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Hank smashed down the brakes, a giant cloud of dirt exploding around them. As soon as he came to a stop, he cut the engine and headlights.
Breath shallow, he whipped around to look out the back window as his pulse slowed to a less death-defying speed. Sitting in the dark, silent car, he watched for the truck.
After ten minutes of expecting the worst, he turned to face Beth.
“That was close,” she deadpanned in the dark.
His girl was back. Her wry tone made him smile. “Yeah, that's putting it mildly.”
“Let's get the hell out of here before she finds us.”
“Good plan. Call dispatch and let them know what happened.” He flicked the key and the engine sputtered to life. The car chugged into reverse for half a foot before the tires spun, useless in the deep ruts caused by the ATVs that normally owned this access road. “Shit.”
“What?” The ringing of her call going through to the sheriff's office blared from her cellphone.
“We're stuck.”
“Isn't that—” The dispatcher's voice on the line cut off whatever Beth was about to say.
Beth handed over the phone to Hank, who gave dispatch a quick rundown of Sarah Jane, the attack and their location before snapping the phone shut.
“Okay, we can't stay in the car and be sitting ducks for Sarah Jane. We're going to get close to the road, but stay inside the tree line. Deputies are on their way, but we can't give our location away.” He paused, taking in the panicky twitch in her left eye. “You with me? We're going to be alright.”
She nodded. “Let's do it.”
Even freaked out of her mind, she held her own. If it took the next six decades, he'd make her understand just how much he loved her. Kids or no kids, he didn’t give a damn. “Stick close.”
They eased out of the car, leaving the doors open to avoid unnecessary noise. Around them the normal night sounds of coyote howls and scurrying nocturnal creatures covered their footsteps. The moonlight filtered through the tree branches, allowing only enough light to see a few feet in front as they made their way through to the road.
Beth stayed close behind him, mimicking his moves and stepping where he did. Swift, but careful, they made their way up a gentle slope.
Straining his ears, he tried to pick out the sound of human footsteps among the rustle of dried leaves. Nothing.
Almost there. The tense muscles in his shoulders unwound.
He could just make out the shiny pebbles on the highway's shoulder when the unmistakable sense of impending danger sent goose bumps marching down his arms.
The Bighorn Hills turned silent, not even a breeze blew.
Halting, he grabbed Beth's arm, pulling her close as he scanned the area. Shadows hid reality. Was that a tree branch or an attacker's arm? Was that the crunch of leaves crushed under a coyote's paw or Sarah Jane's foot? Damn, he wished he had his gun.
After a minute of staring into nothingness, without another sign of an imminent attack, he took a cautious step forward.
So focused on looking out for Sarah Jane, he never noticed the snake hole until it was too late.
His ankle twisted and he tumbled to the ground, pulling Beth down with him. Burning pain shot up his leg and he barely managed to swallow a groan of agony so as to not alert their stalker.
He needn't have worried.
The unmistakable click of a gun being cocked echoed through the brush.
Like a ghost appearing, Sarah Jane stepped out of the shadows, pointing a silver handgun at them. “It’s time for you to pay.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Even with her nose buried in the dank dirt and Hank half covering her with his bulk, Beth knew that voice. She'd never heard it raised in anger or whiny with frustration. Not like now, when a tinge of crazy had sharpened the consonants and emphasized the nasal Midwestern twang.
For most of her life, that voice had been a part of her world. She'd sat silent and sweaty under the oak kitchen table to eavesdrop while her abuelita and Sarah Jane drank iced tea and gossiped on hot summer days. When she’d joined Webster and Carter, Sarah Jane had given her the welcome-aboard tour, eased her nerves and warned her about Ed Webster's wandering hands. At the conference in Vegas, they'd chatted about scrapbooking and Sin City's inherent tackiness.
