Dangerous Refuge

chapter Forty-four



The truck bucked and jolted over the road, going too fast and not nearly fast enough. All that kept Tanner from a saner pace was the tantalizing come-on of the tire tracks ahead. As long as they continued, he would follow at breakneck speed. He bounced over another rocky rise, hoping to see the Bronco ahead.

Nothing but tracks slowly being sanded away by the increasing wind.

Can’t lose them.

Faster.

He knew that he was covering ground quicker than the Bronco had, for its tracks showed none of the slipping and sliding that came from speeding over a bad surface.

Soon.

I’ll overtake them soon.

Then he would be able to use the gun that was poking a hole in his back with every bounce.

And he knew just who he was going to shoot.

The engine made laboring noises. The stink of hot oil and metal filled the cab. He didn’t bother to look down at the gauges. He knew the temperature needle was edging into the red zone. He’d break down soon—whether by blowing the radiator or breaking an axle. But right now he was going a whole lot faster than he could run, and that was all that mattered.

The only signs that the track had been used in years were the tread marks left by Shaye’s Bronco.

Then his headlight picked out a bit of orange. In the instant that his heart leaped, he realized that he was seeing a ragged line of paint scraped off by a boulder that poked out into the road. The tree line was just beyond his headlights.

According to August’s last text, he had less than a quarter of a mile before he caught up with Shaye’s vehicle. Of course, that was a crow’s-flight measurement. Out here, with the road twisting back on itself and snaking around obstacles as it climbed and dipped, it could be a lot more.

Briefly Tanner thought about going cross-country on foot, then decided against it. As long as the truck held together, it was the quickest way to Shaye.

The phone chirped as another text arrived. He glanced down, seeing the message in one quick sweep.

MINES AROUND U.

STAY ON ROAD.



Tanner gripped the wheel hard.

What is August, a mind reader?

The truck gnashed and hissed but kept going, spitting dirt, grit, and small stones every inch of the way. Tanner knew he owed the engine’s continued life to the coolness of the air. If the temperature had been ten degrees hotter, the engine would have seized.

It would anyway.

The only question was when.

Under the driver’s relentless will, the truck bounced down the track, wallowed in the trough in the middle, and climbed up the rise like a swimmer gasping and plowing through heavy waves.

Suddenly he saw a light glowing between trees ahead and above him, off to the right. The light wasn’t moving.

The Bronco had stopped.

Tanner didn’t know if a trap waited ahead and didn’t particularly care. The truck’s temperature had gone into the red. Spectral wraiths of steam escaped from the hood and flattened across the dusty windshield, creating muddy tears. He kept the accelerator down on the floor, screaming toward the Bronco and Shaye.

Abruptly something cut into the path of the headlights.

A woman, running toward him on the road.

Shaye.

Or Kimberli.

Even on the uphill, he was going too fast to stop. He would hit her unless—

He wrenched the wheel hard to the left, away from the female shape and the miserable excuse for a road.

Between one second and the next, the going went from rough to deadly. The truck’s wheels bounced over rocks as big as dogs. The steering wheel whipped back and forth, trying to break his grip. He fought it, but didn’t win. The truck’s center of gravity pitched up. What had started as a hard turn became a four-wheel skid. The world twisted around him like a freak show at a carnival. He braked and steered into the skid, fighting the heavy truck for control.

Headlights, tires, and metal frame did a slam-dance over the rocks and saplings at the edge of the road. He saw a boulder bigger than the truck on a collision course and knew the end of the ride was seconds away. He cramped the wheel to avoid a head-on and told himself to go loose and let the seat belt do its work.

He hoped his body listened.

The battle of metal and stone lasted only seconds that screamed like slow-motion minutes. Or maybe it was him. He was dimly aware of his head and right wrist whacking the steering wheel as the truck’s front end tried to rear like a horse. His vision tunneled, then started to go black from the outside in.

At least I missed her.

Didn’t I?

There was no way to answer the question right now. The truck slid sideways down the boulder and came to a wrenching stop. The diagonal ache that cut across Tanner’s body from the seat belt told him that he was alive. He shook off the darkness and tried to release the belt with his right hand. It fumbled and sent back messages of pain, the kind that was in sync with his racing heart, telling him his right hand was pretty much useless right now.

Part of him noticed the steam shooting from beneath the truck’s crumpled hood. The truck was finished, but he wasn’t. Automatically he freed himself with his left hand and then opened the door with a well-placed shove of his shoulder. Before he got out, he made a grab for his pistol, automatically using his right hand.

With a searing curse, he switched to his left hand and awkwardly got the pistol free of its holster. The ache in his back told him he’d have a Glock-size bruise, but what really pissed him off was that as a left-handed shooter, he made a great dancer in a titty bar. But his right hand wasn’t taking directions right now.

Tough shit, mook. Get going and find Shaye.

Holding the Glock in his left hand, he heaved out through the slanting cab door. He swept his glance around, saw nothing but the dim radiance of the Bronco’s headlights through the tatters of steam that swirled around his own ruined truck.

If they’re anywhere near, they already know someone has crashed the party.

“Shaye!” he yelled. “Are you all right?”

The yap-yap of a .22 firing came simultaneously with the whine of two small-caliber rounds hitting the truck. With steam blowing and hissing around him, Tanner couldn’t even see a target to fire back at.

But somebody sure could see him.

No wonder Shaye didn’t answer. She’s hiding.

He refused to think about any other possibility for her silence.

Crouching, he kept under cover of the truck as long as he could. Whether it was Ace or Kimberli, the shooter would close in on the wreck, hoping to finish the job. At a distance, .22s were only a step up from throwing rocks.

Still bent over, he ran away with as much speed and stealth as he could manage. Keeping something between him and the shooter—trees, a boulder, a big cluster of scrub—slowed him down, but not enough to matter. Pain was there, keeping pace with his heart. That didn’t matter, either.

A pure rage fueled him. It was the flip side of the fear that had iced his gut ever since he’d seen that the SIM had been removed from Shaye’s cell phone.

Ahead, the pale shapes of boulders huddled together between dark trees.

Good cover.

He scrambled among the boulders. Then he crouched and forced himself to breathe slowly, carefully, while he listened for any sound from his back trail.

Several hundred feet away, the truck’s engine hissed and gurgled in its death throes. Somewhere beyond the truck, someone coughed wrenchingly. He hadn’t heard anything like it since he’d gone through pepper-spray training. He hoped it was Ace puking his guts out.

The coughs faded into a tense kind of silence. A waiting silence. All breaths held.

No sound of oncoming footsteps.

No sense of pursuit.

Nothing but the ringing in Tanner’s ears from a head-butting encounter with the steering wheel.

Gradually the night brightened, a combination of his eyes adjusting and the partial moon shining through the ragged forest.

I can stay here and wonder about Shaye or I can get off my ass and go in the direction I saw the woman. If it was Shaye . . .

It can’t have been Kimberli. No glitter anywhere.

And he was almost certain the figure had been wearing the kind of sensible trail shoes Shaye preferred.

Pushing aside any worries about wishful thinking, he began working his way back toward the place where he’d swerved to avoid hitting a woman.

Shaye.

It has to be her.

She has to be alive.