| General Fiction posted July 3, 2022 |
  |
The threesome breaks free-temporarily.
Tucker: The Getaway (Part-5)
by Ric Myworld
The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
In the last chapter, Tammy Jo, T.D. McCann, and Tucker were taken captive. Farnsworth professed them to be cartel criminals in his media speech, and since they knew too much to be left alive, he planned to dismiss them as escaped and never found. Three 50-gal barrels of acid sat ready and waiting in the old barn to dispose of their bodies.
The bigwigs, as typical, gave grand performance speeches for television and radio; then poof, they were gone.
It took four 24’-boxbed trucks to pick up the pieces and haul the massacred bodies to the morgue. And it wasn’t until nearly 8:30 in the morning before the last of news vans, journalists, and law enforcement officers thinned down to none.
Tucker realized during Farnsworth’s accusatory speech that Tammy Jo and T.D. hadn’t escaped safely. He prayed they weren’t dead. But knew if he didn’t find them soon, they would be.
Pointing and releasing his toes generated a thrust to flip the wooden chair backwards. Tightly taped against the chair’s back, his head banged the rocky ground with a thud.
Shifting his weight side-to-side, he rolled the chair over. Then, he rocked it back and forth, finally flipping face down in the dirt and on his knees.
Knees and forearms the only moveable parts of his body, he slid his knees from spread apart to together, in about eight-inch strides, and worked his way toward the gates.
At the gate latch, Tucker spotted pieces of a broken cola bottle in the grass just past the gate’s bottom rung of wood framing.
Unable to fit his hands beneath or between the upright pickets, he grabbed a 1”x4” s bottom edge and yanked with all his might. It cracked and broke off halfway up the board.
Then, he repeated the process on each side of the first picket. And although they didn’t break as easily, both slats snapped and let him reach through.
From there, it didn’t take long for him to cut upwards on the duct tape to free his body, then his legs.
With no time to bother with the lock and chain, he kicked and broke out a series of pickets, creating space to slither and slip his body through. Once free, he ran for the briars and bushes, trying to stay hidden and work his way back to the Trocadero.
The Trocadero’s parking lot was empty all but for Farnsworth’s Cadillac Escalade. Big Heavy sat slumped over, sound asleep in the driver’s seat.
Tucker drug a big river rock from the flower bed, contemplating his next move. He had no idea who, if anyone, was left inside the building or within hearing distance, but with time running out, he needed to do something quick. So, he smashed the driver-side window, showering Heavy with safety-glass granules.
The door flew open and Heavy jumped out scowling. Tucker rushed from behind the SUV and slammed Heavy upside the head with another river rock. Staggered momentarily, Heavy recovered within seconds. But not before Tucker had managed to snatch the brute’s pistol from its holster.
“Heavy, stop!” Tucker screamed out, aiming his weapon. “Don’t make me shoot you.” His shaky hand a nervous giveaway.
“Tucker, you ain’t gonna pull dat trigger.” Heavy laughed. “You ain’t da killing kind”
“You’re right, Heavy, I’m not. But this is one time you can bet I won’t hesitate. Where’s Tammy and T.D.?”
“Tucker, you know I can’t tell yah dat.” Then came another of Heavy’s deep rumbling laughs.
Bang! Tucker shot Heavy in the thigh. Shock on his pouty face, Heavy hollered, moaned, and sounded like a little kid as he said, “Tucker, you shot me.”
“Heavy, I told you I wasn’t playing games, it’s your life or Tammy’s.” Heavy took a step forward.
Then, Bang! Tucker shot him in his right shoulder. “The next bullet is in your heart or head. Now, where are they, and you’d better talk fast.” Tucker kept looking around, expecting Farnsworth’s grunts to come running to Heavy’s rescue . . . but they didn’t.
“Okay, okay,” Heavy drenched in glistening sweat, possibly mixed with tears, his voice quivered. “Hang-on, Tucker . . . they' s at Farnsworth farm near Dry Gulch Road.”
“Get back in the SUV and take me there . . . you’re driving.”
“You’re kidding right . . . you know I can’t do dat—Farnsworth will kill me.”
“Heavy, you’d better rethink your options. I’m fixin’ to kill you right now if you don’t get moving.”
__________________
Heavy and Tucker sped to within a quarter mile of the old barn up a gravel path off Dry Gulch Road. Tucker pulled Heavy out of the truck, mumbling, “Damn your name is appropriate.” Then tied the neanderthal to a tree, gagged and duct taped.
Tucker made haste to the barn, then swung up the corner of the rear sliding door enough to slip through. Swift and quietly, he tiptoed from behind one implement to another, negotiating his way toward the front.
Nearing midway through, Tammy and T.D. caught sight of him, then nodded, pointing out the kidnappers direction. Tucker weaved his way past a junkpile, workbench, between stacked hay and straw and around plastic, wooden-covered feed barrels.
Reaching the thugs’ aisle—they sat in foldup chairs, feet propped on straw bales—eating Vienna sausages, Cheetos, and drinking Mountain Dew.
As Tucker silently grew near, the criminals’ instincts took over and they whipped around, pistols raised. But without hesitation, Tucker popped-off a quick round in each kidnapper’s forehead. Then he walked up, leaned over the gangsters—and out of character for a man who doesn’t like violence—fired two more chest shots for assurance.
Tucker snatched up some bolt cutters to free T.D. and Tammy from the chains, handed T.D. the keys to Farnsworth’s Escalade and barked orders, “Go, grab Farnsworth’s SUV, it’s a quarter mile straight down the path . . . and hurry back.”
“But, what—” Tucker cut T. D. short.
“No time for questions . . . run damn-it.” Tucker’s tone, stern and serious. T.D. jogged off.
Equipped with a remote 1,400-pound ceiling lift, tracks covered the barn. Tucker hooked up and hoisted the bodies across to the acid filled barrels and removed the bolt locking rings and tops.
A sick look washed-over Tammy’s face as she said, “Oh no, Tucker, please . . . you can’t do that.”
“Tammy, there’s no choice. Soon as these bodies are found, authorities will link them to us.” Tammy, head in her hands, rocked and sobbed.
The bubbling bodies submerged, Tucker sealed the drums and tightened the bolted lock rings just as T.D. pulled up outside.
____________________
Speeding away, a cacophony of pinging gravel rang from underneath the car as it wafted a cloud of dust behind. Tucker called Johnny Fields, manager of a Clewiston, Florida trailer park near lake Okeechobee. Fishermen’s Paradise in the woods, with an air tower and landing strip littered with abandoned drug smugglers’ planes from the 1970s on, and where Johnny gave flying lessons.
Fields filed a flight plan from Evansville, IN in his name. An awaiting pilot and a provisions-stocked plane extracted the fugitives, airborne within minutes of arrival.
It took less than 2-1/2 hours flying time to reach the hidden, dimly lit runway on the outskirts of Clewiston. Johnny Fields awaited and talked them in safely from the tower. Then, he came out to greet them as the plane’s steps descended.
A loud blast shook the ground, and a projectile pierced the tower’s green-tinted front window—turning smiles into panicked surprise as the tower exploded instantaneously—fire and debris spraying thirty feet in all directions.
Against all odds, the pursuers had beaten the threesome to their hideaway.
Story of the Month contest entry
In the last chapter, Tammy Jo, T.D. McCann, and Tucker were taken captive. Farnsworth professed them to be cartel criminals in his media speech, and since they knew too much to be left alive, he planned to dismiss them as escaped and never found. Three 50-gal barrels of acid sat ready and waiting in the old barn to dispose of their bodies.
The bigwigs, as typical, gave grand performance speeches for television and radio; then poof, they were gone.
It took four 24’-boxbed trucks to pick up the pieces and haul the massacred bodies to the morgue. And it wasn’t until nearly 8:30 in the morning before the last of news vans, journalists, and law enforcement officers thinned down to none.
Tucker realized during Farnsworth’s accusatory speech that Tammy Jo and T.D. hadn’t escaped safely. He prayed they weren’t dead. But knew if he didn’t find them soon, they would be.
Pointing and releasing his toes generated a thrust to flip the wooden chair backwards. Tightly taped against the chair’s back, his head banged the rocky ground with a thud.
Shifting his weight side-to-side, he rolled the chair over. Then, he rocked it back and forth, finally flipping face down in the dirt and on his knees.
Knees and forearms the only moveable parts of his body, he slid his knees from spread apart to together, in about eight-inch strides, and worked his way toward the gates.
At the gate latch, Tucker spotted pieces of a broken cola bottle in the grass just past the gate’s bottom rung of wood framing.
Unable to fit his hands beneath or between the upright pickets, he grabbed a 1”x4” s bottom edge and yanked with all his might. It cracked and broke off halfway up the board.
Then, he repeated the process on each side of the first picket. And although they didn’t break as easily, both slats snapped and let him reach through.
From there, it didn’t take long for him to cut upwards on the duct tape to free his body, then his legs.
With no time to bother with the lock and chain, he kicked and broke out a series of pickets, creating space to slither and slip his body through. Once free, he ran for the briars and bushes, trying to stay hidden and work his way back to the Trocadero.
The Trocadero’s parking lot was empty all but for Farnsworth’s Cadillac Escalade. Big Heavy sat slumped over, sound asleep in the driver’s seat.
Tucker drug a big river rock from the flower bed, contemplating his next move. He had no idea who, if anyone, was left inside the building or within hearing distance, but with time running out, he needed to do something quick. So, he smashed the driver-side window, showering Heavy with safety-glass granules.
The door flew open and Heavy jumped out scowling. Tucker rushed from behind the SUV and slammed Heavy upside the head with another river rock. Staggered momentarily, Heavy recovered within seconds. But not before Tucker had managed to snatch the brute’s pistol from its holster.
“Heavy, stop!” Tucker screamed out, aiming his weapon. “Don’t make me shoot you.” His shaky hand a nervous giveaway.
“Tucker, you ain’t gonna pull dat trigger.” Heavy laughed. “You ain’t da killing kind”
“You’re right, Heavy, I’m not. But this is one time you can bet I won’t hesitate. Where’s Tammy and T.D.?”
“Tucker, you know I can’t tell yah dat.” Then came another of Heavy’s deep rumbling laughs.
Bang! Tucker shot Heavy in the thigh. Shock on his pouty face, Heavy hollered, moaned, and sounded like a little kid as he said, “Tucker, you shot me.”
“Heavy, I told you I wasn’t playing games, it’s your life or Tammy’s.” Heavy took a step forward.
Then, Bang! Tucker shot him in his right shoulder. “The next bullet is in your heart or head. Now, where are they, and you’d better talk fast.” Tucker kept looking around, expecting Farnsworth’s grunts to come running to Heavy’s rescue . . . but they didn’t.
“Okay, okay,” Heavy drenched in glistening sweat, possibly mixed with tears, his voice quivered. “Hang-on, Tucker . . . they' s at Farnsworth farm near Dry Gulch Road.”
“Get back in the SUV and take me there . . . you’re driving.”
“You’re kidding right . . . you know I can’t do dat—Farnsworth will kill me.”
“Heavy, you’d better rethink your options. I’m fixin’ to kill you right now if you don’t get moving.”
__________________
Heavy and Tucker sped to within a quarter mile of the old barn up a gravel path off Dry Gulch Road. Tucker pulled Heavy out of the truck, mumbling, “Damn your name is appropriate.” Then tied the neanderthal to a tree, gagged and duct taped.
Tucker made haste to the barn, then swung up the corner of the rear sliding door enough to slip through. Swift and quietly, he tiptoed from behind one implement to another, negotiating his way toward the front.
Nearing midway through, Tammy and T.D. caught sight of him, then nodded, pointing out the kidnappers direction. Tucker weaved his way past a junkpile, workbench, between stacked hay and straw and around plastic, wooden-covered feed barrels.
Reaching the thugs’ aisle—they sat in foldup chairs, feet propped on straw bales—eating Vienna sausages, Cheetos, and drinking Mountain Dew.
As Tucker silently grew near, the criminals’ instincts took over and they whipped around, pistols raised. But without hesitation, Tucker popped-off a quick round in each kidnapper’s forehead. Then he walked up, leaned over the gangsters—and out of character for a man who doesn’t like violence—fired two more chest shots for assurance.
Tucker snatched up some bolt cutters to free T.D. and Tammy from the chains, handed T.D. the keys to Farnsworth’s Escalade and barked orders, “Go, grab Farnsworth’s SUV, it’s a quarter mile straight down the path . . . and hurry back.”
“But, what—” Tucker cut T. D. short.
“No time for questions . . . run damn-it.” Tucker’s tone, stern and serious. T.D. jogged off.
Equipped with a remote 1,400-pound ceiling lift, tracks covered the barn. Tucker hooked up and hoisted the bodies across to the acid filled barrels and removed the bolt locking rings and tops.
A sick look washed-over Tammy’s face as she said, “Oh no, Tucker, please . . . you can’t do that.”
“Tammy, there’s no choice. Soon as these bodies are found, authorities will link them to us.” Tammy, head in her hands, rocked and sobbed.
The bubbling bodies submerged, Tucker sealed the drums and tightened the bolted lock rings just as T.D. pulled up outside.
____________________
Speeding away, a cacophony of pinging gravel rang from underneath the car as it wafted a cloud of dust behind. Tucker called Johnny Fields, manager of a Clewiston, Florida trailer park near lake Okeechobee. Fishermen’s Paradise in the woods, with an air tower and landing strip littered with abandoned drug smugglers’ planes from the 1970s on, and where Johnny gave flying lessons.
Fields filed a flight plan from Evansville, IN in his name. An awaiting pilot and a provisions-stocked plane extracted the fugitives, airborne within minutes of arrival.
It took less than 2-1/2 hours flying time to reach the hidden, dimly lit runway on the outskirts of Clewiston. Johnny Fields awaited and talked them in safely from the tower. Then, he came out to greet them as the plane’s steps descended.
A loud blast shook the ground, and a projectile pierced the tower’s green-tinted front window—turning smiles into panicked surprise as the tower exploded instantaneously—fire and debris spraying thirty feet in all directions.
Against all odds, the pursuers had beaten the threesome to their hideaway.
The bigwigs, as typical, gave grand performance speeches for television and radio; then poof, they were gone.
It took four 24’-boxbed trucks to pick up the pieces and haul the massacred bodies to the morgue. And it wasn’t until nearly 8:30 in the morning before the last of news vans, journalists, and law enforcement officers thinned down to none.
Tucker realized during Farnsworth’s accusatory speech that Tammy Jo and T.D. hadn’t escaped safely. He prayed they weren’t dead. But knew if he didn’t find them soon, they would be.
Pointing and releasing his toes generated a thrust to flip the wooden chair backwards. Tightly taped against the chair’s back, his head banged the rocky ground with a thud.
Shifting his weight side-to-side, he rolled the chair over. Then, he rocked it back and forth, finally flipping face down in the dirt and on his knees.
Knees and forearms the only moveable parts of his body, he slid his knees from spread apart to together, in about eight-inch strides, and worked his way toward the gates.
At the gate latch, Tucker spotted pieces of a broken cola bottle in the grass just past the gate’s bottom rung of wood framing.
Unable to fit his hands beneath or between the upright pickets, he grabbed a 1”x4” s bottom edge and yanked with all his might. It cracked and broke off halfway up the board.
Then, he repeated the process on each side of the first picket. And although they didn’t break as easily, both slats snapped and let him reach through.
From there, it didn’t take long for him to cut upwards on the duct tape to free his body, then his legs.
With no time to bother with the lock and chain, he kicked and broke out a series of pickets, creating space to slither and slip his body through. Once free, he ran for the briars and bushes, trying to stay hidden and work his way back to the Trocadero.
The Trocadero’s parking lot was empty all but for Farnsworth’s Cadillac Escalade. Big Heavy sat slumped over, sound asleep in the driver’s seat.
Tucker drug a big river rock from the flower bed, contemplating his next move. He had no idea who, if anyone, was left inside the building or within hearing distance, but with time running out, he needed to do something quick. So, he smashed the driver-side window, showering Heavy with safety-glass granules.
The door flew open and Heavy jumped out scowling. Tucker rushed from behind the SUV and slammed Heavy upside the head with another river rock. Staggered momentarily, Heavy recovered within seconds. But not before Tucker had managed to snatch the brute’s pistol from its holster.
“Heavy, stop!” Tucker screamed out, aiming his weapon. “Don’t make me shoot you.” His shaky hand a nervous giveaway.
“Tucker, you ain’t gonna pull dat trigger.” Heavy laughed. “You ain’t da killing kind”
“You’re right, Heavy, I’m not. But this is one time you can bet I won’t hesitate. Where’s Tammy and T.D.?”
“Tucker, you know I can’t tell yah dat.” Then came another of Heavy’s deep rumbling laughs.
Bang! Tucker shot Heavy in the thigh. Shock on his pouty face, Heavy hollered, moaned, and sounded like a little kid as he said, “Tucker, you shot me.”
“Heavy, I told you I wasn’t playing games, it’s your life or Tammy’s.” Heavy took a step forward.
Then, Bang! Tucker shot him in his right shoulder. “The next bullet is in your heart or head. Now, where are they, and you’d better talk fast.” Tucker kept looking around, expecting Farnsworth’s grunts to come running to Heavy’s rescue . . . but they didn’t.
“Okay, okay,” Heavy drenched in glistening sweat, possibly mixed with tears, his voice quivered. “Hang-on, Tucker . . . they' s at Farnsworth farm near Dry Gulch Road.”
“Get back in the SUV and take me there . . . you’re driving.”
“You’re kidding right . . . you know I can’t do dat—Farnsworth will kill me.”
“Heavy, you’d better rethink your options. I’m fixin’ to kill you right now if you don’t get moving.”
__________________
Heavy and Tucker sped to within a quarter mile of the old barn up a gravel path off Dry Gulch Road. Tucker pulled Heavy out of the truck, mumbling, “Damn your name is appropriate.” Then tied the neanderthal to a tree, gagged and duct taped.
Tucker made haste to the barn, then swung up the corner of the rear sliding door enough to slip through. Swift and quietly, he tiptoed from behind one implement to another, negotiating his way toward the front.
Nearing midway through, Tammy and T.D. caught sight of him, then nodded, pointing out the kidnappers direction. Tucker weaved his way past a junkpile, workbench, between stacked hay and straw and around plastic, wooden-covered feed barrels.
Reaching the thugs’ aisle—they sat in foldup chairs, feet propped on straw bales—eating Vienna sausages, Cheetos, and drinking Mountain Dew.
As Tucker silently grew near, the criminals’ instincts took over and they whipped around, pistols raised. But without hesitation, Tucker popped-off a quick round in each kidnapper’s forehead. Then he walked up, leaned over the gangsters—and out of character for a man who doesn’t like violence—fired two more chest shots for assurance.
Tucker snatched up some bolt cutters to free T.D. and Tammy from the chains, handed T.D. the keys to Farnsworth’s Escalade and barked orders, “Go, grab Farnsworth’s SUV, it’s a quarter mile straight down the path . . . and hurry back.”
“But, what—” Tucker cut T. D. short.
“No time for questions . . . run damn-it.” Tucker’s tone, stern and serious. T.D. jogged off.
Equipped with a remote 1,400-pound ceiling lift, tracks covered the barn. Tucker hooked up and hoisted the bodies across to the acid filled barrels and removed the bolt locking rings and tops.
A sick look washed-over Tammy’s face as she said, “Oh no, Tucker, please . . . you can’t do that.”
“Tammy, there’s no choice. Soon as these bodies are found, authorities will link them to us.” Tammy, head in her hands, rocked and sobbed.
The bubbling bodies submerged, Tucker sealed the drums and tightened the bolted lock rings just as T.D. pulled up outside.
____________________
Speeding away, a cacophony of pinging gravel rang from underneath the car as it wafted a cloud of dust behind. Tucker called Johnny Fields, manager of a Clewiston, Florida trailer park near lake Okeechobee. Fishermen’s Paradise in the woods, with an air tower and landing strip littered with abandoned drug smugglers’ planes from the 1970s on, and where Johnny gave flying lessons.
Fields filed a flight plan from Evansville, IN in his name. An awaiting pilot and a provisions-stocked plane extracted the fugitives, airborne within minutes of arrival.
It took less than 2-1/2 hours flying time to reach the hidden, dimly lit runway on the outskirts of Clewiston. Johnny Fields awaited and talked them in safely from the tower. Then, he came out to greet them as the plane’s steps descended.
A loud blast shook the ground, and a projectile pierced the tower’s green-tinted front window—turning smiles into panicked surprise as the tower exploded instantaneously—fire and debris spraying thirty feet in all directions.
Against all odds, the pursuers had beaten the threesome to their hideaway.
 Recognized |
#1 July 2022 |
I've been trying to end this story, but it won't let me. Hopefully, next chapter will close it out. Thanks to everyone who has hung with me throughout!
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