Page 69 of BOYD: Lethal Vitals

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Hunters.

I reach into the center console and pull the Glock 19. I rack the slide on the steering wheel, one-handed, the metal sounds loud in the cab. I place it on the seat beside me.

Then I reach for the dash and kill the lights.

Usually, this is suicide. Driving blindly on a mountain pass in a blizzard. But I have night vision. Not the goggles, those sit in the bag, but the scotopic acuity of eyes living in the dark for too long. The snow glints with moonlight. The road etches a gray ribbon against the white.

It buys me three seconds of confusion.

The lights behind me waver. They lost the visual lock.

I stomp on the gas. The F-250 lurches forward, the diesel engine roaring in protest. We surge ahead, putting distance between us.

The confusion doesn’t last.

A spotlight hits the mirrors, blindingly bright, searing my retinas. They switched to thermal. The heat of the engine block gives us away.

Then the rear window explodes.

Crack.

Safety glass showers the back seat like diamonds. The cold air rushes in, screaming and violent, carrying the smell of exhaust and ozone.

I swerve, crossing the center line, forcing them to adjust.

They open up. Automatic fire.

Thwip-thwip-thwip.

Bullets punch through the tailgate, pinging off the metal frame. The impacts shudder through the chassis.

“Boyd.”

A scream tears from Iris in the footwell.

“Stay down.”

I check the mirror. The lead SUV rides right on my bumper. Muzzle flashes erupt from the passenger window.

I can’t outrun them in this truck on this slick road.

I have to take them out.

I steer with my knee, rolling down my window. The wind hits me like a physical blow, freezing the sweat on my face.

I grab the Glock, leaning out.

The wind tears at my eyes. I fire blindly behind us. Three shots. Suppressive. Enough to make the driver flinch.

It works. The lead SUV jerks left, tires slipping in the slush.

But they’re pros. The driver corrects instantly, steering into the skid. The second SUV flanks us, coming up on the passenger side.

They want to box me in.

“Hold on.”

I slam the brakes.