Retribution Road, Jon Coon [top business books of all time .txt] 📗

back, the top, and finally by crawling upside down under the truck. It was impossible. He crawled out and caught his breath. He flushed the AGA mask again and dropped to his knees beside the truck to ponder the problem.

“Jim, do you think we could lift it with three bags? At least get it high enough for me to get the last one on so we can bring it up level?”

“Won’t hurt to try as long as you’re not under it.”

“Okay, let’s start with the two passenger’s side bags and see what happens.”

“Roger that. Get clear and give me the word.”

Gabe moved clear, made sure his umbilical—his air hose, com wire, and safety line bundle—was clear, and then said, “Let’s go. Slow and easy.”

Jim hit the two valves, and the bags began to fill. The truck remained unmoved. Gabe heard the automatic pressure relief, or “pop-off,” valves begin to dump air and knew the bags were full.

“All stop. Let me have a look. I think it should be moving.”

Jim turned off the valves, and it was again deathly quiet in the darkness.

Gabe moved around the truck with his cave light, but when he couldn’t see the problem, he got down on his knees and worked by feel.

“Got it, the left rear wheel well is still wedged. There’s a tree limb or something holding it.”

“What’s the plan?”

“What do you suppose that truck weighs?”

“Hang on. I’ll google it.” There was silence for a half-minute, then Jim was back on com. “This is weird. The truck weighs only a hiccup over three thousand. We’ve already got four thousand pounds of lift with just the first two bags. It should be floating up here like a cherry on a strawberry milkshake.”

“Let’s try filling the right front bag very slowly and see if it will pull free.”

“That’s a lot of lift. If it breaks free it’s going to blow to the top.”

“Yeah, but that’s where we want it. Even if we have to flip it, at least I’ll be able to get that last bag on and we can take it out level.”

“It’s your show. Tell me when you’re ready.”

Gabe again repositioned himself clear of the truck and rechecked his umbilical. “Any time. Take it up slow.”

The truck began to creak and pop as the frame twisted. Finally, with a loud tearing of metal and an explosive release, it blasted free to the surface.

“Wasn’t that fun?” Jim laughed. “You should have seen it hit the surface.”

“Can you see the girl? Is she still in the truck?”

“Yeah. She’s still here. Where are you?”

“Pick up the hose. I’m coming up the ledge. We still need to put on that last bag and level the truck.”

“Roger that.”’

On the surface, Gabe inflated his buoyancy compensator and swam over to the truck with the last lift bag. He had a quick look into the cab and confirmed the passenger was still belted in her seat. She had been quite pretty. His jaws clenched. He shook his head sadly. If only he knew her name so they could talk. He pulled his light out of the truck and went back to work attaching the bag, but his sadness remained. If Paul was involved, it was going to kill Carol. He quietly prayed, “Oh Lord, we’re going to need your help. ‘Cause there ain’t no way this is going to end well.”

Chapter 3

CAROL AWOKE AND LOOKED AT the glowing face of the alarm clock on her bedside table. It was one thirty, and the room was cool. Her windows were open. She got out of bed to close them. But from the window, she could see lights on at Gabe’s RV and truck lights in the drive. Above the normal night sounds, she could hear the distinct smack of a maul striking logs. That’s not good. He must be really upset about something.

She turned on a light, found and put on her favorite University of Texas sweats and tennis shoes, grabbed a flashlight, and went quietly down the stairs, through the house, and out the back door. There was moonlight on the river and through the trees, bright enough that she could see the dirt road without the light. She turned it off and jogged easily along the road, past the new steel shop and garage building Gabe had added to the original plans, and past the empty horse barn waiting for her to bring home new residents from her dad’s Texas ranch.

As she approached the clearing where Gabe’s Montana fifth wheel RV sat on a knoll overlooking the river, Gabe’s dogs, Smith and Wesson, bounded off the deck to meet her with wagging tails and smiling faces.

Gabe was standing with his back to her in the headlights, shirt off, glistening with sweat, holding the eight-pound maul in the midst of piles of split oak logs. As she walked forward, he set up another log and hit it with a grunt and such force he came off the ground landing the blow. The wood was dry and very hard. It didn’t split. He pried out the maul, and with another fierce, determined near growl, smashed the log again. The pieces flew and sweat dripped from his face and arms. He caught his breath, laid down the maul, and used his shirt to wipe his face and chest.

He was darkly complected, because of his Cajun ancestry, lean like a swimmer or runner, but with staunch arms, shoulders, and neck from years of workouts. Carol watched and said nothing. She liked what she saw. It wasn’t until he bent down to pick up the maul that he saw her standing in the shadows.

“Hope I didn’t wake you.” He set the maul aside and walked toward her. He pulled on his shirt and opened his arms for her hug, then backed away. “Sorry, I’m pretty sweaty.”

She didn’t hesitate.

“I woke to close the windows and saw the lights. You don’t usually practice anger management in the middle of the night. What’s up?”

“You know me too