Chapter Eleven #2
“Hey!” Dusty called, approaching the truck. He flashed his deputy badge. “Need a favor. Can you take this with you for about fifty miles and then toss it out your window?”
Two minutes later, he’d passed his phone to the driver, who stashed it in his box, bound for Corpus Christi.
Dusty watched the semi pull away, hoping the diversion would buy them some time.
While they’d ditched Sharon’s phone on the way to San Antonio, there was nothing to say Madison hadn’t tracked his as well.
Jogging into the gas station’s tiny convenience store, he picked up a couple of spare phones and headed for the pickup.
Back in the pickup, Sharon looked at him anxiously. “You think Cooper hacked your phone too?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.” Dusty said, pulling back onto the highway. “We need to get back home. Rafe and the others can help keep you safe while we figure out our next move. Which includes getting that evidence to Antonio, so he can assure that the FBI is taking the case seriously.”
They rode in tense silence for nearly an hour, the San Antonio skyline fading behind them as they traveled northeast. Dusty began to relax slightly as the miles stretched between them and the city.
Hopefully the SUV had been fooled into following the eighteen-wheeler driver.
He hadn’t seen anything that made him think the SUV had caught up to them, but something still felt off.
And the itchy feeling on the back of his neck hadn’t gone away.
Plus, the steering wheel had developed a slight pull to the right, requiring more effort to keep the truck centered in the lane.
He really hoped they weren’t about to have another problem.
“Something wrong?” Sharon asked, noticing his frown.
“Not sure,” Dusty said, testing the wheel with a gentle back-and-forth motion. The resistance was worse than before. “Steering feels weird.”
He slowed the truck, pulling onto the shoulder. “I need to check something.”
Outside, Dusty circled the vehicle, examining each tire. Nothing obvious—no flats, no visible damage. On a hunch, he crouched down and ran his hand along the truck’s front bumper.
His fingers brushed against something that shouldn’t be there—a small magnetic box attached on the passenger side. His blood ran cold as he pried it loose and held it up.
A tracker. Son of a slimy snake, it hadn’t been his phone they’d hacked. It was the truck.
“I hate this,” Dusty muttered, dropping the tracker on the ground and grinding it with his bootheel.
That explained how they’d found them at the shelter.
It wasn’t Sharon’s phone either. Still meant they’d somehow placed the tracker when they’d stopped for gas earlier at the truck stop and ditched her phone.
He felt like a complete fool for letting it happen.
He wasn’t at the top of his game because he was worried about Sharon.
Should have anticipated they’d find a way to follow her, since they were bound and determined to take her back to Madison.
As he started to straighten up, Dusty’s eyes narrowed as he noticed a small puddle forming beneath the truck. He couldn’t be sure, but his best guess was the power steering fluid, and it was leaking fast. Just his luck, he’d bet one of the bullets clipped the line, causing the leak.
Dusty climbed back into the cab. “Found a tracker attached under the truck. They’ve been following us the whole time.”
Sharon’s face paled. “What do we do now?”
“We need to get off this road,” Dusty said, scanning their surroundings. They were in rural Texas now, farmland stretching in all directions. “Truck’s not going to make it much further. Steering’s going.”
He put the pickup in gear, grimacing at the increased resistance in the steering. They limped along at reduced speed, Dusty’s eyes constantly searching for somewhere to hide.
About two miles ahead, he spotted an old barn set back from the road, partially hidden by a stand of live oaks.
The weathered structure looked abandoned, no vehicles or equipment visible nearby.
He took it as a good sign, though if he was writing about this, it would be too good to be true.
Good thing this was reality and not fiction.
“There,” he said, nodding toward it. “We can hole up there until help arrives.”
The steering grew increasingly difficult as they turned onto the rutted dirt road leading to the barn. Dusty wrestled with the wheel, every turn requiring both hands and considerable force. The truck shuddered and groaned, the power steering completely gone now.
“Almost there,” he grunted, sweat beading on his forehead as he maneuvered the failing vehicle around the side of the barn, out of sight from the main road.
It rolled to a stop, the engine sputtered and made a coughing sound before it quit completely.
Dusty turned the key a couple of times, and the engine wheezed once, then died.
He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the steering wheel.
Just his luck, one of the bullets must have damaged the engine.
Rafe wasn’t going to be happy that Dusty had killed his truck, but at least he’d kept his passenger alive.
He breathed a sigh of relief, happy they’d at least managed to get out of sight.
Too bad it wasn’t far enough away from where he’d killed the tracker.
He only hoped it was far enough to lose their tail.
“End of the line,” he said, pocketing the keys. “Let’s get inside. I picked up a spare phone while I was at the gas station. I’ll call Rafe.”
He helped Sharon from the truck, casting nervous glances back toward the road. No sign of pursuit yet, but Dusty knew it was only a matter of time. With the tracker disabled, they’d bought themselves some breathing room, but Madison’s men wouldn’t give up so easily.
The barn door creaked as Dusty pushed it open, revealing a cavernous space filled with dust motes dancing in the shafts of late afternoon sunlight. Empty except for some old farm equipment and stacks of wooden crates in one corner. Dusty led Sharon inside, closing the door behind them.
“Sit here,” he said, arranging a couple of crates to form a makeshift seat. “I’ll check the perimeter, make sure we’re alone.”
Sharon sank onto the crates gratefully, exhaustion evident in the slump of her shoulders. “Be careful.”
Dusty nodded, hand resting on his service weapon as he moved to secure their temporary sanctuary. The barn was old but solid, with the main entrance and a smaller door at the back. Good sight lines to the approaching road, but limited exits if things went south.
After confirming they were alone, Dusty pulled out his phone. One bar of service—barely enough, but it would have to do. He dialed the number to the sheriff’s station, since he didn’t know Rafe’s number by memory, tension easing slightly when his friend answered on the second ring.
“Sheriff’s station.”
“Rafe, it’s Dusty.” He leaned against the wall at the back of the barn, hoping he was far enough away that Sharon couldn’t overhear.
“Dusty? You alright?”
“Not exactly,” Dusty replied, keeping his voice low.
“We’ve got trouble. Madison’s men found us at the shelter.
They definitely mean business. They shot at us, and before you ask, we’re both fine.
We got away, but your truck’s dead. We’re holed up in an abandoned barn about an hour northeast of San Antonio. ”
He gave Rafe their approximate location, describing the landmarks as best he could.
“Sharon’s okay? You got the evidence?” Rafe asked.
“Both safe, for now,” Dusty confirmed. “But we’re sitting ducks out here, boss. They planted a tracker, must have been when we stopped at the truck stop. I missed it. Can’t believe I didn’t think they’d tagged us. These guys aren’t messing around.”
“Hang tight,” Rafe said, his voice steady and reassuring. “Antonio and Dane are here. We’ll head your way now. Two and a half hours, three hours, tops.”
Dusty sighed. “Do you think we should call the local cops?” He could hear movement and slamming doors, and an engine start. Breathing a sigh of relief, he knew Rafe would get there ASAP. He only hoped nothing else happened before they managed to get there.
“I thought about it, but with Madison’s men on your tail, and his deep pockets, I don’t know who we can trust at this point. Just hang tight, and we’ll get there as fast as we can.”
“Floor it,” Dusty said. “I don’t know how long we’ve got before they pick up our trail again.”
“We’re on our way. Stay alert and keep Sharon safe.”
The call ended, and Dusty pocketed his phone, returning to where Sharon waited. “Rafe’s coming,” he said, settling beside her on the crates. “Bringing reinforcements. It’ll be a couple hours.”
Sharon nodded, her face drawn with fatigue but her eyes still alert, determined. “We can make it that long, right?”
“Right,” Dusty said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.
He looked at her—really looked at her—and was struck by her resilience.
Less than a week ago, she’d been terrified, on the run from her fiancé in Chicago who’d done unspeakable things and had ended up in Shiloh Springs.
Now here she was, on the run again, targeted by one of the most dangerous men he’d seen in a while, and yet she was still standing. Still fighting.
Something shifted in his chest as he looked at her, something he hadn’t felt in a very long time.
Was he ready to acknowledge these feelings?
They left him conflicted, but he knew that whatever happened, he wasn’t going to walk away from Sharon.
She’d become too important to him, even though it hadn’t been nearly long enough to be feeling what he was feeling.
“That was some driving back there.”
Dusty chuckled dryly. “Let’s just say I don’t recommend it as a daily commute.”