Glancing into the rearview mirror, I watch the oncoming headlights grow.
Max is closing the gap, so close that I can almost make out his vehicle through the snow. If he has four-wheel drive or put chains on before coming after me…
Keeping an eye on the road ahead and behind, I watch as he reaches the spot where I initially parked.
Max’s headlights snap to the side as he spins, the truck bed whipping around.
Which will happen to me, too, if I don’t pay attention to how I’m driving.
I clutch the wheel, forcing myself to focus on the road and not the disaster unfolding behind me. My own truck fishtails once, then twice. Easing off the gas just slightly, I let the chains do their work.
Unable to help myself, I peek back one more time.
The white light has vanished, replaced by amber red taillights.
Max did a full one-eighty, his vehicle pointed down the mountain. He either stops now, puts on chains, or he dies chasing me on regular tires.
The thought brings a rush of an emotion that’s not quite satisfaction, not quite relief.
A mental image of Max spinning off the road and tumbling down the cliff should appeal to me.
Instead, that visual leaves me hollow.
Practically, I want him dead. Emotionally, I want him dead.
But I also want to kill him myself, not rely on chance to remove him from the world.
Still, I can’t predict the future or change fate. If he’s hardheaded enough to keep after me, he’ll either crash and die, or he’ll end up in Poulsbo, the next town over.
Because he can’t find my sanctuary if he’s not tracking me directly to it. There are three more turns, one blind, before reaching my road. And our unmarked private drive’s easy to miss. The snow’s piling fast enough to cover my tire tracks. Without the assistance of my taillights, without seeing exactly where I go, he’s just guessing.
Wasting time in a worsening storm.
With only ten feet of visibility, I’m forced to crawl so I don’t overdrive my own lights.
The chainsthunk-thunk-thunkbeneath me, the rhythm steady and reassuring. Only ten miles to go, and three of those are downhill.
My sanctuary waits to welcome me home. Concrete and steel hidden behind a wood facade with enough supplies to last two people for four months if necessary. On top of that, Dimitri’s security system rivals that of a government facility’s.
I’ll be safe. Warm. After that, I’ll have plenty of time to search the duffel bag and finally get my hands on my mother’s locket.
Then I can deal with the fact that I ran when I was so close to getting everything I believed I wanted.
The thought twists my gut. I don’t run. Haven’t since the island.
But tonight, I did so again.
It was tactical, a strategic retreat. There’s no shame in extracting yourself because you recognize you’re outmatched.
Except the retreat reeks of defeat rather than strategy.
Max
My truck sits nose down in the ditch, the front bumper already buried in two feet of snow. Heavy flakes come down fast. Soon, the storm will become a whiteout.
Steam rises from the crumpled hood where my vehicle hit a tree, mixing with the blizzard until I can barely see five feet in front of me. I stand on the shoulder, watching Nika’s taillights disappear around the next switchback.
Survival 101. Prepare for the worst, pray that never happens, and use your backup plan without hesitation if necessary.
