Page 159 of Unruly

No doubt, warnings had been sent out about somebody on the run, too.

Sure, the cops were looking for some sandy blond, blue-eyed guy. Well, he had tossed the wig and his contacts came out after he jumped into that very deep creek. Still, it was human nature to be suspicious.

Before he could decide to duck back down and wait, rumbles started. He knew those engine sounds. Up the road, a good twenty dirt bikes and quads pulled into the store toward the far right end where a gas pump was set up.

Not two seconds later, someone walked out the side of the store and started working at the pump.

There was a door on the front.

And apparently one on the side for gas.

Cross wondered how likely it was that some small, rural New Brunswick country ass store was going to have more than one employee at a time?

Not likely at all.

He darted up the hill and onto the road, and didn’t look back. The closer he came to the store, the better he could see the yellow and red sign hanging above the door.

Bluebell Quikway, it read.

Cross nodded to himself.

He knew exactly where he was now.

Taking one last look at the gathered bikes and quads, Cross saw the blonde woman was still busy filling up the teenagers’ gas tanks. A note on the door said it was full service for gas. Just beyond the front door was a cash register, and behind it?

No one.

Cross wasn’t interested in stealing anything.

What he needed was that goddamn phone on the cash drawer. Slipping inside, he glanced down the long back end of the store where the side door happened to be. He could see directly outside to the gas tank.

He kept one eye on the people as he picked up the phone, listened for a tone, and then dialed a familiar number.

It rang once.

Then twice.

Come on … come on.

Three times.

Then four.

On the fifth ring, Cross knew Zeke’s message recording would pick up. He knew this was a risk, if only because they weren’t the kind of people who answered unknown numbers.

For some reason, Zeke picked up.

“Hello?”

“Holy fucking shit,” Cross mumbled, leaning his weight against the cash.

“Cross?”

“Holy fucking shit.”

“Cross!”

In the background, he could hear what sounded like a … jet engine?