The Road Pirate's Skull: Uncollected Anthology - Pirates

By J. Steven York

The Phantom of Route 66

"Phantom" is my FBI code name. Agent Kathy Miller knows my real name of course, and the FBI, and my daddy and  momma knew it, bless her soul, and curse his. But you don't need to know it. On the road, when it isn't Mick, my name is whatever it needs to be on the day to get the job done.

The man they call "Mick" is many things, ex-carney, outlaw trucker, reluctant FBI informant, and a hooligan who exists in a treacherous area between the law and the dark path his father taught him. So when he nearly kills a ruthless road pirate leader, "in the name of the law," and steals a valuable-looking item from him before the police arrive, he's slipping ever closer to the criminal edge.

The item is a human skull, completely covered in silver, and its ancient, sinister secrets will drive Mick toward evil, madness, and his ultimate doom. For now he must find the fallen leader's crew, become their new leader, and answer to a dead pirate's undying lust for treasure,

Not a road pirate. The cursed spirit of a real pirate captain who died on the Caribbean sea. And unless Mick figures out what kind of man he really is, and finds a way to break free, it will cost him his life, and his soul!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tsunami Ridge Publishing
• Release date: Apr 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201707699

Book preview

One

It was four a.m. as I rolled my Peterbilt Cabover down I-40 west of Oklahoma City. It was the lonely time of night, when Waylon Jennings' mournful voice on a scratchy AM station, the smell of burning diesel, and the rumble of tires on rough asphalt were my only company. Or at least, they should have been.

I looked in the rearview to spot the van headlights that had been shadowing me since I’d rolled past the exit for Will Rogers Airport in Oklahoma City. I figured my shadow was waiting for me to take a break before they made their move, so I decided to take one.

I knew the highway well. There was a rest stop just a few miles ahead. I made sure my duffle was ready near my right hand, resting on the big engine cover that ran the length of the cab like a metal coffin for a grizzly bear.

I slowed, diesel roaring as I downshifted and coasted off into the truck parking area, tapping the air brakes so as not to wake any sleeping truckers. I didn’t need their attention, or their help. I had this. Hopefully. Several trucks were parked at either end of the lot, dark and mostly quiet, except for the compressor running on a refrigerated truck full of sausage links.

I watched my mirror as I steered into a parking space. Nothing. No sign of the van. Maybe I’d spooked him. More likely, he didn’t want to be obvious by following me straight in. I imagined him sitting on the shoulder half a mile back, giving me some time to hit the head or otherwise get distracted. I checked the other trucks. It didn’t seem likely that he’d have accomplices waiting for me here, but it was possible. Still.

I set the brakes, shut down the big Cummins diesel, listened to its last dying cough, and grabbed my little duffle bag. I climbed down the side of the truck like I didn’t have a care in the world, and headed for the low concrete building that housed the bathrooms. I wandered through the open door on the side.

Mosquitoes and small flies buzzed around the outside, and inside, a buzzing green fluorescent light intermittently lit the stark, concrete room. It smelled of insecticide and urinal cakes. I wandered down the short row of toilet stalls, checking each one. They were empty. Good.

I backtracked to the middle stall, stepping in to get ready.

I had everything I needed in the bag.

Not two minutes later, I heard a V-8 motor with a leaky muffler in the auto lot north of the building. Brakes squeaked, and the motor fell silent. Footsteps approached, heavy leather, like cowboy boots. They walked down the row of stalls, pausing at each one. I imagined them making sure, as I had, that the stalls were empty. They stopped in front of the third, locked stall.

There was a sound of metal sliding across cloth, the cocking of a pistol, and the man kicked the stall door open.

He stood there, looking at a pair of old Levi’s, lower legs stuffed full of dirty laundry and draped over the front of the toilet, cuffs threaded over the high-tops on a pair of tennis shoes.

There was a little squeak as the door of the next stall moved.

He didn’t notice.

That was about the time the 18" adjustable wrench hit him across the back of the head. His revolver clattered to the chipped tile floor and he staggered back, somehow still standing. I reversed the wrench in a two-handed grip and jammed the handle into his midsection with all the violence I could manage.

He dropped like a sack of flour. Bastard killed two truckers in Oklahoma and Arkansas, and had likely been meaning to kill me. I wasn’t inclined to be gentle.

Ten minutes later I had him tied hand and foot (there had been a lot of handy rope in the van), and gagged on the floor of his van. Judging by the broken vent window and the Arkansas plates wired onto a Britton, Oklahoma, plumbing van, I figured the vehicle was stolen, but he’d had some time to outfit it to his standing. I found two rifles, a sawed-off shotgun, and two pistols, plus boxes of ammo, in the back. I emptied the guns and put all the ammo in my bag. Then I put the guns back where I’d found them.

I was wearing gloves, of course. The FBI would be all over this van soon, and they’d be just as happy if my name stayed out of their