the big guy’s middle with an uppercut that took the wind out of his attacker. Bad breath exploded in a huff, and the bigger thief staggered, face already turning red.

  Yeager stepped back and measured off a right cross that rocked the guy back on his heels, sending the tire iron ringing off the pavement. The thief shook his head like a wounded bull. Yeager kicked him in the crotch then slammed both palms over the big man’s ears. The guy dropped to the ground, one hand over an ear, the other cupping his balls.

  Yeager sucked in a deep breath. Not many years ago, a fight like this would have been a good warm-up. Not anymore. He felt as if he’d run up a hill at Camp Pendleton with a full rucksack. He threw the tire iron into the field and stepped toward his truck to retrieve his cell phone. Calling the cops would result in a monumental loss of road time, but hijackers were bad for business. Getting those guys locked up might make the road safer for another trucker.

  Pay it forward: Beat the crap out of hijackers.

  With a screech of brakes, a shiny black Lexus slammed to a stop one space away from Yeager’s vehicle. A guy hopped out of the driver’s side and made his way around the front of the car. He was an older man, maybe in his sixties, with a shock of thick white hair gelled back. The guy wore a white Guayabera shirt with black slacks and shiny black shoes.

  He also held a blue-steel semiautomatic pistol pointed right at Yeager.

  CHAPTER 2

  Highway 67

  Near Judsonia, NE Arkansas

  Charlotte Buchanan missed the Race Street off-ramp before she realized there were no more exits for Searcy, Arkansas. No more chances for a decent bathroom from here to Canada. Or at least Missouri. And suddenly, the need to pee turned from urgent to critical.

  She hunted for an exit with an overpass, but instead a Rest Area ½ Mile Ahead sign flashed by. There. Problem solved.

  She flicked the BMW’s turn signal and coasted into the parking lot, passing a black Lexus parked under the trees. She found a spot near the cube-shaped building and climbed out, stretching and holding her lower back.

  Both restroom doors opened on a common breezeway, with caged vending machines standing in lockdown along one wall. She used the toilet and washed her hands. The facilities were surprisingly clean for a roadside stop in Arkansas. Charlie smiled at her Texas snobbery. You’re in Arkansas, not Somalia.

  She shouldered open the door rather than touch it with her freshly
washed hands. Somebody screamed from the truckers’ side of the rest stop, freezing her in place, halfway through the doorway.

  What the hell? Forcing her feet to move, she crept to the end of the breezeway, peeked around the corner, and blinked in surprise. Three guys were on the ground, and a stocky man in a tan work shirt and jeans stood with one foot on the steps to a big rig. He was built like a Hummer, jeans one thread away from a patch and a John Deere cap shading his eyes. Her first thought was that he was stealing the truck.

  A black Lexus slammed to a stop next to the truck. A swarthy man in a white shirt climbed out of the car, his back to her. Clean shaven and almost aristocratic in appearance, the old man could have passed for a wealthy banker or a politician, except for the pistol he was pointing at Mr. John Deere Cap.

  “Pendejo,” the gunman said. “I was gonna let you live a little longer but not now.”

  Charlie hesitated. John Deere Cap looked like the good guy, but looks could be deceiving. If what she was seeing was just a falling-out among thieves, the wise thing to do would be to tiptoe away and leave them to it. But her feet wouldn’t move. If John Deere Cap was the victim, she couldn’t simply stand by and watch him get shot.

  She stuck her hand into her shoulder bag and touched the butt of the revolver she carried while traveling. It had been her daddy’s gun, and he’d taught her to shoot it. A woman alone needs protection, he used to say. She’d never pointed it at anybody in her life. A bass drum beat in her chest, hard enough to make her ribs hurt. From the heat in her cheeks, a flush was certainly turning her face scarlet.

  I hate confrontation. The wrong move could get somebody killed—maybe her. Then where would my son be? A cold hand gripped her stomach, icy fingers digging in and making it hard to breathe. She needed to pee again.

  It would be best if she backed away. If she left, no one would see her. She could call the cops once she was a few miles down the road. That would be the safe thing to do, the smart thing. Stepping into the situation and trying to play negotiator would be dangerous.