“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.
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.
