“You got it.”I end the call.
That wasn’t a lie.I’ll be careful.I’ll be careful with Daniela’s life.
I reach for the water bottle rolling in the cup holder.Blech.It’s warm and tastes like plastic.
Another bend.The dirt track dips into another dry creek bed.I’m calculating the distance left—maybe four miles, maybe three—when the horizon twitches.
Movement.A car—red, maybe?— knifing through the dust ahead.It’s coming at me way too fast for this nothing road.
Fuck.
Fuck it all!It’s a red Mustang.Daniela’s car.
She got away!She fucking got away!
My heart slams so loud I hear her name in the beat.
“Baby!I’m coming!”
But a half second later…
No.
It’s not her.
That’s not Daniela behind the wheel.
The posture is all wrong.It’s not her.It’s a man.
Fuck.
Is it Franco?I’ve never met him, don’t know his posture or build…
No.
It’s not him.
Because I recognize the man behind that windshield.
It’s Hernando Reyes.
I have an instant, and sometimes an instant is a lifetime.
I don’t aim for the nose.Too much risk of airbag, and a head-on right here would turn both cars into confessionals.
I drop two wheels off the right shoulder and then saw the wheel left and brush the brake.The rear pivots, weight swings, and the nose cuts across the skinny road as the Mustang flashes past.I nudge the tail of my truck into the tail of Dani’s car.
The Mustang fishtails, overcorrects, and skates sideways into the scrub.Two wheels hit a shallow berm, and the car buckles up on one side, hanging there like it’s thinking about flipping, but then slaps back down so hard I feel the thud through my seatback.It plows twenty feet into white brush and stops.
I don’t breathe for a full two seconds.Then I jam the truck straight, stomp the brake and pivot into a U-turn.
I slide to a stop ten yards behind the Mustang, angle the truck a little to block the road.I shove the door open and kill the engine.
Reyes shoves his door open and stumbles out.He lists, catches himself with a hand on the roof, and then turns, dazed and blinking.
He sees me.
Fucking bastard.
