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The realization blossomed like a firework, intense and warm, and then disappeared. It didn’t matter that I loved her, because I had never told her so. I had put her in danger, and had failed to protect her.
And now I’ve lost her.
“Brady,” Asher said on the radio, “do you see anything from the westbound lane?”
“Nothing, but it’s tough to see from this side. I’m going forty-five in the left lane and people are passing me at a hundred. Fuck, you don’t think they exited, do…”
He trailed off, then suddenly shouted.
“Ah hah! I see the truck! Same yellow exterior, confirmed. Mile marker forty-six, just past Haven Avenue.”
Asher looked at a road sign above us. “That’s a quarter mile ahead!”
“It’s in the far right lane,” Brady said on the radio. “I’m pulling over in the westbound lane. Some fucker on his phone better not hit me.”
“There’s a gap between the eastbound and westbound lanes,” Asher said.
“I’ll jump it.”
I touched my radio microphone. “Wait until we get there.”
“Then drive faster. I’m not waiting long. Not while that maniac has Heather.”
I scanned ahead while flying up the shoulder. A semi-truck merged lanes, and then suddenly I saw it: the yellow food truck, in the far right lane.
“Rogan!” Asher pointed.
There was a disabled vehicle on the shoulder ahead of me. I slammed on my brakes, skidding to a stop behind him. The car next to me, a red Corvette, pulled forward so I couldn’t merge over.
“That’s what you get for driving on the shoulder, asshole!” the driver shouted at me. “We’re all in the same traffic as you!”
I was blocked in, and the food truck was about a hundred feet ahead of us. Traffic was crawling forward.
“Fuck this,” I said. “Pursuing on foot.”
I jumped out of the SUV and rounded the front. The man in the Corvette next to us showed us both his middle fingers.
“Yeah, you want a piece of this, tough guy? Come on and I’ll give you a…” He trailed off as I unholstered my P226 pistol and held it at my side. Suddenly the guy ducked down in his seat and rolled up his window.
I weaved through the cars toward the food truck. Asher appeared next to me with something in his hand. A pair of thermal goggles.
“I think there’s more than two inside,” he said.
I waved for the goggles, and he tossed them to me. I held them to my face while striding forward. The world instantly became a series of green and orange blurs. Cooler objects showed up as green, and heat appeared as shades of yellow, orange, and red. There was a blob of orange on the food truck’s muffler, some green around the edges, and the interior was yellowish orange.
Then the food truck merged lanes, which caused its body to turn toward me. That gave me a sideways view of its length. There was a blob of orange driving the truck, and two distinct heat spots in the back. One was lower, and the other was higher.
“One person driving, and two in the back,” I said on the radio. “Heather is sitting, I think.”
Brady grunted in response. “Two kidnappers?”
“Or a second hostage, in addition to Heather,” Asher suggested.
I continued striding toward the truck. “Negative. One is restrained, and the other is moving back and forth. Two hostiles.”
“Son of a bitch,” Brady said.
I felt equally shocked. Stalkers were usually loners. They rarely worked together. Thanks to the presence of two men at Amirah’s house the night I was attacked, I wascertainthat meant they were goons hired by Heimdall.
