by Blake Crouch
Each corner Christian turned ratcheted the knot in her stomach a little tighter.
Her hands trembled. She tried to steady them, but she was too amped.
She looked over, studied Christian. "You all right?" she asked.
He nodded, but he looked scared as hell.
The road out of the garage seemed to go on forever, like the Penrose stairs.
Turn.
After turn.
After turn.
Letty stared out the window, watching all the paint jobs of the cars gleaming under the harsh light.
Something reached her through the glass. She lowered her window two inches.
There it was—the screech of tires across smooth concrete.
She said, "Someone's coming up fast."
Jerrod said, "Ize? Should he pull into an open space? Let them pass?"
"Hell no. All likelihood, they got a vehicle description. We need to get the fuck out. Just drive, my man. And try not to crash."
The screeching drew closer.
Letty heard Isaiah's glass hum down, turned just in time to see him climbing up onto his knees, pointing an AR-15 through his window.
She buckled her seatbelt.
Christian took a hard, squealing turn.
A black Escalade ripped into view.
Isaiah opened up.
Three bursts on full auto, a smear of silver-rimmed holes starring the engine and driver side door of the Escalade. Its right-front tire blew. Christian gunned the Suburban, its back end jutting left, smashing into the side of the Escalade as it passed.
"Down!" Isaiah screamed.
The back window of the Suburban exploded in a splash of safety glass, bullets chinking into the cargo doors.
Christian cranked it around one last curve.
Letty saw them first—a black strip lying across the exit lane up ahead.
"Spikes!" she yelled. "Other lane!"
Christian steered over a six-inch concrete median with a violent shudder that seemed to tear apart the undercarriage. The entrance gate snapped off as they punched through and made a hard, blind turn into traffic.
They accelerated down Las Vegas Boulevard.
The Strip still rocking at 2:30 in the morning.
"Nicely done," Isaiah said. "Now hang a left at the next intersection."
Letty glanced back. Traffic moved slowly but there was plenty of it.
The curve of the Wynn fell away.
She heard frantic honking, accompanied by a symphony of sirens. Several SUVs a few hundred yards back were fighting their way through traffic with little success.
"Radio and scanner would be nice," Stu said.
"Doing the best we can, brother."
Letty said, "They'll put out a description of the Suburban, right?"
"APB, no doubt."
They lucked out, caught a protected green arrow at the next intersection.
Christian turned onto Desert Inn Road.
Compared to the Strip, this street was practically vacant.
Christian said, "Should I speed or just—"
"Hell yes, speed. We just knocked over a casino, son."
The man pushed the gas pedal into the floor.
They screamed past a vacant lot where a new hotel was in its foundational infancy.
Then Trump Tower.
"Let's get off the beaten path," Isaiah said.
"Any particular direction?"
"Just keep us moving north."
They drove residential streets dead quiet at this hour.
Isaiah said, "Now you keep it under control. Only drive like a maniac if you see the Po-Po coming."
Letty leaned against the glass. Tried to steady her rampant pulse, but it wouldn't slow. They hadn't just robbed at gunpoint. She'd been part of a crew that had fired on casino security. Isaiah could have killed the driver. And if the cops showed, tried to take them down, was there any doubt that a gunfight of epic proportions would ensue?
How did you let it get this far?
Because I needed it to.
Are you really this person, Letisha Dobesh?
She smiled.
Because she was.
Because she loved it.
19
On the edge of town, Isaiah directed Christian into the boondocks of a Super Wal-Mart parking lot. It was surprisingly busy considering the hour. This far out from the epicenter of Save-Money-Live-Better land was the territory of Winnebagos, car campers, and one U-Haul. Specifically, a 4x8 trailer already rigged to the towing package of a car that had piqued Letty's fear several days ago in Arizona.
Isaiah's black Tundra.
Letty climbed out and raised the door.
The four men had the trailer loaded inside of thirty seconds.
# # #
They hit U.S. 95 at 3:00 a.m.
Blasted north.
Isaiah driving.
By 3:15, the suburban sprawl had begun to relent.
Patches of lightless, unsettled desert scrolling past with greater frequency.
The glow of the Strip dwindled in the rearview mirror.
The sky trading the absurdity of the Vegas skyline for honest-to-God stars.
# # #
Even forty miles out of town, no one spoke.
As if their success up to this moment hinged upon a collective silence.
# # #
By four o'clock in the morning they were tearing through a landscape that looked ready-made for missile testing.
Scorched earth.
Joyless mountains.
No trees.
Snakeskin country.
It was Isaiah who finally broke the silence.
Said, "Christian. I'd roll with you again. You absolutely badass."
Letty looked back, saw Christian smirking.
"And you, Letty," Isaiah said. She could hear the celebration beginning to build in his voice. "Wasn't for you, we wouldn't be here."
She said, "I told Christian he'd make at least a million."
"Nope," Isaiah said. "My man stepped up on a moment's notice. Saved the day. Let's call it one point five. How you guys know each other back wherever you from?"
"He's my therapist."
"No, seriously."
# # #
They rode toward Death Valley under a star-blown sky.
Letty's adrenaline charge had tapped out.
She hadn't been this dog-tired since the birth of her son.
Ize turned off the highway.
For several miles, they bumped along a one-lane road that snaked through the creosote.
The stars had just begun to fade and the sky to draw color when Letty spotted structures in the distance.
The road curved toward a collection of buildings. At first, she mistook them for a town, but on approach, she saw they were nothing but skeletons. Broken framework profiled against the sky.
Isaiah eased to a stop in front of the remnants of a three-story building.
The only part still standing was its facade.
The rest had been reduced to crumbling mortar.
Ize killed the ignition.
The silence that flooded in was graveyard quiet.
Through the dusty windshield, Letty spotted four cars parked a little ways down the road.
"Whose are those?" she asked.
"Ours," Isaiah said. "They're just rentals. I figured we'd split the dough here. Go our separate ways."
Christian was sitting in the back between Stu and Jerrod.
He cleared his throat, said, "You're absolutely sure we're safe here?"
Isaiah glanced back between the front seats.
"U.S. 95 South. U.S. 93 South. I-15 South. I-15 North. U.S. 93 North. U.S. 95 North. Six main arteries out of Vegas. They're looking for a vehicle that matches your white Suburban. They will check every motel and hotel within three or four hours, which is why we aren't taking that chance. Why don't you let the professionals do the thinking, my man. You're in good hands."
They climbed out.
It was almost cold in the desert ghost town.
No wind.
Letty glanced back the way they'd come. The dust trail of their passage beginning to settle.
Everywhere she looked—emptiness.
Isaiah walked out into the middle of the road. He stared off at the distant hills.
Then laughed—long and low.
Jerrod and Stu moved toward him, and as he turned, the trio embraced.
A fierce, sudden, emotional huddle.
"I'm so proud. We did it, boys. We did it. They're gonna make movies about us."
"Yeah," Christian said. "And with a big surprise ending."
Letty looked across the hood of Ize's Tundra.
It took her a second to process Christian standing in the road with an AR-15 pulled snug against his shoulder, sighting down the Marines.
"Gentlemen," he said. "Raise your hands and get down on your knees."
Isaiah's head tilted. "What the fuck—"
The gunshot exploded across the desert, the round punching through the windshield of one of the rentals.
"Next shot goes through your eye. Ize."
Isaiah, Stu, and Jerrod exchanged glances.
They slowly lifted their arms, got down on their knees.
"Join them, Letty."
"What are you doing, Christian?"
"You're going to make me kill somebody, aren't you?"
She moved around the front of the car.
"Christian," Isaiah said. "You want more money? An even split? We can do that. This hard-bargaining shit ain't necessary. We're reasonable men."
Letty eased down into the dirt.
"Your offer of one point five million was generous, but I think I'll have to settle for everything. Where are the keys to the Tundra, Isaiah?"
"Ignition."
"Where are the keys to the rentals?"
"Center console."
Christian fired eight shots in rapid succession.
Letty heard the air hissing out of the tires of the cars behind them.
"Everyone, flat on your stomach, spread out your hands."
"I'll find you," Isaiah said.
Christian backed away, keeping the gun on them as he approached the driver side door of the Tundra.
"I could kill you all right here, leave you in the desert. Perhaps you should be thanking me for allowing you to live instead of making empty threats."
"Nothing empty about them, my man."
"Christian, please," Letty said.
"Thank me, Ize," Christian said.
"Fuck you."
"Thank me or you die right now."
"Thank you," Isaiah said through gritted teeth.
"You're welcome."
Letty watched as Christian opened the door.
Isaiah said under his breath, "Anybody packing?"
"No."
"No."
Jerrod said, "I can get there. I can stop this."
"He can shoot," Isaiah said. "In case you missed the part where he went eight for eight on those tires."
Christian reached into the car.
He cranked the engine.
Isaiah said, "I ain't believing this shit."
Christian jumped in, slammed the door, the engine revving.
The Tundra lurched toward them.
Letty didn't even have time to get to her feet.
Just rolled out of the way as the tires slung rocks and dirt, the rubber tread passing inches from her head.
She sat up, coughing, wiping dust out of her eyes.
Isaiah's Tundra sped off down the dirt road, taillights shrinking into the dawn.
Isaiah jumped to his feet, sprinted twenty yards.
He planted his feet and screamed at the sky, his voice racing across the wasted landscape, ricocheting between the buildings in the ghost town.
He turned and started back toward the group, toward Letty.
When he was ten feet away, she noticed the knife in his hand.
"Isaiah, please."
She scrambled onto her feet, backpedaling.
"You," he said. "You did this."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You brought Christian in."
"I had no idea."
He rushed her, swept her off her feet.
She struck the ground hard enough to drive the air out of her lungs.
Isaiah—all two hundred and twenty pounds of him—perched on her chest, his knees pinning her arms to the hardpan.
He dug the knifepoint into her face.
"I ought to carve you up right here. Leave you for the buzzards."
"I didn't—"
"Where did you find him?"
"I told you. He was my therapist. I ran into him at the Palazzo. He was suicidal. Had lost his family several months ago. He told me he'd come to Vegas to kill himself."
Isaiah leaned in close.
"What else do you know about him?"
"Nothing. I only saw him in sessions."
"You think he shoots like a shrink? Think he drives getaway like a shrink?"
"I'm more stunned than you are, Ize. I swear to you. I told that man my darkest secrets for six months."
"Something ain't right here." He drew the blade softly across her throat. "I'll find him," Isaiah said. "And when I do, me and Christian will have a talk. He will tell me all of his secrets. If I find out—"
"You won't, because I didn't. If you want to kill me because I got played, go for it. But I'd never sell my partners down the river."
Isaiah pushed the blade against her carotid.
Stu and Jerrod had wandered over. They stood behind Isaiah, staring down at her.
"What do you think, boys?" he asked. "Feel like watching her bleed?"
20
Letty walked alone down the dirt road away from the ghost town, back toward the highway.
Isaiah, Stu, and Jerrod had gone ahead.
She couldn't see them anymore.
The sun crested a range of barren hills.
The desert went supernova.
She walked on, shoes scraping dirt.
Buzzards circled.
With each step, she became more thirsty, more exhausted, more humiliated.
Occasionally, blinding silver specks would streak across the far horizon. It was the highway, still miles away.
# # #
The sun was high by the time she reached the pavement, beating down with a kind of angry purpose.
There was no sign of Isaiah and the boys.
Sweat poured out of her.
She walked twenty feet down the road and then her legs failed.
She dropped.
Sat down in the dirt.
Stunned/crushed/confused/enraged.
Still trying to process what had happened.
If she wasn't mistaken, it was four or five miles back to Beatty, the last town they'd passed through. But she was in no condition to make the trek. She'd left her purse and iPhone in Ize's Tundra. Had a twenty dollar bill shoved down one of her socks, but not another penny, credit card, or form of identification to her name.
There was nothing coming in either direction.
The heat wafting off the blacktop like a furnace.
Scorpions watching her from the shade.
She couched her face between her knees and shut her eyes.
# # #
The sound of an approaching car brought her head up.
For a moment, she didn't know where she was.
She hoisted her arm into the air and raised her thumb.
A Prius screamed past, kept going.
# # #
The sun bore down from directly overhead, and she could feel herself beginning to come apart.
You have to get up.
You have to walk to town.
You cannot just sit here and wait for a good Samaritan to stop.
Because they don't exist anymore.
# # #
She walked up the shoulder of the highway, swatting a
t the swarm of flies and gnats that had been attracted by her salt-tinged sweat.
In the distance, the mini-roar of an engine.
She looked up.
Couldn't see anything through the brutal glare.
Just blinding chrome and glass.
Thinking, If I took my top off, would they stop?
Could you handle that rejection if they didn't?
She raised her arm, held out her thumb, but didn't slow her pace.
Kept walking as she shielded her eyes.
The car streaked past.
She traded her thumb for a middle finger.
But something was different with this one.
The pitch of its engine had dropped.
She stopped, made a slow, staggering turn.
Damn.
Somebody had actually pulled over.
She stumbled toward the vehicle, moving as fast as she could manage, some part of her fearing that as she drew near it would turn into a mirage.
But the image held.
A burgundy Chevy Astro with deeply tinted windows.
She sidled up to the van's front passenger door, yanked it open, climbed up into the seat. The air-conditioning was crisp and roaring out of the vents.
She looked over at the driver, her head spinning, unwieldy.
Said, "I can't thank you e—"
At first, she thought she was hallucinating.
A symptom of heatstroke and exhaustion.
But when he spoke, the voice matched the face.
Christian said, "Shut the door, would you? You're letting all the cold out."
When she didn't respond, he reached across her lap and pulled the door closed himself.
The desert raced by.
Christian reached down, grabbed a bottled water from between the seats, dropped it into her lap.
"Glad you were still here," he said. "I swapped out Isaiah's car as fast as I could, but it took longer than I'd planned."
She unscrewed the water and sucked it down.
Still cold enough to trigger a brief, blinding headache, but she didn't care. The thirst-quench was orgasmic.
"There's a whole case," he said. "Help yourself."
She killed two more, leaned back in her seat.
They were speeding along on a descending grade.
The temperature readout passing the 110 mark.
The desert looking more hostile and unforgiving with each passing mile.
Like a lifeless planet. Like that painting in Christian's office.
The hydration and the AC were going a long way toward clearing her head.