Deluge (The Best Thrillers Book 2) by James Best (ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt) 📕

it, they said. Too dumb to pass the written test. I told them I had already passed that damn written test. Not official, but in school. Bunch of beer-bellied ol’ men pokin’ at me, but they were pokin’ a bear, and they didn’t know it. Soon … well, this supposed tough guy told me to git. Said the bar was for real truckers. Kinda just went from there, I suppose.”

“Then after that bar fight, you stole this truck?” Baldwin asked.

“Had to. If I got arrested, I woulda lost my UFC eligibility. Ain’t got much else.”

Everyone fell silent. Jemmy sounded genuine, and Baldwin revised her opinion of him. She assumed he was generally a good man. After all, he had stopped to help them while fleeing arrest. In his world, his personal code of conduct was probably considered honest and forthright. He had fought to preserve his honor and stole a tractor-trailer rig to save the only thing that he had going in his life: permission to climb into a cage with another human to fight until one of them could no longer continue.

“Where do you surf?” Baldwin asked to steer the conversation to something lighter.

“Ain’t surfed in a while,” Jemmy said, “but I grew up in Santa Cruz.” He laughed. “Spent my high school years ridin’ waves at Steamer Lane.” He laughed again. “Guess I shoulda spent some of that time studyin’.”

“My husband surfs Rincon in winter. California Street in summer.”

“Yeah, gotta get back in the water. Maybe after I get my Class A CDL. That’s when I’ll quit cage fightin’. Can’t do it forever … besides, money ain’t that good until you get ranked pretty high.”

“What are you ranked, Jemmy?” Smith asked.

“Number twelve in lightweight.” He laughed easily. “Guess I do better in bars against drunks.”

Suddenly, Ashley asked, “Excuse me, but are we going to make it to Oakland?”

Everyone looked outside. The downpour continued unabated, but the semi seemed to plow through the water with ease. Their progress had been so steady that Baldwin had ceased worrying about making it to high ground.

She turned around to look at Ashley. “Why do you ask, Jon?”

He tapped Wilson’s tablet computer. “Because Sherrell’s model does not project water of this depth. The level is rising faster than it should, and we have not left the low point yet.”

“Maybe the model’s in error,” Baldwin said.

“Undoubtedly,” Wilson said. “Plus or minus ten percent. Maybe even fifteen. But not one hundred percent. Something’s happening … and whatever it is, it’s not good for us. If it keeps rising, the water on this highway could swamp even this truck.”

Smith twisted in his seat until he could see them sitting three abreast on the back bench. “What could account for that?”

“Not sure. Earlier, the storm was dropping about an inch an hour, but my last reading from the USGS says it’s accelerated to over two. That’s a lot of water trying to get to the sea along this path, but not this much. Maybe they drained the dams, or runoff is accelerating. I’m not sure, but if we don’t get a reprieve … well, we’ll be swimming or blowing bubbles soon.”

“Hey, is this gonna come in a big wave?” Jemmy asked.

“No, more like a backyard pool filling up,” Wilson answered.

“Hell, I was thinkin’ we coulda had some fun.” He laughed again. “No worries. We’re only eight miles from Vallejo. At this rate, we’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Why’d we slow to ten miles an hour?” Baldwin asked. “I thought we were going fifteen.”

Jemmy peered out the window. “Yeah, we were. And this motor’s workin’ hard. Feels sluggish.”

“Resistance,” Smith said.

“No,” Jemmy mused. “Drag. I think the trailer’s floating. We gotta unhook. Trailer’s empty, and this tractor can’t drag it through the water.”

They came to a stop. Jemmy opened his door just as the cab lurched sideways.

“Oh, hell,” Jemmy said. “The tail’s waggin’ the dog.”

Chapter 29

Evarts raced toward Solvang, lights flashing, at perilous speed. In the wee hours of the morning, with rain still falling, very little traffic interfered with his progress. He tried to figure out what to do upon his arrival. He regretted not bringing heavier weapons. He’d had the presence of mind to borrow body armor from the Lompoc police and unlock the shotgun under the rear storage hatch and haul it to the front seat. Before driving away, he had removed his raincoat and stuffed a box of shotgun shells into his front pant pocket. But a shotgun and handgun against automatic weapons? He took some comfort in the fact that gangbangers were notoriously bad shots. They sprayed lead instead of aiming, which was why they often hit innocents in drive-by shootings.

Evarts told himself to settle down. He wanted revenge for Sheriff Lopez, but going in half-cocked would only get him killed. What should he do? The additional officers from his own force would be twenty minutes to an hour behind him, depending on how fast they got moving. He guessed prep time meant that they’d likely be at the latter end of his estimate. He decided there was no reason to guess. He called his own dispatch desk.

“Cleo, this is Chief Evarts. Did our men get off to Solvang?”

“Four cars with two officers each left seven minutes ago. Another car five minutes ago. The rest will be on the road in less than ten.”

“Body armor? Heavy weapons? Sirens and lights?” Evarts asked.

“Yes, yes, and yes.”

“Okay, get them on the radio and tell them full sirens coming into town. It’s going to be a hot situation, and I want it to sound like the 2nd Armored Cavalry. Got it?”

“I do. Do you want to wait for all the squad cars to gather so they can come in all at once?”

“No, people are being killed and raped as we speak. Alert the cars that Solvang police have warned of automatic fire. Emphasize that this is a hot situation. Active shooting by gangbangers.”

“Yes, sir. I’m signing off to make the call.”

His phone line went