wheel to the right and steered the truck into the yard beside the driveway, toppling three shrubs and a portion of a neatly trimmed hedge.
Bouncing back onto the driveway, the truck’s side front bumper clipped the back of the Lincoln, causing an awful screech as metal bent and twisted and the paint was stripped off the Lincoln’s rear quarter panel. Peter stole a quick glance in the side mirror. The gunman was back on his feet, lumbering after the truck.
Peter pressed harder on the gas as a bullet struck the cab’s framing.
Furious and spitting curses, Lawrence threw open the Lincoln’s door and jumped in. He brought the engine to life, jammed the gear stick into reverse, and laid down rubber getting out of the driveway.
Jed Patrick. The job might have identified someone named Peter Ryan, but Lawrence knew the man he’d seen in the cab of that truck. After training together, after facing countless life-and-death situations, how could he not know the man on sight? Jed Patrick was the only reason Lawrence was alive today. And Lawrence had allowed that personal connection to get the better of him. He was not only angry with himself for not taking the shot when he had it, but he was infuriated by Patrick’s audacity. He would have run Lawrence over had he not dived out of the truck’s path.
Tearing down the road after the truck, Lawrence slammed his palm against the steering wheel and once again released a string of the most extreme curses he could devise. His blood bubbled in his veins and his foot pressed heavy on the accelerator. Up ahead, the F-150 slowed and turned right. Seconds later, Lawrence did the same. The tires of the Lincoln stuttered around the turn, and he had to fight the steering wheel to keep from ending up in a ditch that bordered the shoulder.
“What was that? Who was that man?” Amy said, bracing herself against the dash with one hand while gripping the seat belt with the other.
Peter checked the mirrors. The black Lincoln hung on their tailbut was still a good ways off. The truck had a nice engine under its hood, lots of horses for getaways just like this one. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? You’re gonna have to do better than that. He had a gun, Peter.” In his peripheral vision, Peter saw her glance at his pistol, which now lay in the center console. “And so do you.”
The brief glimpse he’d had of the gunman’s face before he dove out of the path of the truck had triggered a shotgun memory: A series of rifle blasts — pop, pop, pop, pop —concealed behind a wall, a closed door. The door opens and a man steps out, crouched, hollering. He wears a black ski mask and swings the gun around in a wide arc. He reaches up with a gloved hand and yanks off the mask.
It was him, the gunman. Same short-cropped dusty hair, same heavy eyelids, full lips, thick nose. Same deadness in his gray eyes. But without the scar that marked the face of the man in the Lincoln behind them.
Peter had seen the man before, even had the feeling that he knew the man, but had no idea how or why. It was like a memory transplanted from another time. Maybe another life altogether. Some lone image floating in a sea of lost memories.
“Are you gonna start talking now?” Amy said.
Peter leaned on the brake and steered the truck off the main avenue and onto a secondary road where there were fewer homes and longer stretches of asphalt. “I’m kind of busy right now.”
They were beyond the town limits now, pushing sixty-five down a narrow road that cut straight through the surrounding farmland. On either side of the truck stood acres and acres of browning cornstalks as tall as a man, their tassels waving gently in the morning breeze.
Behind them, the Lincoln gained ground. Amy turned andlooked out the rear window. “He’s getting closer. We need to do something to lose him.”
“Got any suggestions?”
Amy checked the rear window again. “Drive faster?”
“Hang on.” Peter
Bouncing back onto the driveway, the truck’s side front bumper clipped the back of the Lincoln, causing an awful screech as metal bent and twisted and the paint was stripped off the Lincoln’s rear quarter panel. Peter stole a quick glance in the side mirror. The gunman was back on his feet, lumbering after the truck.
Peter pressed harder on the gas as a bullet struck the cab’s framing.
Furious and spitting curses, Lawrence threw open the Lincoln’s door and jumped in. He brought the engine to life, jammed the gear stick into reverse, and laid down rubber getting out of the driveway.
Jed Patrick. The job might have identified someone named Peter Ryan, but Lawrence knew the man he’d seen in the cab of that truck. After training together, after facing countless life-and-death situations, how could he not know the man on sight? Jed Patrick was the only reason Lawrence was alive today. And Lawrence had allowed that personal connection to get the better of him. He was not only angry with himself for not taking the shot when he had it, but he was infuriated by Patrick’s audacity. He would have run Lawrence over had he not dived out of the truck’s path.
Tearing down the road after the truck, Lawrence slammed his palm against the steering wheel and once again released a string of the most extreme curses he could devise. His blood bubbled in his veins and his foot pressed heavy on the accelerator. Up ahead, the F-150 slowed and turned right. Seconds later, Lawrence did the same. The tires of the Lincoln stuttered around the turn, and he had to fight the steering wheel to keep from ending up in a ditch that bordered the shoulder.
“What was that? Who was that man?” Amy said, bracing herself against the dash with one hand while gripping the seat belt with the other.
Peter checked the mirrors. The black Lincoln hung on their tailbut was still a good ways off. The truck had a nice engine under its hood, lots of horses for getaways just like this one. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? You’re gonna have to do better than that. He had a gun, Peter.” In his peripheral vision, Peter saw her glance at his pistol, which now lay in the center console. “And so do you.”
The brief glimpse he’d had of the gunman’s face before he dove out of the path of the truck had triggered a shotgun memory: A series of rifle blasts — pop, pop, pop, pop —concealed behind a wall, a closed door. The door opens and a man steps out, crouched, hollering. He wears a black ski mask and swings the gun around in a wide arc. He reaches up with a gloved hand and yanks off the mask.
It was him, the gunman. Same short-cropped dusty hair, same heavy eyelids, full lips, thick nose. Same deadness in his gray eyes. But without the scar that marked the face of the man in the Lincoln behind them.
Peter had seen the man before, even had the feeling that he knew the man, but had no idea how or why. It was like a memory transplanted from another time. Maybe another life altogether. Some lone image floating in a sea of lost memories.
“Are you gonna start talking now?” Amy said.
Peter leaned on the brake and steered the truck off the main avenue and onto a secondary road where there were fewer homes and longer stretches of asphalt. “I’m kind of busy right now.”
They were beyond the town limits now, pushing sixty-five down a narrow road that cut straight through the surrounding farmland. On either side of the truck stood acres and acres of browning cornstalks as tall as a man, their tassels waving gently in the morning breeze.
Behind them, the Lincoln gained ground. Amy turned andlooked out the rear window. “He’s getting closer. We need to do something to lose him.”
“Got any suggestions?”
Amy checked the rear window again. “Drive faster?”
“Hang on.” Peter
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