Chapter 27
NOAH
Why is she coming back? I furrow my brow as Rue’s face drains of color, and her pace picks up. She shoves the cash into her pocket, her eyes widening as they bounce between me and…
Oh shit. Shit. Shit. Shit!
A Texas Highway Patrol cruiser creeps along the outer edge of the parking lot, moving with a slow, predatory crawl. The overhead lights aren’t flashing, but I don’t need a siren to tell me exactly what the cop is doing.
He’s running plates.
And he’s turning down our aisle, making a direct line for the back bumper of Christopher Banderra’s stolen New Mexico SUV.
The second he runs those tags, the BOLO is going to hit his dash computer, and this entire lot is going to be swarming with cops.
We have to move.
Rue is making a beeline for the driver’s side door, her survival instincts misfiring. She may think the car is a getaway vehicle. She doesn't realize it’s a metal coffin. If she gets in, we’re trapped.
"Goddammit," I hiss, ignoring the searing pain that shoots up my left arm as I grab her backpack and my black duffle bag.
Bullet lets out a confused whine as I lean over the center console, scooping his thirty-pound body up with my bad arm. He squirms, but I lock him against my side, gritting my teeth against the fire burning through my stitches.
I throw my shoulder against the passenger door, kicking it open and spilling out into the cold desert air. The massive bulk of the stolen SUV shields me from the cruiser’s line of sight, but the sound of the cop’s tires crunching over cracked pavement is getting louder.
I duck low, the smell of diesel fumes and old grease burning my lungs as I move toward the front bumper. Rue rounds the corner, her hand reaching for the driver’s side handle. Her breathing is shallow and frantic.
I don’t give her a chance to scream.
I shift my duffle bag up as high as it can go on my arm, lunging forward with my good hand.
I grab the sleeve of her jacket, yanking her violently forward and off-balance.
She gasps, stumbling directly into my chest. I wrap my hand around her mouth, hauling her backward into the deep, suffocating shadow of the idling eighteen-wheeler parked directly next to us.
She thrashes for a split second, her fingernails digging into my wrist, before she registers my scent and the pressure of my body against hers.
“Be quiet,” I breathe directly into her ear, my lips brushing her skin.
I press her back against the cold, corrugated metal of the semi’s trailer, pinning her in place with my body while adjusting my grip on Bullet so the dog can’t bark.
The massive diesel engine of the truck idling beside us rumbles so loud it vibrates through my shoes, masking the frantic hammering of my heart.
Through the narrow gap between the trailer and the stolen SUV, we watch.
The police cruiser rolls to a stop directly behind our vehicle.
Rue’s body goes completely rigid against mine. I can feel the terror vibrating off her in waves. She clutches my shirt with her free hand, her knuckles turning white. “This is bad,” she whispers. “This is so bad.”
I count the seconds in my head. One. Two. Three. The cop is typing the plate into his computer. We have less than ten seconds before the hit comes back.
And we know it’s going to read hot.
“We can't stay here,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the roaring semi engine. “When he gets the hit, he’s going to step out with his weapon drawn. He’ll clear the car, and then he’ll clear the perimeter. We’re in the perimeter.”
Rue looks up at me, her green eyes wide and terrified in the shadows. “Where do we go? There’s nowhere to hide.”
I scan the lot, looking past the row of big rigs. Beyond the pumps, near the dark, dusty edge of the property, sits a massive white RV behind a matching one-ton truck. It’s taking up three parking spots, entirely isolated from the rest of the trucker traffic.
“The RV,” I tell her. “Come on.”
“Noah, it’s probably going to be locked—”
“I don't care if it's locked, we’re getting inside,” I snap quietly, shifting the weight of the dog and the bags. The pain makes my vision swim, but I swallow it down. “When I say go, we move behind the cabs of the semis. Do not run in the open.”
Suddenly, the cruiser’s overhead lights explode to life.
Red and blue strobes bounce violently off the surrounding trucks, painting the parking lot in the terrifying colors of all of my fucking nightmares. The siren lets out a sharp, deafening whoop-whoop to clear the immediate area.
The cop got the hit.
“Go!” I shove Rue forward.
We break from the cover of the first semi, sprinting through the narrow, greasy gaps between the parked trucks. The strobing lights cast long, chaotic shadows across the pavement, making it impossible to tell if anyone is watching us.
I hear the heavy thud of the cruiser door opening behind us, followed by the crackle of a police radio demanding backup.
“Suspect vehicle located. New Mexico plates...” The cop’s voice echoes across the lot, sharp and commanding. “Vehicle is unoccupied. I need a perimeter set up immediately.”
Rue stumbles over a discarded tire chock, but I catch her arm, pulling her upright before her knees hit the asphalt. We clear the last row of trucks and make a desperate, exposed dash across the open lane toward the dusty white RV.
Every muscle in my back tightens, expecting a shout, a flashlight beam, or the deafening crack of a gunshot.
But it doesn’t happen.
We reach the side of the RV. I drop the bags and set Bullet on the ground.
“Check the door,” I command, pressing my back against the fiberglass siding and looking back toward the gas pumps.
Two more Highway Patrol cruisers come screaming down the entrance ramp, their sirens wailing into the night. They’re cutting off the exits. We’re gonna get boxed in.
Rue grabs the chrome handle of the RV's side door and pulls.
Nothing.
“It's locked,” she whispers, her voice cracking with sheer panic. She pulls it again, rattling the frame. “Noah, it’s locked!”
I spin around, my eyes scanning the windows. They are tinted black, revealing nothing. I don’t have time to pick a lock, and breaking a window will make too much noise.
“Move,” I tell her, bumping into her before she even can.
I drop to my knees to inspect the lower storage compartments built into the RV's underbelly. The owner is likely inside the truck stop, taking a shower or eating a hot meal, but vacationers are notoriously sloppy.
I grab the latch of the largest cargo bay door near the back tires and yank it upward.
It clicks and swings open.
“Get in,” I order, tossing the duffle bag and her backpack into the dark, cavernous storage space. It smells like mildew, old canvas chairs, and dust.
Rue doesn't hesitate. She scrambles into the cramped compartment on her hands and knees, turning around to grab Bullet as I shove the dog in after her.
I hear the crunch of boots hitting gravel. The cops are fanning out, checking the spaces between the trucks. The sweeps are moving toward us.
“Hurry,” Rue whispers, reaching her hands out from the darkness.
I fold my tall, battered frame into the tight space, my broad shoulders scraping against the metal latch. I reach out, grab the door, and pull it shut just as the sweeping beam of a police flashlight washes over the side of the RV.
The compartment plunges into pitch blackness.
We’re trapped in a metal fucking box, inches from the asphalt, listening to the heavy footsteps of the law searching for us just outside the thin fiberglass door.