Remi shifted back into drive and pressed the gas pedal. Once again the head of the bridge appeared.
“It didn’t take,” Remi announced. “They’re back on the road.”
“Persistent, aren’t they? Hold the truck steady for a bit,” he said, then opened his door.
“Sam, what are—”
“I’ll be in back if you need me.”
He slung the rifle around his neck and then, using the cab’s door-frame for support, climbed down onto the running board. With his free hand he grabbed the canvas side cover and jerked, ripping free the snap enclosures. He grabbed the vertical brace, hooked his left leg over the side, then pulled himself into the bed. He crawled to the cab’s rear wall and slid back the slot window.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi, yourself. Hold tight, I’m closing your door.”
Remi jerked the truck to the right, then to the left. Sam’s open door banged shut. She asked, “What’s your plan?”
“Sabotage. How close are they?”
“Fifty yards. We hit the bridge in ten seconds.”
“Got it.”
Sam crawled to the tailgate. In the dim light, he groped along the truck bed until his hand found one of the other rifles. He picked it up and dropped his own, then hurriedly collected the other magazines.
“Bridge!” Remi shouted. “Slowing down!”
Sam waited until he heard the overlapping thud of the truck’s tires bumping over the planking, then stuck his upper torso through the rear flap, aimed the rifle at the bridge deck, and opened fire. The bullets thudded into the wood, punching through the gaps and sending up plumes of wood chips. He ducked back through the flap, changed magazines, then opened fire again, this time alternating between the bridge deck and the oncoming truck, which had just crossed onto the bridge. Their truck swerved left, bumped into the side rail, then straightened out. Sam saw an orange muzzle flash from the window. A trio of bullets slammed into the tailgate below him. He threw himself backward onto the bed. Another salvo of gunfire shredded the rear flap and peppered the cab wall.
“Sam?” Remi called.
“It didn’t work!”
“So I gathered!”
“How do you feel about the wanton destruction of fossil artifacts?”
“Generally against it, but this a special occasion!”
“Buy me some time!”
Remi began braking, then speeding up, in hopes of spoiling the shooter’s accuracy. Sam flipped over onto his belly, groped until he found the first ratchet strap securing the crates, and hit the Release button. In short order he had the remainder of the straps free. He crawled to the tailgate and flipped the release; it crashed down.
“Bombs away,” Sam called, and shoved the first crate
out. It bounced off the bridge deck, slammed squarely into the truck’s bumper, and burst open. Wood shards and packing hay went flying.
“No effect,” Remi called.
Sam waddled backward, put his shoulder to the entire stack of crates, then braced his feet against the cab wall and began pushing. With a groan, the stack began sliding along the bed. Sam paused, coiled his legs, and shoved hard, like a linebacker going after a blocking sled.
The line of crates slid off the tailgate and began tumbling toward the pursuing truck. Sam didn’t wait to see the results but instead sidestepped to the other stack of crates and repeated the process.
From behind came the squeal of brakes. Shattering glass. The crunch of metal impacting wood.
“That did the trick!” Remi called. “They’re stopped dead in their tracks!”
Sam rose to his knees and looked through the slot at Remi. “But for how long?”