“Woo-hoo!” I yell.
But our excitement disappears seconds later when Miles glances in the rearview mirror and starts swearing. I turn to see what he’s looking at. A block away, coming upon us at a frightening speed, is an army-green Jeep.
60
JUNEAU
MILES FLOORS IT. THIS IS HIS NEIGHBORHOOD, and he manages to stay ahead of the Jeep. And then he takes a right, and suddenly we’re leaving the suburb and heading toward a desolate landscape dotted with sparse trees and sagebrush.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“To the desert. I think we can lose them better out here. I know of a place we could hide. A place my friends and I used to go to hang out when we didn’t want our parents to find us. It’s an old shack.”
“But, Miles, out here we’re easy prey. There’s nothing to hide behind. It’s just a matter of who’s faster.”
“It’s the only plan I’ve got,” he says with a worried frown.
For a while, we stay ahead, but the Jeep gains a little with each mile. Finally, when it’s only a few yards behind us, the Jeep swerves into the left lane and speeds up until we are almost side by side. Whit is in the passenger’s seat, his window down, waving at us to pull over. “Stop!” I can see him yell, but the roaring of the motors drowns his voice.
And then everything happens at once: the guard in the backseat lifts a gun and pulls the trigger before I have time to react. “No!” I scream, just as there is a loud crack of gunfire. Whit turns and wrestles with the guard. The gun goes off again. Miles makes a grunting sound, and our car swerves dangerously to the right. I grab the wheel and straighten us as Miles slumps over toward the window.
“Miles!” I yell. “Are you okay?”
“I think I just got shot,” he says. “Take the wheel.”
I unfasten both of our seat belts, grab the wheel, and scoot over to knock Miles’s foot off the pedals. He slumps down to lean back across the seat, pulling his legs up toward him to make room for me. I am numb. My body has taken over, since my mind can’t deal with what just happened.
I glance over at the Jeep and see Whit’s white face in the open window. He looks horrified. He hadn’t expected his guy to shoot—that much is clear. I feel a wave of nausea hit me and have to concentrate to keep from trembling. It’s my second time behind the wheel, and I’m barreling down a desert highway at top speed. Just stay on the road and keep the pedal down, I tell myself.
I know I can’t outdrive Whit’s men. I have to do something. Reach the Yara. I’ll never be able to calm myself enough to connect. But those were Whit’s rules, I remind myself. And though my heart’s beating like a drum against my rib cage and my breathing is erratic, I wipe everything from my mind and focus on the force that runs through everything: me, Miles, the car, the road, and the air around us. This force is mine to use and I, in return, am its tool. I feel the lightning bolt of connection, and suddenly I am clear. Focused.
Both cars have slowed down. It looks like Whit is yelling at the guy in the backseat and not completely focused on the road. I glance at the Jeep and imagine the inside of its motor. I picture the silver-and-white spark plugs that I Read before, and think water, focusing on taking any moisture in this dry landscape and gathering it right there, right between the connection of the plugs and the motor. And all of a sudden the Jeep skids out.
I watch it in the rearview mirror, spinning in circles on the road behind us before flying off the road and landing on its side. That’s all I have time to see before we pass over a ridge and out of sight.
Miles moans from beside me. “Miles!” I yell. “How badly are you hurt?”
“I’m alive,” he says, “but I think he got me in the chest.”
“Miles, I can’t take you back to town if that means passing the Jeep. If they’re still alive, they might try to shoot us again.” I slow the car down enough so that I can think. Now that the strength of the Yara has left me, I feel numb with shock. “Where is this place you wanted to hide?”
“It’s just this old shack. Take a right past the Exxon sign, hidden behind a boulder,” he says, panting hard. I see an Exxon billboard in the distance and head straight for it, then take the dirt road behind it so fast that the back of the car fishtails. My heart leaps to my throat, but I manage to straighten out and stay on the road.
We are coming up to a massive boulder-like rock formation. A nearly invisible path winds behind it, and right there in the middle of nowhere, but invisible from the main road, stands a shack.
I screech to a stop between the shack and the boulder, hiding the car from anyone who might drive by. Jumping out, I run around to the passenger’s side and open it. Miles is lying on his back with his legs bent. There’s blood all over the place: I can’t even see where it’s coming from.