“Good girl,” I say without meaning to.
One hand on the wheel, I reach beneath the seat and take my semi-automatic pistol out. She glances down at it and bites her lip, but she doesn’t speak.
We’re driving over the narrow bridge, the river laid out on either side. The cliff faces to the left and right are brown and dry from the summer heat. It’s making the trees sparse, not ideal coverage. Up ahead, there’s a curve, where I’ll have to make a choice where we’re going.
What’s the best place to fight back?
Or can I get away if we have enough road?
At the last second, I make the executive decision and whip the car to the left, heading into the swampland. The tires wail, and I grab her shoulder a second too late. Della flops to the side, throwing her arm up to keep from hitting the door. I have my foot on the floor, squealing the tires. We burst forward, engine screaming in protest. The trees thin, and there’s nothing around us but pale water and rushes.
Behind us, the SUV turns.
And goes faster.
Fuck.
“Jensen,” she whispers. “Are you sure this is alright?”
We both know it isn’t.
“We’re fine,” I say evenly. “I’m handling it. Just put your head down if you hear bullets.”
“Jensen—”
“Della, you hear me?”
“Alright, I do.”
She sinks back, hands shaking. I glance over my shoulder, forcing myself to stop being terrified something will happen to her and start coming up with a plan. I don’t think I can outrun these motherfuckers. But if I can get to higher ground, I can stop and pick them off before they reach us.
One thing I know for certain: I’m a pretty fucking good shot. Brothers Boyd made sure of that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
DELLA
I was brave when it came to standing up to Leland, but right now, I’m so damn scared. I’m not good at staying calm when there’s immediate danger. Jensen doesn’t seem to be bothered at all. His body is taut, foot on the gas, hand on the wheel. Pale blue eyes make their rounds from each mirror to the windshield every few seconds.
There’s a gun strapped to his thigh and one in his hand.
I hope that’s enough.
The truck is going so fast,the engine is whining, but Jensen doesn’t let up. We’re in the lowlands, by the bridge outside Lexington. This is a strip of no-man’s-land. I hope he knows what he’s doing,because the further out we go, the lower the chances we have of getting help drop.
I open my mouth, needing assurance. Then, I shut it. I trusted Jensen, went all the way to Montana to beg for his help.
“Are you sure he can help me?” I asked Brothers months ago.
“Jensen is a cat,” Brothers said. “He always lands on his motherfucking feet.”
Abruptly, Jensen veers the car to the right. My teeth rattle as we blaze over rough gravel and into sparse woods. The SUV barrels past, hits the brakes,and spins once. My heart pumps in my throat. Notmissing a beat, Jensen spins the truck with one hand and takes a left, heading up the hill.
“Della,” he says.
I glance sideways, still glued to the headrest. “What?” I gasp out.
“I need you to do exactly what I tell you, no hesitation,” he says, jaw tight. “You understand?”
