Read Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista for Free Online

with spit and elbow grease while waiting in the ambulance.  She had forgotten to look for makeup remover or cold cream in Linssen’s house.
    One of the double glass doors of the mini-mart opened with a flash of reflected afternoon sunlight.  A man wearing jeans, a white t-shirt and a black cowboy hat walked out, he was one of her chosen westbound drivers.  Ranya slipped from the abandoned ambulance, swung on the backpack, and walked through tall weeds behind several other junked cars to the truck parking area.  The trucks were all slant-parked at a 45-degree angle, with their cabs toward her.  She crouched behind a wrecked mini-van, and she watched. His truck was a dusty red Peterbilt, with a generous sleeping compartment behind the seats.
    The Stetson-wearing driver walked from the back of his rig carrying a plastic shopping bag, inspecting his tires as he went.  He paused by the passenger side of his cab, unlocking the door with a remote control on his key chain, then stepped up on the platform over his fuel tank.  He was a sunburned and clean-shaved Caucasian about forty or so years old, Ranya guessed.  Not bad looking, but a bit on the hillbilly side.
    She moved out from cover, stepped over the guardrail at the property line, and walked toward him displaying her most fetching smile.  She hoped that she came across like an eager-beaver small town truck stop whore.  The Glock was in her right hand, hidden behind her hip.  They were isolated from casual view in the narrow slot between two trucks.
    “Hiya, cowboy.  Listen, you wouldn’t be heading west, would you?”
    The driver was just opening the door, taken completely by surprise and turning toward her.  “Huh? Uh…well…I…I can’t take hitchhikers. It’s…uh, company policy…”  He was standing above her, his eyes flicking between her face and her chest.
    Ranya wasn’t having it.  “Oh please, I insist.”  She raised the Glock and leveled it at his stomach, moving to within a few feet of him, just out of kicking distance.  “Get in. I can handle this rig just fine, no problem, but I’d rather have you drive.  So please, don’t make me put a hole in you. Really, I just want a ride.”  Her smile was gone, her pistol steady.  “Drop the bag inside, climb in and slide across behind the wheel.  Keep your hands where I can see them.  I’m getting in right behind you.  Please believe me: I’ll shoot you if you do anything stupid.”
    The driver stared open-mouthed at the pistol.  She waved it toward the cab’s open passenger door to get him moving, and he dropped the bag into the foot well area.  “Look, the company…  Oh shit, forget it.  J-just get in, a-and watch that trigger, okay lady? Don’t slip or any…”
    “I won’t slip.  I just want a ride, that’s all.”
    “What’s the matter?” he croaked, “A boyfriend after you? Or the law?” 
    “Just get this thing started, and get on the highway, heading west.”
    “Yes ma’am.”  He slid behind the wheel and did as he was told, starting the massive engine, releasing the brake, and pulling smoothly out of his spot. 
    In short order he was going through the gears, merging into the right lane, westbound on I-40.  
    She kept the pistol aimed at him, resting it across her stomach.  “I’m going to Albuquerque.  How long until we get there?”
    “Albuquerque?  I’m not going that way.”
    “Oh really? Change of plans.  This Glock says we are.”
    “Look, you don’t understand.  I’m not routed there.  If I go off my route, the GPS is going to alert my dispatchers, and they’ll check me out. Automatically.”  He pointed through the roof with his finger, presumably indicating the location of the GPS transceiver, or perhaps the orbiting satellites. “Then they’ll call me.  And then if I don’t check in, they’ll call the highway patrol, and they’ll come looking for that trailer I’m pulling.  I can’t turn off the GPS. I’m sorry, but