Stuntman 2: No Regrets (eBook)

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Everyone has regrets.
One of mine is stopping at that fucking gas station in the middle of the night.
The station’s sign was a beacon in the darkness off the arrow-straight blacktop of I-25 outside Wagon Mound, New Mexico. The low block building looked like a thousand others, with a small area for snacks, a cash register behind a short counter, and two glass garage doors that closed off twin service bays. A neon “OPEN” sign in the window glowed blue and red, with the “P” flickering on and off. Clouds of moths and mosquitoes surged around the yellow sodium vapor lights of the pump canopy.
I’d chosen this gas station because it was closer to the interstate ramp, but the gas was five cents more expensive than the one farther down the road.
I could see someone behind the plate glass window as I climbed off my Honda Africa Twin motorcycle. The bike was a thirsty steed when I pinned the throttle back and rocketed down the super slab. I let out a breath of relief as I did a few knee bends to work out the kinks from a long day in the saddle. My body demanded sleep, but I had a long way to go before I could rest.
I pulled off my gloves and unbuckled my helmet. I slipped it off my sweaty head and reveled in the freedom.
The heat of the day had dissipated with the darkness, leaving a cool breeze blowing unimpeded across the rolling landscape. Facing the pump, I slipped my credit card into the slot after tugging on it for skimmers. The pump numbers changed to zero, and I unslung the nozzle and stuck it into the AT. While I put five and a half gallons in the tank, I rolled my shoulders and tried to shake out the muscle cramps.
Normally, I was off the road by this time, either in a motel or at a campground. I didn’t enjoy riding at night for a whole host of reasons, especially after midnight. My mom used to say nothing good happens after midnight. As one guy had put it, the only things open after midnight are legs and the ER—and, apparently, this gas station.
When the automatic shutoff clicked, I topped off the tank and removed the fuel nozzle. I flipped the cap down and placed the pump handle back on its hook.
I glanced at the store, trying to decide if I needed a snack. My stomach growled in answer, so I headed inside.
The small store sold everything from motor oil to candy bars. I walked past the cashier, a girl who could have passed for sixteen but was probably older if she was selling alcohol. She had long, light brown hair and big doe eyes that tracked my every move as I perused the shelves. I had to turn sideways to get through the narrow aisles packed with display boxes and overstock to the beverage coolers. I pulled out two Red Bulls before checking out the candy aisle. I wanted something that would give me a burst of energy to keep me riding through the rest of the night, or at least until I reached Albuquerque. What I really wanted was a beer or at least a taste of the Elijah Craig small batch bourbon I kept in my pannier, but I made it a point to not drink and ride. It’s hard enough to keep the rubber side down when sober.
A pair of headlights shone through the gas station windows as a car pulled into the lot. The glare of the lights shifted when the vehicle turned parallel to the pumps. It was an old Chevy Nova, painted black and primer gray. I recognized the model of the car because my brother used to have the SS version that I’d take for joyrides. My buddies and I would score a twelve pack and practice burnouts in the SS. My brother always wondered how the rubber was wearing down so fast until he caught me sitting behind the steering wheel at a red light with a beer in my hand and smoke rolling off the back tires. Good times.
Maybe that’s why he’s always pissed at me? I’d bought him a new set of tires. What more did he want?
The driver of the Nova outside the gas station revved the engine, and the loud exhaust note rattled the windows. The Chevy sounded good, even if it looked like a piece of shit.
I picked up a handful of Snickers bars even though they’re a pain to eat with a helmet on and made my way toward the counter. Before I rounded the end of the aisle, a man burst through the door. He wore dirty and torn jeans, white sneakers, a Bon Jovi T-shirt, and a black ski mask. He leveled a shotgun at the girl behind the counter and ordered her to empty the register.
I walked up to the counter and dumped my collection of items on it. I had places to be, and this asshole wasn’t going to interfere with my night.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Ski Mask demanded, swinging his gun toward me.
“I’m buying some Red Bull and candy bars,” I replied casually.
“Get on the fucking floor, asshole!” The gunman’s voice rose an octave, as if he hadn’t expected to encounter anyone but the cashier. I guess he hadn’t seen my bike at the pump.
I turned back to the girl. “Can you ring this up, please?”
Her dark eyes were wide, and tears streamed down her cheeks. She glanced between me and the gunman. She kinda reminded me of Jamie, my old flame back in L.A., and I wondered how she was doing.
“Empty the register, bitch!” Ski Mask yelled, punctuating the sentence by jabbing the shotgun at her.
“Is that any way to talk to a lady?” I asked.
“Fuck you, man!” Ski Mask swung the gun toward me and racked it. A red plastic and brass shell ejected from the chamber. I assumed a new one loaded in its place.
Jackass. This amateur had just wasted a shell, and it probably had his fingerprints on it.
“Is the safety on?” I asked.
“What?” Ski Mask asked.
“Is the fucking safety on?” I asked again.
Ski Mask lowered the gun slightly to better see the safety. His eyes darted to the selector switch mounted atop the receiver. I saw his eyes go wide for an instant, then his thumb moved to push the switch forward.
And that’s when I struck.
I grabbed the shotgun barrel with my left hand and pushed it toward the ceiling, away from myself and the cashier. While the stunned gunman gawked at my audacity, I spun into him. The point of my right elbow smacked the guy’s jaw, and I heard it crack upon impact. He went limp, letting go of the shotgun.
In the silent aftermath, I heard the florescent lights buzzing and the heavy breathing of the girl behind the counter. Then one of the plate glass windows shattered as a pistol barked in the still night air.
“Get down!” I shouted to the clerk and dove for the floor myself. Still holding the shotgun, I slid across the tile to the doorway and rolled onto my side in the shards of glass, thankful for the protection of my heavy riding gear. I leveled the shotgun at the car, flicked off the safety, and pulled the trigger.
The Nova’s side windows exploded, and tiny holes peppered the sheet metal. I racked the slide, but before I could get off another shot, the car fishtailed out of the parking lot.