headed and how they might stop them. All they had were the phone, a pocketknife, a walkie-talkie, and the truck, which had a quarter of a tank of gas.
“Check the glove compartment,” Crocker barked.
“Turning off on state route 95, toward Indian Springs.”
“I see ’em.”
He spotted the black Escalade two hundred feet ahead, burning down the left lane. The other Escalade was another two hundred feet ahead of it.
“Got ’em both.”
“Cool. Nothing here but registration cards and a bottle of perfume,” Mancini reported.
“Perfume? Radio Jeri. Tell her to contact the Las Vegas police and tell them we need help.”
Mancini tried the walkie-talkie. “We’re already out of range.”
“Call her on my cell. Her number’s on my contact list.”
“You’re real fucking demanding.”
Manny didn’t sound good. Crocker glanced right and saw blood trickling out of his ear.
“You get rung up pretty good?”
“Don’t worry about me. Jeri isn’t answering. You want to leave a message?”
“Hang up and try again.”
Mancini glanced at InstaMapper on the phone and exclaimed, “Yo, yo, yo, cowboy! They’re exiting ahead onto 95 north toward Reno.”
“No problem. Keep trying Jeri.”
Chapter Seven
A problem is a chance for you to do your best.
—Duke Ellington
T hey were twenty miles past the city limits, and the landscape had become shades of black. No moon to help out. Just the occasional pair of headlights on the highway and a canopy of stars. Polaris ahead at ten o’clock. The escaping SUVs had extinguished their lights. So had they, for that matter. The cab illuminated by the blue glow from his iPhone, Crocker leaned forward to check the gas. It was an eighth of an inch away from empty. Probably another gallon or gallon and a half, which would get them twenty more miles, max.
Manny’s breathing was labored. In the glow from the little screen, Crocker saw that the left side of his face had swollen up. His eyes didn’t look right, either.
They’d never gotten hold of Jeri, nor had they gotten through to an operator when they dialed 911. The city behind them was still dark.
“Dude, you remember your name?” Crocker asked. “You okay?”
“Still smarter than you, asshole, with half my brain working.”
“More like a tenth, seems to me.”
“Pay attention,” Mancini growled as he looked at the screen. “They’re turning off.”
“Where? You see a road?”
“Up ahead to the right. Slow down!”
Crocker let up on the gas, applied the brake, and peered right into the darkness. All he saw was furry black and the sharper outline of a ridge in the distance.
“Turn here!” Manny shouted.
“Am I looking for a road?”
“No road. Just turn.”
“Here?”
“Yes!”
The truck bounced so hard across the shoulder that they had to hold on to prevent banging their heads on the ceiling.
“Motherfucker!”
Crocker applied the brake and eased the pickup down an embankment. They found themselves on relatively flat desert terrain interrupted by the occasional boulder or shrub.
“You trying to flip this thing over?” Mancini asked.
Crocker picked up speed. It was hard to see through the dust and darkness ahead.
“Any idea where the fuck these guys are going?”
Soon as he posed the question, automatic fire rang out to their right and bullets shattered the side window and windshield. Crocker ducked behind the dash and turned left as more rounds ripped into the pickup’s door and bed.
The vehicle hit a rock, dipped precipitously, and went downward fast.
“Fuck!” Mancini shouted.
“Hold on!”
They were airborne, but Crocker remained calm enough to check that both their seat belts were buckled. Twisted his torso hard right so it almost faced the seat and covered his head. Watched as Mancini did the same.
“Clench your teeth!”
The grille hit the ground hard, then the vehicle flipped over, spinning slightly right, and landed with a bang on the right side of the
“Check the glove compartment,” Crocker barked.
“Turning off on state route 95, toward Indian Springs.”
“I see ’em.”
He spotted the black Escalade two hundred feet ahead, burning down the left lane. The other Escalade was another two hundred feet ahead of it.
“Got ’em both.”
“Cool. Nothing here but registration cards and a bottle of perfume,” Mancini reported.
“Perfume? Radio Jeri. Tell her to contact the Las Vegas police and tell them we need help.”
Mancini tried the walkie-talkie. “We’re already out of range.”
“Call her on my cell. Her number’s on my contact list.”
“You’re real fucking demanding.”
Manny didn’t sound good. Crocker glanced right and saw blood trickling out of his ear.
“You get rung up pretty good?”
“Don’t worry about me. Jeri isn’t answering. You want to leave a message?”
“Hang up and try again.”
Mancini glanced at InstaMapper on the phone and exclaimed, “Yo, yo, yo, cowboy! They’re exiting ahead onto 95 north toward Reno.”
“No problem. Keep trying Jeri.”
Chapter Seven
A problem is a chance for you to do your best.
—Duke Ellington
T hey were twenty miles past the city limits, and the landscape had become shades of black. No moon to help out. Just the occasional pair of headlights on the highway and a canopy of stars. Polaris ahead at ten o’clock. The escaping SUVs had extinguished their lights. So had they, for that matter. The cab illuminated by the blue glow from his iPhone, Crocker leaned forward to check the gas. It was an eighth of an inch away from empty. Probably another gallon or gallon and a half, which would get them twenty more miles, max.
Manny’s breathing was labored. In the glow from the little screen, Crocker saw that the left side of his face had swollen up. His eyes didn’t look right, either.
They’d never gotten hold of Jeri, nor had they gotten through to an operator when they dialed 911. The city behind them was still dark.
“Dude, you remember your name?” Crocker asked. “You okay?”
“Still smarter than you, asshole, with half my brain working.”
“More like a tenth, seems to me.”
“Pay attention,” Mancini growled as he looked at the screen. “They’re turning off.”
“Where? You see a road?”
“Up ahead to the right. Slow down!”
Crocker let up on the gas, applied the brake, and peered right into the darkness. All he saw was furry black and the sharper outline of a ridge in the distance.
“Turn here!” Manny shouted.
“Am I looking for a road?”
“No road. Just turn.”
“Here?”
“Yes!”
The truck bounced so hard across the shoulder that they had to hold on to prevent banging their heads on the ceiling.
“Motherfucker!”
Crocker applied the brake and eased the pickup down an embankment. They found themselves on relatively flat desert terrain interrupted by the occasional boulder or shrub.
“You trying to flip this thing over?” Mancini asked.
Crocker picked up speed. It was hard to see through the dust and darkness ahead.
“Any idea where the fuck these guys are going?”
Soon as he posed the question, automatic fire rang out to their right and bullets shattered the side window and windshield. Crocker ducked behind the dash and turned left as more rounds ripped into the pickup’s door and bed.
The vehicle hit a rock, dipped precipitously, and went downward fast.
“Fuck!” Mancini shouted.
“Hold on!”
They were airborne, but Crocker remained calm enough to check that both their seat belts were buckled. Twisted his torso hard right so it almost faced the seat and covered his head. Watched as Mancini did the same.
“Clench your teeth!”
The grille hit the ground hard, then the vehicle flipped over, spinning slightly right, and landed with a bang on the right side of the
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