The old man was 68 years old, had leathery white skin, five o clock shadow, and short shaggy, greying black hair. He drove an old, orange Mercedes-Benz L337, hauling a load of cattle from San Francisco to Santa Monica California.
“Are you out there, Iron-Horse, do you have your ears on today?” asked Esteban over the CB radio.
The old man smiled and reached up, keying his CB mic and speaking.
“You’re lucky, kid, first time I turned this silly squawk box on in over 2 weeks. What’s on your mind?”
“What’s on my mind is that there’s a lot of crazy things going on back this way.”
Iron-Horse nodded. “Sounds like I’m the lucky one then; things are quiet out here, kid, I might just stay in California forever, start a new life for myself, bring my wife out here and settle down.”
“Yeah, well, how’s your time looking?” asked Esteban.
“About as good as can be expected, considering this truck dates back to around 1959 or so. But I suppose that’s why I’m your short-run man.”
Iron-Horse looked down at the clock on his radio and shrugged.
“I told your wife that the best I could do was a little under 5 hours.”
“That’ll do if you can do it.” Said Esteban.
“Yeah, kid, I….”
Iron-Horse stopped and stared at a road-block just ahead of him and he hung his head for a moment and groaned before keying his CB mic again.
“I just hit a bit of a road-block up ahead of me here, but these guys don’t look like any cops I’ve ever seen around here before.”
“Then take it easy.” Said Esteban.
Iron-Horse smiled. “Always; I’ll talk to you soon.”
He brought his big orange, vintage rig to a halt and stepped back to his sleeper, retrieving something before exiting the vehicle.
Five men stood outside around the parked cars, all of them being armed with guns, and Iron-Horse stepped out of his semi-truck, a thick steel winch bar in his hands with the words ‘Take it Easy’ painted on it.
“This part of the highway’s closed to you, old man.” Said a short, long-haired white man.
“Just take your things and go back to where you came, but make sure you drop the dollies on that trailer and leave those cows here for us.” Said a muscular Black man with buzzed brown hair.
“I can find another way to Santa Monica if you want me to, but you’re not taking my load.”
“Vincent Hall.” Said a tall, bald, muscular man looking to be in his mid-40s.
“That’s me.” Said Iron-Horse.
The tall man laughed and motioned for the others to follow him.
“You can keep your load: we were sent here to deliver a message to you.”
Iron-Horse Vincent Hall smiled and shrugged.
“Come deliver it then.”
They all rushed forward, and the Black man was the first to engage with Iron-Horse, delivering a hard left hook to the old-man’s right temple and causing him to fall to one knee. Iron-Horse shook his head once and gripped his steel winch bar with both hands, swinging it with all of his might, and shattering the Black man’s left knee.
The old man stood back up and took one step forward, swinging the wench bar like a ball bat and causing it to collide with the short man’s head, knocking him out cold, before he shoved the bent end of the bar into a tall fat man’s stomach, causing him to grip his stomach and fall to the ground as he gasped for air.
Iron-Horse, then, turned and delivered a back kick to the tall bald man’s right shin, and drove the handle of the winch bar back into the tall man’s groin, and then turned and drove it up into his chin.
The 5th man, a skinny white man with short black hair, threw his hands up and shook his head as he backed away.
“No, no… I don’t want any, mister.”
“Who sent you?” asked Iron-Horse.
“Borris! Borris Forsett!”
“And who’s that?”
The skinny man shook his head. “He’s working with the company men, that’s all I know.”
“If you want to leave here unscathed, I suggest you tell me everything you know.”
Said Iron-Horse.
The skinny man swallowed hard and nodded. “The company men, they’re getting really tired of Esteban and all of you guys doing so well, so they hired Forsett because he has a lot of connections and a reputation for setting up successful hits. They figure that if they can’t get the freight for free, then they’ll just steal it; you guys have been hammering them for millions every week, how long did you think it was going to be before they started retaliating?”
Iron-Horse frowned and nodded. “I figured they’d retaliate, but this is liable to start an all-out war.” He made a gesture with his wench bar towards the cars behind the man.
“You’re free to go, but I wouldn’t let me see you again if you can keep from it.”
The skinny man nodded. “No problem.”
He then turned and ran back to one of the cars, getting in and peeling out as fast as the car would take him.
Iron-Horse made his way back to his truck and started it up, picking up speed and ramming the remaining cars out of his way as he reached up and keyed his CB radio mic.
“Hey, Little Widowmaker, we have a bit of a problem. Have you ever heard of Borris Forsett?”
“A bit too often here lately.” Esteban answered.
“Apparently he’s been hired by some Company Men because we’ve been emptying out their pockets with our driving skills.”
“And did you take care of the roadblock?” asked Esteban.
“Oh, yeah.” Iron-Horse responded. “Still on track to get there in about 5 hours and 10 minutes, maybe sooner.”
“The sooner the better.” Said Esteban. “I’m going to call some of the powers that be and see what they have to say about this new information you’ve just happened across.
“What about Broker Adams?” asked Iron-Horse.
“He’s clean, they pressed him last night at the sit down; with what he had to endure, if he’d been dirty, he would’ve talked.”
Iron-Horse let out a laugh. “Yeah, I figured as much; I’ll call you when I get to Santa Monica and let you know how things went.”
“Push the hammer down and put’er in the wind.” Said Esteban. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
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