The Biker In The Garage And The Legacy Of Ben Reed
CHAPTER 5: THE SIEGE OF CUSTER RIDGE
The prairie wind whipped through the open cab windows of Hank’s heavy 1979 Peterbilt flatbed wrecker as the six-hundred-horsepower diesel engine roared up the winding gravel grade of Custer Ridge. Behind the heavy commercial wrecker, riding in tight tactical formation through the dust, were six heavy touring motorcycles ridden by veteran mechanics and former combat engineers from Hank’s veterans’ brotherhood, their headlights cutting through the darkness like a column of armored cavalry.
Sam sat strapped into the center passenger seat of the Peterbilt, his father’s stainless swallow clutched tight in his fist, his eyes fixed on the horizon where a pillar of thick, black smoke was illuminated by the violent orange glow of burning timber.
Two miles ahead, perched atop the limestone bluff, the Caine ranch compound was ablaze. The massive four-bay machinery barn and the adjoining grain silos were fully engulfed in roaring orange fire, thirty-foot flames licking into the midnight sky and sending clouds of burning chaff swirling across the wheat fields.
Hank slammed the heavy truck’s air brakes, skidding the ten-ton wrecker to a halt across the ranch’s cattle guard.
“Deke, take the boys and secure the western perimeter!” Hank ordered over the CB radio, his voice dropping into combat command authority. “Cut the electrical fence lines and block the private airstrip! Don’t let Caine’s transport trucks leave the parcel!”
Hank jumped from the high running board of the truck, the heavy 12-gauge shotgun held at his hip. He scooped Sam into his left arm, sprinting across the scorched gravel toward the sprawling log-and-stone ranch house.
The front double doors of the residence had been kicked off their hinges. Inside, the grand vaulted living room was filled with choking gray smoke, the odor of accelerant heavy in the air. Overturned furniture, shattered glass, and ransacked filing cabinets lined the hardwood floors.
“Mom!” Sam screamed, his small voice echoing off the high cedar rafters. “Mom, where are you?!”
From the dark subterranean basement pantry at the far end of the long pine-paneled hallway, a muffled, desperate hammering sound answered their calls, accompanied by the terrified cries of a woman trapped beneath the burning floor joists.
Hank reached the heavy two-inch-thick solid oak basement door in four thundering strides, Deke right behind him with a heavy forged wrecking bar. The exterior iron hasp was secured by a heavy brass Master padlock and a three-foot steel pry-bar jammed horizontally through the forged iron handles to prevent any escape from within. Hank set his boots, coiled his massive shoulders, and drove the heel of his heavy steel-toed combat boot against the lock mechanism with the explosive force of an artillery shell. The aged oak jamb splintered with a deafening crack, the iron latch shearing its three-inch lag screws and tearing completely free from the reinforced wall framing.
Sarah Reed-Caine tumbled out of the smoke-filled pantry, coughing violently, her face smudged with soot, her dark hair wild and matted with sweat. She wore a torn wool sweater and jeans, her wrists bearing the dark purple bruises of heavy cable ties she had managed to saw through with a broken mason jar.
“Sammy!” Sarah cried, collapsing to her knees and wrapping her arms around her son with a ferocity born of pure maternal desperation. “Sammy, thank God… he said you were dead… he said the car went off the gap…”
“I’m here, Mom! Hank saved me!” Sam wept, burying his face in her neck.
Hank knelt beside them, his broad hand resting gently on Sarah’s shaking shoulder. Sarah looked up through the drifting smoke, her tear-streaked eyes locking onto Hank’s scarred face and the familiar Seabee tattoo on his forearm.
“Hank…?” Sarah whispered, her voice cracking in disbelief. “Hank Becker? Ben told me… Ben said if the worst ever happened, you would come.”
“I’m here, Sarah,” Hank said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “And Ben left the proof that will put Caine in a cage for the rest of his natural life. We have to move now. The fire is hitting the diesel storage tanks in the machine shop.”
Suddenly, the glass living room windows shattered inward in a shower of deadly shards.
Garrett Caine stood on the stone patio outside, framed against the raging inferno of the burning grain silos. In his hands, he held a customized semi-automatic tactical rifle, his expensive coat scorched and blackened, his face contorted into the homicidal madness of a man whose billion-dollar empire was turning to ash around him.
“Nobody leaves this ridge alive, Becker!” Caine roared over the sound of the flames, bringing the rifle to his shoulder. “If I can’t have Ben Reed’s patents, I’ll burn this entire mountain to the bedrock!”
Hank lunged across the floor, throwing his massive body over Sarah and Sam as Caine opened fire. High-velocity rounds chewed through the oak doorframe and splintered the hardwood floors inches from Hank’s boots.
From the front yard, the deafening roar of Deke’s Peterbilt horn sounded as the heavy wrecker smashed through the stone garden wall, its massive steel push-bumper crashing directly into the rear of Caine’s GMC pickup, sending the truck spinning across the lawn and forcing Caine to dive for his life into the burning rose bushes.
“Move! Sprint for the heavy truck!” Hank roared over the crackling fury of the flames, hauling Sarah to her feet with his powerful arm and shielding Sam with his own armored torso as they broke through the burning front portico into the prairie night.
