Chapter 10
Ten
This had to work. Asher checked his mirrors for the third time in two minutes and ran through Rowan Wallace’s instructions again.
Former spec ops, the guy had shown up with a duffel filled with everything he needed to stage the deaths. Equipment and instructions.
Detonator: Remote trigger in his jacket pocket. Two-second delay after activation.
He blew out a breath. He’d calculated every detail, every variable, every contingency.
He hoped. He hadn’t felt like praying…ever, maybe. But something pulsed inside him. Maybe his sister, looking down from heaven.
Please.
Felt a little silly, but a weird peace settled inside him, ever so briefly.
Maybe this would work.
Daphne had reached out to her contact at the FBI, and she’d lined up the matching SUVs—identical black Tahoes that could pass for each other from a distance. She’d also secured Daphne a white Honda Pilot.
He didn’t know the connection Daphne had with the county coroner, but she assured Asher that the man would help with the “victim” identification. Would file the right paperwork.
But even the best planning couldn’t control the human element.
Dmitri showing up to witness. Daphne driving the intercepting vehicle. Roger and Destiny hidden in her white Pilot a mile away.
Him, bailing out of the car at the last moment.
Maybe he should pray again.
Asher’s hands tightened on the wheel as he drove through Renegade toward Blackwater Pass.
The dummies positioned in the back seat shifted with each turn—heads tilted, bodies weighted to move naturally.
Outside, the afternoon sun slanted across brick storefronts and empty sidewalks.
The town was quiet on Saturdays. Fewer eyes to see them leave.
One mistake would get everyone killed.
The plan had started an hour ago. Roger and Destiny leaving the Timberline Motel, walking to the black Tahoe in full view.
Destiny’s hand on Roger’s arm, her sudden frailty not an act.
They’d driven through town past the police station, past the Beanery, where people sat at tables behind picture windows, past businesses where the syndicate might be watching.
Then downtown, where they’d parked in an underground garage.
Twenty minutes later, he’d pulled out. Roger and Destiny had climbed into Daphne’s white Pilot while Asher positioned the dummies in the black Tahoe.
He’d adjusted clothing, made sure everything looked right from the outside.
Forty-five seconds total. Then Daphne had driven out the back exit while Asher waited two minutes before leaving through the front.
Now Highway 40 climbed east toward the mountains. Two lanes of asphalt cut through scrub grass and scattered pines. Light traffic. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the road. Pine scent drifted through the vents. The temperature gauge showed the air cooling as they gained elevation.
He checked the rearview mirror. A blue sedan three cars back had been pacing him since he’d left the parking garage. The distance stayed constant—professional surveillance spacing.
Asher’s phone buzzed. Text from Daphne.
Daphne
In position. Mile marker 47. Ready when you are.
He voice-texted back.
Asher
5 minutes.
The road climbed steeper. Pine trees grew taller on both sides, their trunks dark against the thickening forest. Rocky outcroppings jutted from the hillside.
The mountains rose ahead, their peaks white against blue sky.
The air smelled different up here—thinner, colder, carrying the scent of pine and loam.
He passed mile marker 45. The blue sedan moved closer.
His ribs ached with every breath. The stitches pulled when he shifted. His forearm throbbed under the bandage, where Dmitri’s knife had opened his skin almost twenty-four hours ago.
So, this would be a fun adventure.
Mile marker 46 appeared. Asher flexed his hands on the wheel. Rolled his shoulders. Felt the remote detonator in his jacket pocket—heavy, solid.
The blue sedan pulled into the left lane. Started to pass.
Dmitri behind the wheel. Eyes forward.
Their eyes met for half a second in the mirror.
Dmitri accelerated past. Disappeared around the next curve, where the road bent left and pine trees blocked the view.
Heading to the viewing point where Blackwater Pass offered a clear sight line down the cliff. Where he could photograph the burning wreckage and report back to Draven.
Mile marker 47 appeared. Asher’s phone buzzed.
Daphne
I see you. Blue sedan just passed. Dmitri?
Asher
Yes.
Daphne
Ready?
He blew out a breath.
Asher
Ready.
The road narrowed. Curves tightened into switchbacks. This was Blackwater Pass proper—named for the creek that ran black over rocks in the canyon below.
This section—between mile markers 47 and 48—had no guardrail. Budget cuts and low priority meant just a gradual slope. The kind of place where a vehicle could roll down the mountainside and crash into trees and rocks before reaching the creek hundreds of feet below.
The kind of place where bodies could burn.
Asher approached the curve. His heart hammered despite years of training. His palms stayed dry on the wheel, but his pulse beat in his throat.
45 mph. Check.
The curve ahead bent sharp left. No guardrail on the right. Just slope and rocks and pine trees that dropped away into shadows. The afternoon sun was bright here, turning the asphalt silver-white.
Asher rounded the curve at exactly 45 mph. The tires hummed. The engine’s vibration traveled through the steering wheel.
The white Pilot came straight at him. Wrong lane. Too fast. Headlights blazing.
Asher’s hands jerked the wheel right. Toward the cliff edge.
The Tahoe’s right wheels left the pavement—asphalt hum to gravel crunch. The vehicle tilted. Slid sideways.
Asher reached for the door handle. Grabbed it. Pushed the door open against the wind. Used his left hand to keep steering while his right hand released the wheel.
The white Pilot missed him by three feet. Close enough that he felt the air pressure change. Close enough to see Daphne’s face through the windshield—focused, determined.
Then she was past.
Asher threw himself out the open door.
The impact nearly ripped his breath from his lungs. He hit shoulder first, then hip, and his ribs screamed where stitches pulled—hot, sharp pain that turned his vision white. He rolled. Tucked his head.
Gravel tore at his jacket. Rocks bit through denim into his thigh and knee.
Good thing he wore a jacket, or he’d leave behind skin.
He rolled three times before stopping flat on his back.
Blue sky above. The afternoon sun bright enough to make him squint.
The air cold against his face where sweat had broken out.
But he seemed intact. He rolled to his feet. His hand went to his pocket. Found the detonator, his thumb sliding to the trigger button.
The Tahoe kept going, plowing into the weedy edge bank, tilting. The front end dipped toward the slope. The back end lifted.
The SUV plummeted down the slope. The first impact crumpled the roof with a boom that echoed off the mountainside. Glass shattered. The vehicle bounced off rocks, crashed through small trees that snapped. Metal crunched. More glass shattered. The dummies inside shifted with each impact.
Asher activated the detonator.
Two-second delay.
The Tahoe was forty feet down. Still rolling. Still gathering speed. The sound of crashing metal continued—boom, crunch, boom.
One second.
Fifty feet now. Hitting larger trees. Starting to slow.
The explosion erupted from the underside. Fire engulfed the vehicle. Black smoke billowed up, thick and oily. The dry pine needles and grass caught immediately, then died as the flames met the rocky shore.
But the dummies would burn beyond recognition.
Asher fell to his knees, to his back, then lay there, breathing hard. His ribs screamed with every inhale. Gravel bit into his back through his torn jacket.
Footsteps approached. Fast. Running on gravel.
Dmitri appeared above him. Blocking the sun. His shadow fell across Asher’s face.
Dmitri pulled out his phone. Turned away. Took photos of the burning wreckage. Smoke rose black against blue sky, hot flames licking at twisted metal.
Then Dmitri turned back. His fingers moved across the phone screen. Typed. Sent with a soft whoosh. Probably to Draven. Photographic proof.
“Good job,” Dmitri said. His voice was flat.
Asher pushed himself to sitting. The movement pulled every stitch. He winced. Tasted blood where he’d bitten his lip. “Thanks.”
“You hurt?”
He just gave him a look.
Dmitri smiled, stained teeth.
The sound of tires on gravel. Another vehicle approaching. Engine noise growing louder.
Both men turned.
A silver Honda Accord drove up, pulled over, and stopped ten feet away. The driver’s door opened.
A middle-aged man got out, balding head catching the sunlight. Glasses. Polo shirt and khakis. “Are you okay?” He left his car door open, jogged over to Asher. “Was that your car?”
He looked over the cliff, back to Asher.
“I saw that other car nearly take you out! I got it on my dash cam—the whole thing. That vehicle just swerved right into your lane!”
Asher’s blood went cold.
Dash cam. Recording. Evidence that would show Daphne driving. Show her swerving deliberately. Show the staged accident. Show Roger and Destiny visible in her white Pilot.
Dmitri’s expression didn’t change. But something flickered in his eyes. His body shifted slightly, weight redistributing.
“You got what on your dash cam?” Dmitri asked. His voice was pleasant now. Friendly.
“The whole accident! That white SUV came around the curve in the wrong lane—just boom, right there.” The man gestured wildly.
“This guy”—he pointed at Asher—“tried to avoid it and went over the cliff. I got the license plate too. Clear as day. We can give it to the police. That driver should be arrested for reckless endangerment!”
Dmitri smiled. The expression didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s very helpful. Can I see the footage?”