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I’m just smarter—or is it desperation?
Stomping the gas, I wait till I’m even with the passenger window.
I recognize that vicious face instantly.
Hudson.
His window’s down, a gun wagging out of it.
Shit.
I hit the gas, speeding forward. Gunshots rip the air for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, bullets pinging off my rear.
My brain aches at what they might’ve already done to Shel.
What they’ll do for sure if I don’t block them, stat.
The semi chugs onward, undaunted even with several more big trucks closing in from every side. We play this game of chicken, them trying to drive me off the road while they fight to muscle the other trucks away.
I dodge them every time, coming dangerously close to the edge, but stay clinging to the road.
“Hang on, Herc,” I say when I spot a tight turn coming up.
Without hesitation, I drive the truck into the ditch.
We bounce violently a few times, but it works.
If there’s one thing these massive tires are good for, it’s handling rough terrain, and that gives me an advantage.
They can’t cross the road’s shoulder. The semi will roll, and I’ll bet anything these two cowards won’t gamble with their lives.
The longer I follow, the more pissed off Carson Hudson gets.
Fresh bullets ricochet off my truck, spinning back into the night as they try to shake me.
My truck kicks hard as I roll over what feels like a half-broken fence, speeding along the semi like a shark trailing a juicy whale.
I still see a cluster of headlights to the side, several more lights pulling ahead of them. A bright white light spears down from above.
The chopper.
Now, they’re screwed for sure. But what the fuck will they do if they won’t surrender?
Like a pack of wolves, the monster trucks surround them.
We’re about to overtake the truck when the semi swerves again, struggling to keep a few more trucks behind them.
I stomp the gas so my truck climbs onto the road again, flying past the car trailer and running beside the passenger window again.
This time, I see something besides Carson’s sneering wolverine face.
A mass of red hair. A slash of movement. Tangled arms.
Shel.
She’s fighting for her life, trying to distract them, or maybe straining to get the gun out of his greasy paws.
Fuck.
