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The truck must be hurtling down the road over ninety miles per hour and we’re tapped out, which causes me more frustration.
Hercules buries his snout against my arm with a grunting heave, as if to say, patience, dude. You’re not gonna save her if you break our wheels.
“I know,” I whisper back.
Uncle Grady coughs, still on the line. We don’t say a word to each other for the next five minutes. The faint lights up ahead hint at a town on the hilly dark horizon.
I see a big steel building coming up, bathed in spotlights, a few neat rows of big rigs either fueling or pulled off to the side.
Laird’s Stop! Gateway to the West, the massive wooden sign bathed in a spotlight announces.
Herc starts grunting like he knows what’s coming up even before I wrench the wheel and barrel in. I barely remember to hit the brakes to slow down.
“Unc, I’m gonna stop and check out this Laird’s place. Quite a few trucks around,” I say.
“Perfect hiding place,” Uncle Grady whispers back. “These types do their shit in broad daylight, and the same holds true for public lights, too.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me.
It’s the dead of the eeriest night of the year, but the place looks busy enough, lit up like a bustling carnival. A few dangling overstuffed bats and grinning pumpkin cutouts stare out from the windows. A few of the rigs even have rubber spiders stuck to their windows, dark and empty looking.
I’m parked at the edge of the lot, helping pull Herc around with his leash when I see it. Not one, but three different haulers packed with cars.
They’re parked next to each other, and two of them are covered.
Damn.
“Don’t fail me now with that nose,” I whisper, leading the pig forward.
For the first few steps, he just snuffles at the ground. Sweat beads on my brow.
Forward! All the trucks look deserted, which means their drivers are either sleeping or inside the truck stop and its all-night diner.
I’m about to take a few more cautious steps when the pig goes stock-still, head up, snorting at the night air.
He kicks his front hooves, lunging forward, and—oh, shit, away we go.
I have to grip the leash with both hands to stop him from tearing my arm off. He strains toward a mud-splashed truck, squealing fiercely—the same giddy, hyperactive reaction he always gets when he’s close to a faceful of truffle almonds.
Shit.
I urge him back to my truck, step by halting step. As desperate as I am to go rabid, to find them, to end this, I can’t just shoot my way into a public place with a bellowing pig yanking me around.
I’ve got to get him in the truck and update Grady. I need my gun from the glove box.
It takes too long to get the straining, protesting pig back in his seat, and then to re-connect the call that dropped somehow while I was busy.
“Uncle Grady, they’re here,” I whisper, my eyes glued to their hauler. “The second I see them coming, I’m going in.”
“Weston, don’t!” my uncle barks. “There’s no telling if they’re armed or not. The boys are only a few minutes behind you. Stay put, wait for backup.”
His words are fucking acid.
I’m trembling from how they singe my ears, the torture of the ambush I led people into unknowingly flooding my brain.
Grady’s older, level headed, carrying a wealth of experience I ought to appreciate so I don’t make the same hideous mistake twice.
But how the hell can I sit here and do nothing if I see them coming?
