Chapter 26
RUE
The desert highway is a black void, stretching endlessly ahead of us as the stolen Toyota eats up the miles. I’m not exactly sure where we’re at, or where the fuck I’m going to find a gas station.
But for the first time since I watched Noah slip beneath the icy surface of Moccasin Lake, my mind isn’t spiraling.
Well, at least for right now.
Noah’s hand rests heavily on my upper thigh, his thumb occasionally tracing a slow, rhythmic circle against the worn fabric of my light-wash jeans, which I changed into. The heat of his palm seeps into my skin, anchoring me to the present.
He’s here. He’s alive. And, at least for this exact moment, we seem like a team.
“You're quiet,” Noah murmurs, his voice cutting through the steady hum of the tires against the cracked asphalt.
“Just thinking,” I reply, keeping my eyes on the twin beams of our headlights cutting through the dark. “About where we actually end up when we stop driving west. You know, you said Maricopa, but…” I trail off as I feel his gaze shift to the side of my face.
He doesn’t answer immediately, his thumb pausing its rhythm on my leg. “You know, Netty told me I shouldn’t try for the border,” he says finally, his tone thoughtful, stripped of the biting edge he’s carried for days. “He said, 'You find a rural place that doesn’t give a shit, and you fit in.'"
“A rural place,” I echo, testing the words on my tongue. “Like where? Montana? Idaho?”
“I don’t know. But I guess somewhere cold would work,” he grunts softly.
“Somewhere with trees. I don’t know if I’m cut out for the desert long-term.
But Mexico...” He sighs, the sound heavy in the confined cabin.
“It would be harder to track us there. If we could actually get across. Netty said crossing in Texas wasn’t the place to do it anymore. ”
I nod, and my mind drifts, latching onto the word Mexico like it’s the answer to all my questions. I picture a small, sun-bleached town near the water. A place where the news anchors don’t know Thomas Noah Peterson’s name.
I imagine waking up in a bed that isn’t in a cheap motel or the reclined seat of a stolen car, smelling salt air instead of burnt rubber and fear. I imagine Noah walking on a beach, his skin finally catching the sun, his guard lowered. Bullet would chase lizards and sleep in the shade of a patio.
And it sounds good. But…
It feels like a far-off fantasy. A beautiful, desperate delusion. However, with his hand warm on my leg, it suddenly feels like something worth chasing.
“I could learn Spanish,” I offer quietly into the dark. “I mean, I took three years of it in high school. I’m rusty, but I could pick it up. I could order our food. Ask for directions.”
A soft, genuine chuckle rumbles in Noah's chest, the sound sending a flutter straight to my heart. “Yeah, okay. You're ordering our food in broken high school Spanish while I stand there looking like a wanted fugitive. Sounds foolproof, Little Rabbit. They’ll never catch us.”
I smile, leaning into the warmth of his hand. “We’ll blend right in.”
“Maybe,” he concedes, his voice dropping to a softer timber. “We just have to survive long enough to get there.” There’s something in his voice that I can’t read, but a bump in the road and ding through the car jars my thoughts elsewhere.
I glance down at the digital dash, the harsh reality of our situation pulling me back from the beaches of Mexico. 42 Miles to Empty.
The glaring blue letters have been taunting me for the last half hour, a ticking clock counting down to the moment we are stranded on the side of Historic Route 66 with Christopher Banderra’s stolen New Mexico plates.
“We’re getting close to needing gas,” I murmur, my chest tightening. “The signs say there’s a town coming up. Just a few exits, and then nothing for another forty miles.”
“Take it,” Noah answers, the survivalist returning to his tone.
He shifts in the passenger seat, his hand sliding reluctantly from my thigh as he reaches into the center console for the wad of cash we found.
He peels off three twenties and sets them on the ledge of the dash.
“When we get there, it’s going to be even more important than ever.
Keep your head down. I’ll stay out of sight, and Bullet doesn’t get taken out. ”
“You can put the hat on,” I remind him, remembering the black one I bought hundreds of miles and a lot more hope ago.
“You just get the gas,” he instructs, shifting lower in his seat. “And we need to try and avoid snacks.”
I nod, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter as the neon glow of a rural truck stop finally crests the horizon. It’s a sprawling, older complex—the kind that caters to big rigs and cross-country travelers who prefer to sleep in their vehicles rather than pay for a motel.
I take the side road to the place, the tires crunching over the uneven pavement as I guide the SUV into the massive, dimly lit lot. There are a dozen or so eighteen-wheelers parked in neat rows in the back, their engines idling with a low, collective rumble.
A hulking white RV takes up three spots near the edge of the property, its sides streaked with desert dust.
“Pull around to the pump furthest from the doors,” Noah says, his voice muffled as he slides down until his head is entirely concealed beneath the dashboard. Bullet whines softly from the back, pacing the leather bench.
I navigate past the brightly lit canopy covering the front pumps, opting for the shadowed, older pumps meant for the truckers. I put the car in park and kill the engine, the sudden noise of semis and the roar of I-40 filtering into the car.
“There are a lot more people than I expected,” I whisper to Noah, grabbing the cash off the dash. “Stay low.”
I push the door open and step out into the cool night air. The smell of diesel and old grease hangs heavy in the breeze. I keep my head angled down, my messy bun falling loose against my neck as I walk toward the store to pay.
Act natural, Rue. You’re just a girl driving to California.
Except I can’t play that game anymore. I’m in a stolen vehicle. I try not to glance around at anyone else there. But then, a pair of headlights sweeps across the cracked asphalt of the entrance ramp.
I stiffen and stop at the doors, my breath catching in my throat. A vehicle rolls slowly into the truck stop, the distinct, boxy silhouette of a police cruiser cutting through the darkness.
Highway Patrol.
The cruiser doesn’t have its lights flashing. It’s not rushing toward the doors for coffee. Instead, the vehicle creeps along the outer perimeter of the lot, moving at a glacial pace.
My stomach drops into my shoes, a cold sweat breaking out across the back of my neck. I shift my direction and start back for the car.
Because clearly, the cop isn’t stopping for a coffee break or to get fuel. He’s actively running plates.
And now, he’s turning down the aisle right toward the back of Christopher Banderra’s stolen New Mexico SUV.