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She glanced towards the three sullen-eyed gunmen, now disarmed and bound.
"You can't do shit!" Wyatt was saying. "You aint even a rez cop. Let me go, bitch! This is my land!"
She made up her mind. She hauled him to his feet, despite his protests.
He tried to pull away, but she shoved him, sending him tumbling to the dust. "Move!" she snapped. "To the car."
She pointed towards one of the idling sedans that had carried the gunmen towards them.
He stared up at her. "W-why? Where are you taking me?"
She shoved him again. When he tried to protest, her gun found his forehead once more. He stared, frightened now, trembling. He swallowed deeply, then began stumbling towards the vehicle, fear in his eyes.
She paused to pull a radio from the wreckage of the Jeep. Someone had to call in the officer's death.
The rez cops would be on scene...
But she wouldn't.
Neither would Wyatt.
The two of them were going to have a chat of their own.
CHAPTER TEN
The gunshots were a distant memory, and now the Texas sun blazed down on the churning dust cloud that trailed Rachel's speeding Sedan. Gravel spat from beneath the tires, pelting the parched earth like a scattering of buckshot. She gripped the wheel, fingers white-knuckled, jaw set in a hard line. The sirens wailed behind her, a discordant chorus rising with the heat. The cops were responding to the officer down call she'd made. But it was too late. They'd find out soon enough.
"Where are you taking me?" Wyatt's voice came muffled from the back seat, tinged with the veneer of bravado that couldn't quite mask his trepidation.
"Shut up," she spat without looking at him, her eyes fixed on the road that ribboned ahead, a narrow vein slashed through the relentless sprawl of Texas scrubland.
Wyatt shifted, the zipties binding his wrists biting into his skin. The sinew in Rachel's forearms tensed with every twist and turn.
"Listen—"
"Quiet!" The word was a gunshot, fired over her shoulder. "You'll talk when I say."
He swallowed, likely tasting the grit that floated through the cracked window. The Sedan barreled on, an arrow shot from the bow of Rachel's fierce determination. In the rearview mirror, she saw the reflection of his face, the scar along his jaw a pale streak against his fear-flushed skin. His raven-collared hair was slick with sweat and grime.
The Sedan skidded, a hellion dance of dust and gravel. Rachel's grip on the wheel was iron; her knuckles white altars to vengeance. The car buckled over ruts in the road.
"Watch it!" Wyatt’s voice splintered against the rush of wind through the open windows. His head snapped sideways, colliding with the glass.
"Who told you we were coming?" Her words, terse and cold, cut any further pleas short.
She spotted him in the mirror as he scanned Rachel's profile, seeking a sliver of mercy in the set of her jaw, the squint of her eyes against the glare. Nothing. She was as unreadable as the sprawling Texas landscape that raced by.
"What the hell, lady!"
"You shot a cop," she said. "Want me to go back and drop you off with his colleagues?"
The man stared at her, swallowed. Panic was now written across his features.
"Didn't think so. Who told you we were coming?"
"No one!"
She veered again, and once more, his head ricocheted off the side door. His ziptied hands were too slow to protect him. He groaned in pain, and tried to sit up, but she veered the other direction.
