"Big money isn't worth getting dead over, kid", the mechanic advised.
Been a long time since anyone's called me kid, Valentine thought. But the strange clarity that came over him sometimes, the one that infected him when he went into Chicago after Molly, or struck off into the Nebraska sandhills to warn the trekkers against the general, or pushed him to save a wounded Grog who would become his best friend - Valentine felt his eyes go wet at the memory of Ahn-Kha - told him he was doing the right thing.
Sergeant Patel used to talk about a third eye capable of perceiving the invisible. Valentine wondered if there was a third ear, hearing the whispers of guardian angels.
A motorcycle engine blatted and Loring sat his bike next to him as Valentine marked a reference point for the fallen aircraft. The bike growled like a threatening watchdog.
"You're not", Loring said.
"I am. Interested in making a Troy?"
"I'm not parking three butts on my bike for an off-road trip to Neverland".
"I just want you to get me to that airplane".
Loring looked at the sun. "Let's see the color of your gold".
Valentine reached into his belt and palmed one of his coins. He passed it over.
"That thing with the bodies wasn't an act, I hope. If this is some fancy plan to get me out so you can debit my bike..."
Valentine checked the buckles on his pack and the strap fixing his legworm pickax. "I arranged for the plane to go down just so I could get your ride?"
"Right. Sorry. Paranoid is the best way to stay alive when you road it for a living".
"No offense".
"Give my regards to Lautenberg", Valentine told Salsa. "I'll either meet you guys tomorrow when you run the valley or dog southwest".
"You a crusader, Argent, or just greedy?"
"A little of both", Valentine said.
Loring exchanged knuckles with his fellow biker, and edged forward on his seat. "Hang your pack there", he said, indicating a little backrest just above the taillight. "You can put the gun and the giblet prodder on the front rack, if you like".
Quick-release plastic snaps secured the gear there. With that, Valentine climbed on and they were off, back into the once-fertile valley.
Loring gave him a quick lesson on how and when to lean in turns, where to put his feet when they stopped the bike, and what to do in case of attack: "Hug me like an ass bandit. You come off, I'm not turning round".
They stopped once while still on the highway to reconnoiter from a slight hill, and Valentine pointed to where he marked the crash site.
"If you want to take a leak, do it now. It's going to be bumpy for a while", Loring advised.
After a companionable release - Loring loosed a long, satisfied " Aye-yup" along with his bladder - they bumped off into the Arizona dirt, crossing through stands of cacti and waxy succulents.
Loring negotiated the big, woolly bushes and dry washes with a good deal of skill. All they disturbed were rabbit, whose Ping-Pong ball tails bounced away from the bike's noisy exhaust, and roadrunners.
"Practically ringing the dinner bell for the Jaguars, you know", Loring said, at a stop where Valentine mounted a rock to recheck their bearings.
They reached the crash site perhaps two hours after the pilot had set down. Judging from the tire tracks, he'd made a good job of the landing, snapping off a few taller cacti, until the right under-engine landing gear hit a rock. The gear hadn't broken, but it bounced the
plane up, and the right wingtip caught and spun it, and once the nose struck it was all over. The rugged frame of the aircraft, though thick with patched bullet holes, had stood up to even the pancake. Wings and tail were still intact.
They made a slow circle of the wreck. Valentine cocked his head to admire the nose art: A girl in an abbreviated red uniform, fighting to keep the front of her skirt down, rode a rocket pointed toward the nose gear. Valentine retrieved his weapons and gear from the bike.
"Wonder if they got him already", Loring said.
"I don't see any tracks". Valentine looked at the upside-down craft. "Anyone in there?"