Sam, Red, and two others camouflaged their bikes in a desert gully and
started to hike across the sand toward the Desert Inn. It took them an hour to
reach the city's pavement on foot. The core group that Red had developed and
could trust consisted of three men and one woman: Red, Sam, Jimbo (an ex-boxer
and runner), and the only redheaded woman in the compound, Margaret. They
called her Amber, for her thick auburn hair. She was sharp, a one-time
paralegal and full-time biker babe. The two sides to her personality were
essential to the overall communication in and out of camp.
The group had less than a week to find the girl who held the key to their
freedom. A message had slipped through to the camp that a woman exec from a
major Los Angeles television network had escaped the city with damaging master
tapes that could be useful to their cause. They had no idea of what was
contained on the tapes, if they were audio or visual, and no concept of what
to do with the tapes once they found her, but Sam knew in his gut that their
time was running out.
Sam was just beginning to enjoy his freedom in the desert, caring for his '48
Panhead every day since he arrived. Initially, the old 74-cubic-inch engine,
sparked by a dried up magneto, was reticent to start. He serviced the points,
cleaned the ancient Linkert carburetor's five-year buildup of sediment, and
she fired with ease. He rode around the surrounding hills, blasting through
the curves on a rigid chassis and 60-year-old springer forks. Each day on some
distant hill crest, he watched the sun set in a grand explosion of crimson
shades.
But the restless troops and ever-encroaching city drove Sam's the anxiety
high. They needed to find some way to remain free from the tyranny in the
establishment. Sam prayed that the tapes could be their shot at leverage
against the government.
They knew that locating this woman would not be an easy task. Once guests
checked into casinos, they were given bright, fluorescent name tags the size
of credit cards, which were hung around their necks with high-test,
monofiliment line. The line was unbreakable. Once an individual stepped off a
bus, was escorted to the reception area to check-in, and received his or her
tag, he or she couldn't move around the city without the tag being in full
view at all times. It listed the guest's identification and designated his
hotel or casino. Nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide.
It was almost dark again when the foursome reached the outskirts of The
Strip. Vegas was crawling with cops; one officer to every four tourists. Money
was no object.
As dusk settled, the desert sky took on reddish purple streaks like a rainbow
Popsicle, and the city's explosion of neon began to shine against the flaming
sky. For the base of operations, the group found a warehouse located less than
a quarter-mile from the Desert Inn.
They huddled between two semi trucks to refine their rudimentary contrivance
one last time. They had little hope without this unknown woman; even less of
escaping the city at all. It was a desperate suicide mission. The sketchy
report described the woman as being in her early 30s, slender, and
approximately 5 feet 7 inches tall. She was instructed to stay in the casino
area the entire evening. The only other information they had on the woman was
her elderly disguise. Sam shook his head at the remnants of information. The
latest demographic study of tourist vacationing in the desert oasis showed
that 60 percent of the women were elderly, 60 years of age plus, and
overweight. His only hope was to find the slim one in the pack.
Sam, the inexperienced consultant, relied on his old friend. Red, the
fearless one, appeared calm but much of his disposition was derived from his
brother's support. Amber was also strong, but stress showed in the questions
she hammered at Red while they knelt between the trucks.
As darkness fell, Red rubbed his hands together and said, "Time to take our
shot. Chopper, you and Amber meet the 9 o'clock tourist bus. Jimbo and I will
line up a vehicle to get us out." Red had fabricated a couple of makeshift ID
tags that would pass only from a distance. They took great pains to blend in,
but they knew it wouldn't work for long.
Sam nodded, wondering how many surveillance devices were being used to keep
unwanted characters out of the city. Someone had scored a reasonably new
Hawaiian shirt for Sam to wear, hoping it would help him meld in with the
tourists. But his tan belied the indoor look that most had when arriving in
Glitter Town. Amber exchanged her military-style garb for a white miniskirt,
T-shirt, and some funky costume jewelry. She popped a large wad of bubble gum
into her mouth, tossed her hair about her shoulders, and chewed frantically to
look the part of a ditsy redhead. It was time to go for it.
Sam took Amber by the arm and walked her briskly toward the main drag. As
they turned onto The Strip, they were hit with the blinding impact of a myriad
of flashing neon signs. They deliberately walked in a carefree manner to
appear like tourists on a winning streak. As they sauntered, skipped, and
danced along the sidewalk, a police cruiser turned onto the street in front of
them.
Sam made sure his tag was in full view, then he hugged Amber so the tags
weren't available for closer scrutiny. For a moment their eyes met and he
inhaled the fragrance of her form. But fear and stress prevented any deep
connection, besides, Sam could detect Red's growing attraction for Margaret.
The Desert Inn Casino was only two blocks away. Twice, more cruisers passed,
and twice Sam and Amber feigned jubilation. But the last black and white
slowed, flashing his spotlight in their direction. Sam's coarse, deep tan was
readily visible. Just as Sam and Amber stepped up their act with squeals and
laughter, one of the officers called out, "Hey, folks, can I have a word with
you?"
Pretending that they hadn't heard the cop, Sam grabbed Amber's freckled arm
and ran for the casino entrance, knowing full well he couldn't go in unless a
busload of new tourists arrived as they did. Officers flanked the doorways.
The cruiser followed, passing the buses lined up against the curb. Sam and
Amber tried to make it across the entrance before the cruiser could block
their path. He looked to the left, moved into the driveway, then turned to the
right just as two bright lights hit him in the face. A roar drowned out all
the existing traffic noise. Sam was blinded and momentarily disoriented. He
pulled Amber to his chest and kissed her. "This could be it," he said, then
heard the hiss of air brakes and his nostrils filled with the smell of diesel
exhaust.
"I think it's the bus," she gasped.
Tires squealed as the Greyhound lurched to a stop. Sam and Amber jogged
around the bus, tucked their tags into their shirts, and fell in line with the
vacationers getting off the bus. Since their phony ID tags wouldn't pass the
scrutiny of hotel check-in, they had to quickly hatch a plan. Sam stepped
behind a gold-embossed pillar in the luxurious hotel lobby, allowing Amber to
scan the crowd of travelers, until she attracted a young male with her flaming
red hair.
Within a few minutes her clueless target was duped into thinking he'd scored
the hottest tail on the strip. He excitedly signed her into his room and got
her a legitimate tag as his girlfriend. She told him she had to make a couple
of calls to pick up a variety of sexual aids and would meet him in his room in
an hour. He reluctantly conceded and she was free.
Sam couldn't run the same number, so they shared the tag. She busied herself
with a slot machine while Sam took the tag and roamed the aisles looking for
the girl. He imagined the bodies of renegades annihilated in the sand and knew
he'd face a similar fate if caught. Time was critical and he had less than he
thought.
Sam was hopeful that they had not been detected and could move about the
casino unhampered, but the two cops who had tried to question them on the
street had already alerted hotel security. The guy whom Amber had befriended
had become suspicious and asked another officer about the call girls on the
premises. The legitimate whores were regulated and had their own tags
registered on computer. Sam wasn't aware that his tag was marked with an
infrared code to indicate that it was a woman's.
Sam noticed the cops and began to keep an even lower profile, crouching
between flashing slot machines and moving away from boisterous gamblers. In
his efforts to go undetected, he ducked inside a coffee shop. The assortment
of mirrored bubbles set into the ceilings to monitor the gamblers and find
those who sought to cheat the system was sure to spot the younger than usual
man scouring the casino for God knows what. He sat at a remote table where he
could still keep an eye on the entrance.
Meanwhile, Amber sat in front of a slot machine, surveying the room intently.
She had run out of quarters and one of the cocktail waitresses circulating
nearby spotted her without an ID tag and contacted security. While the
security's investigative wheels were set in motion, a rotund guard was
dispatched to look into the situation.
"Excuse me, ma'am, can I see your tag?" he asked.
She looked toward her chest and feigned surprise. "I must have dropped it in
the rest room," she said. "I'll go back and get it."
"I'll go with you," the guard said. She looked around desperately.
In the coffee shop, Sam looked up at the doorway. All was clear, just another
old woman entering the restaurant. He looked back at his food, and then
something hit him. He turned to look at the old woman again. Something about
her looked familiar.
Sam was about to panic. The casino was a host to a multitude of tourists, and
with 400 rooms to the hotel, he was rapidly coming to the realization that
this woman was probably huddled in some room scared to death and would never
come out.
The old woman walked toward Sam, but kept her head down, avoiding eye contact
with anyone. As the hostess passed he stood up and bumped into her slender
body. He was instantly aware of the firmness of her narrow form disguised
beneath old women's clothing. Running into this obviously young woman added to
his paranoia, as beads of sweat emerged on his brow amidst the air-
conditioned, brightly lit room. He knew he had to go for it. He touched her
waist gently and felt taut abs. She turned toward him and their dueling eyes
met. Her bright emerald pools surrounded by smooth skin and youthful
directness gave away her age. A slightly nervous smirk lifted the corner of
her pert lips, and he instantly wanted to kiss her. He was sure in his heart,
but his head raced. They had no code, no name.
"How are you?" he asked.
She was stunned. Her eyes darted around in fear. She thought she recognized
Sam from the bus, but wasn't sure. Obviously scared for her life, she clutched
a massive handbag, holding it tightly to her chest. Her eyes darted around the
room, then centered on his momentarily. Her features were youthful, but
fearful. And although she wore a blue-haired wig, he sensed her apprehension.
Then she looked down, "I, I..." she stammered.
Sam took her soft elbow in his hand and guided her, "It's all right," he
said, although he could feel his whole being vibrate with fear and
anticipation. He ran his hand gently up her slender arm and felt her triceps
tighten. This was not the arm of an old woman. On the contrary, she was fresh
and in shape. Still Sam was praying that this could be the one, although her
eyes held him like a magnet the second time he caught her gaze. "Please, sit
down," Sam said.
"Thank you," she murmured tentatively, sitting down before he could respond.
"Are you ready?" Sam asked anxiously, knowing that one question would answer
all of his.
"I have to go back to my room," she said, still not sure about him.
"There isn't time," Sam said firmly. "I'm with someone. We need to find her
and get out. It's our only chance."
"How do I know I can trust you?" she asked, searching Sam's features for some
indication that he could be trusted. Sam looked into her wide jade eyes, then
off in the distance toward the passing security guards. He knew their time was
too limited to discuss any aspect of what they were embroiled in. He reached
across the linoleum table and took her hand in his. Their eyes met once more.
"There's nothing I can say, that my touch isn't." As he said it, he could
feel the tension in her grasp let go momentarily. "We must go, right now."
Leaving the restaurant, they immediately spotted Amber. She was being led
across the room by a security guard. "They've got Amber," Sam said.
He pulled the girl behind a tacky concrete statue. "What's your name,
anyway?" Sam asked her.
She whispered, "Michelle."
"Well, Michelle, are you up to seeing what's going on?"
Michelle lifted herself onto her toes and kissed Sam on the lips. He was
stunned. Her hand shook in his. Then she assumed her best old woman's pose
with her shoulders slouched, and grabbed Sam's ID tag. She stormed over to
Amber like a scorned spinster and grabbed her by the arm.
"Where the hell have you been?" Michelle barked in a scolding voice. "You
dropped your tag in the bathroom. I've been looking all over for you." Sensing
the guard wouldn't mess with an old woman, Michelle flashed the ID, took Amber
by the arm, and quickly led her away. They were gone before the flabby guard
had a chance to say anything. Watching the scene from behind the statue, Sam
joined the women as they walked toward the rear service entrance.
They passed through double doors and were making their way down a long
hallway when a loud voice yelled, "Hey, wait just a minute." Sam turned and
looked directly into the eyes of the same officer who had tried to flag him
down on the street. Sam motioned to the women to go on ahead, then returned to
face the officer.
"Where's your identification?" the officer asked.
"I hate these things," Sam said, reaching in his shirt for the non-existent
tag. The officer reached for his gun, leaving his left side open. Sam stepped
forward, bent his knees, yanked his hand from his shirt, and in one fluid
motion broke the officer's nose. As the stunned cop reached for his bloodied
nose, Sam's right hand slammed him in the chest. A final left put the cop into
a deep sleep. Red's close quarter combat lessons were working. Sam dragged the
unconscious officer into the maid's closet and ran down the long hallway
toward the hotel's delivery dock.
Red and Jimbo had come through with a van, but the loading dock's security
wasn't buying their bullshit about being on the premises. They had no
paperwork or identification. When the girls anxiously appeared in the doorway,
the security officers' suspicions turned to alarm. Just as they walked over to
question the ladies, Sam burst onto the dock in a full sprint, knocking the
guards out of the way. "Let's go," Sam yelled.
Amber threw open the van's rear doors and pulled Michelle inside. Security
seemed to be coming from every direction. Jimbo ran to the driver's side,
laying out a guard who had shattered his shoulder with a couple of accurate
slugs. But another guard unloaded a 9 mm Browning into Jimbo. The bullets
slammed him against the side of the truck. Sam took the driver's seat, started
the truck, jammed it into reverse, and backed into a skidding cruiser trying
to block their getaway.
"Shoot the driver, they're getting away," someone yelled. Just then, Red
jumped out from behind a storage container, his automatic rifle spraying
bullets and sending the officers running for cover. Red ran over to where
Jimbo lay in a pool of blood and knelt at his side. "Are you coming with us,
brother?" he asked. When he looked down he could see that Jimbo had just taken
his last breath. Staring at his lost friend, Red positioned his weapon and
opened fire. The heavy smell of gun smoke filled the area as burning rubber
swirled around the careening vehicles. Red fired again then let up just long
enough to make a break for the van. Grabbing the rear door handle, he hung on
for his life and continued to fire at the oncoming officers as the van
squealed out of the service area. Siren's filled the anxious air.
"Jesus, that was close," Red said, as he finally pulled himself into the van.
"The cops will be all over us before we get a block," Sam yelled. As the
wailing increased in the distance, Sam's eyes scoured the terrain for a way
out.
"Swing this thing around the building. Let's take the back way to the
warehouse," Red ordered. Sam obeyed. When they skidded into the concrete
parking lot, Sam saw another van parked inside.
"That's our ticket out," Red said. "Park this sonuvabitch and let's get the
hell out of here." Sam pulled up beside the other van, which was a different
make and color. They quickly switched vehicles and peeled out.
Sam pushed the accelerator to the floor, and they sped out of town. When they
reached the open highway, Red, still standing guard at the rear of the van,
shouted out to his brother, "So, what's she have that will keep us riding?"
"This," Michelle snapped, pulling off her wig and freeing a wave of fine
brunette hair, as she reached into her satchel for a video cassette. "I have a
dozen Beta tapes that will turn this country on its ear. Recordings of
governmental meetings where plans were outlined to systematically take away
our freedoms and portray any citizens who resisted as madmen in order to
justify the killings in the desert. The agencies are taking kickbacks from the
network producing the show."
The team looked at each other in disbelief. Then shouts of joy pierced the
night air as the van reached the edge of the desert. Michelle slid into the
seat beside Sam, kissed him on the cheek, and snuggled against his muscular
arm. Their eyes met once more.
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