by Calista Fox
“Oh, hell yes.” His eyes nearly popped from the sockets.
“Just going on instinct here. I could be wrong.”
“Let’s hope you’re wrong. Still, it wouldn’t suck to squeal the tires on this baby. That’ll piss Dane off.”
“Try not to get too much pleasure out of this. We could be in serious trouble.”
“Not with me behind the wheel.” Kyle grinned confidently.
I settled into the passenger seat and hit the remote for the stall door. Then I pulled out my cell and called Amano, the only number that ever came through to me. He didn’t answer. As Kyle barreled through the gap in the gate at the entrance of the drive, I studied the numbers from the few calls I’d received and compared them. All the same.
What the fuck?
Why did I feel so off about this?
Our jaunt along the dirt road was a rugged, jarring one, but I barely noticed because we’d picked up a tail. I gazed into the side mirror first, checking out the silver Chevy Camaro that moved in behind us.
“Now would be a good time to speed it up,” I told Kyle.
“On this road?”
“Yep.”
He threw a glance my way as I twisted in the seat and peered through the back window. My nerves prickled.
“Well,” Kyle said, “the good news is that this is not my million-and-some-dollar car.”
We wound our way through the forest toward 89A. As we approached the main road, I tersely said, “We don’t want to stop. Not with whoever that is following so close behind us.”
“There’s a bit of traffic, if you haven’t noticed.”
“And we can’t go back to the retreat. We’ll lead them right there.” We reached the split in the road. “Hard left. Now!”
Kyle punched it and my heart leapt into my throat as the McLaren shot through a small hole of traffic that caused the slamming of brakes and a lot of blaring horns.
“Oh, Jesus,” I squeaked out as the sports car fishtailed and Kyle worked to get the vehicle under control. “Not good.”
Shifting in the seat again, I watched as the Chevy pulled almost the same move, three cars behind us. “This is going to get ugly.”
Kyle passed two trucks ahead of us, but he couldn’t shake the Camaro. We started up the switchbacks, a long, winding road cut into the craggy mountain and rising over four-thousand feet to the Mogollon Rim. At most points, there was no more than a sliver of a shoulder to our right—my side of the car—then the steep plunge into the oak- and evergreen-pine-covered canyon.
The speed limit was thirty-five. Kyle pushed fifty as he wove through the light traffic.
In a strained tone, I reminded him, “This is hardly the road for passing.” Hence the No Passing Zone signs and the double yellow line.
“We need some distance from this asshole,” he ground out.
Our first hairpin turn came at us—or we came at it—a bit too fast.
“For God’s sake!” I cried. “Slow down!”
The McLaren handled the sharp navigation beautifully. Kyle, however, didn’t have complete control again as we barreled down on a Toyota Prius barely creeping along as the driver likely took in the sights.
“Fuck,” Kyle grumbled, then dropped the hammer and swerved sharply into the other lane.
“You see that truck ahead of us, right?” I shouted, my eyes wide.
He had to pass two vehicles to clear ours if we were going to get back into the correct lane.
My pulse raged in my ears. I raised my forearms in front of my face, unable to watch, knowing we were about to be the bug on the four-by-four’s windshield.
Kyle cut back onto our side of the road and I felt the car shudder from the force of wind the truck created as it whizzed by us, horn wailing. I’m sure we were flipped a few fingers from all parties concerned.
I lowered my arms. Tried to breathe.
Kyle continued taking on the traffic and the treacherous turns as though we were stuntmen on a movie set where all the action was perfectly choreographed and timed.
But we weren’t on a movie set. And every narrow escape left me wholly regretting having suggested we take this route, not to mention fearing for our lives.
“This next turn is really sharp,” I warned him. “You’ve got to slow down a little.”
He didn’t. We squealed our way around it, the ass end of the car shimmying.
“Kyle, you can roll us!”
“This car is built for these corners,” he said between clenched teeth as he concentrated on driving.
“Maybe, but last time I checked, NASCAR wasn’t beating down your door for the Daytona 500.”
“Their loss.” He shot out and around another small group of cars.
“Kyle, no!”
He couldn’t make it this time. He veered off to the shoulder of the ongoing traffic. I screamed. The McLaren bounced along the rough edge. The shoulder that had flared briefly now started to narrow.
“You have to get back on the road.”
“No shit.”
“Kyle, we’re losing the shoulder!” And headed straight toward the side of the mountain about to jut out in front of us.
The last car coming our way flew by, more honking ensued, and Kyle jerked the car back onto the road and crossed over to our lane, ahead of the vehicles he’d wanted to pass.
My head whipped around as I tried to gauge how much distance we’d put between us and the Camaro. That driver had made his own daring passes but lagged several cars behind.
I would have breathed a sigh of relief, had I not caught sight of a black object in the sky. I squinted my eyes.
Was that a—?
“Holy crap,” I choked out. “There’s a helicopter.”
“Someone must have called the police.”
The aircraft gained speed, flying toward us. Kyle crested the canyon and blew past the scenic overlook. The curves were gradual, not hairpins. Kyle shifted into fifth and hauled ass. We couldn’t shake the copter.
“That’s not a police helicopter,” I said. “Or a news crew. Solid black, no logos. Looks pretty high-tech.” My heart thundered. “Son of a bitch! These guys have helicopters?”
Kyle took a few less risky passes on a straightaway, but I still couldn’t catch my breath.
“We have to ditch this car,” he said.
“Impossible. Once we hit town, they’ll catch up to us.”
“We can jump onto I-17 instead of staying on the back road,” Kyle offered. The interstate ran parallel to this neck of the woods.
I gave his idea some thought but then shook my head. “The guys in the air will see the move. That totally puts us out in the open.”
“Well, I’d love to hear your suggestions,” he barked.
I didn’t have any. Except …
“Slow down,” I demanded.
“Not a chance.”
“Kyle, Fort Tuthill is up ahead. Take the turnoff on the left.” It was marked with tall signs screaming ARTS & MUSIC FESTIVAL. Perfect.
There was another line of traffic coming our way. We didn’t have much time.
“I don’t see how this is a good idea. We—”
“Just do it. Now!”
The razor-sharp veering of the car made the tires whine again. We caught the outer edge of the turnoff onto the asphalt, sputtered a bit, then Kyle corrected our overshooting the corner and put us securely in one lane. Not ours, but we were the only ones on the road, so I didn’t mention the issue.
Heart still pounding, I said, “All these campgrounds … we have to be able to hide the car somewhere. Sooner rather than later, because at the end of this path is a wide-open clearing into the fairgrounds and parking lot. We’ll be screwed if we dead-end in plain sight.”
To our current advantage, the tall, full ponderosas offered a bit of coverage and, were we to drive into the forest, we’d be beautifully concealed.
“That looks like a decent spot,” Kyle murmured as he surveyed the south-end thicket. He peeled off a
nd we bounced our way along underbrush and dirt, dodging fallen trees and crunching limbs beneath us. The scrapes of branches against the sides and roof of the car made me cringe. Not to mention the lava rocks we drove over. Dane would have a conniption when he learned we’d destroyed his expensive ride. Though for a good cause, so … I tried not to think about how I was going to break this to him.
“Here’s a nice little cave.” Kyle slid the McLaren to a stop, nestled in a collection of downed trunks and piled-up limbs, as though the Forest Service had started cleanup work for a seasonal controlled burn.
Kyle had to climb over the stick shift and follow me out on the passenger’s side, since the protective shell was so slim, the car barely fit. We dragged a few more branches with layers of pine needles over the back of the Mercedes for added camouflage.
Then he took my hand and helped me through the rugged terrain as we made our way to the grounds.
We stuck to the boundary of the woods while assessing the situation. The helicopter hovered over the parking lot to the north. Ahead of us were the outbuildings for arts and crafts, vendor tents, and the grandstand with a stage. Music from a Country and Western band blared from the sound system.
“Now or never,” Kyle said, because the helicopter started to move toward us, the guys inside obviously convinced we’d never made it to the parking lot.
We raced toward the picnic tables around the food court area. Kyle tossed the keys to the McLaren, with its flashy emblem on the ring, in a metal trash barrel. Then we disappeared under a vendor tent. He peered around one side of it before tugging my hand again and leading me to another tent, this one selling straw cowboy hats.
“Put your hair up,” he said as he selected a hat for me and placed it on my head. He chose one for himself, then added aviator glasses, though the sun was setting.
He whipped out his credit card from his jeans pocket and then we hit another tent and slipped on Western shirts over the clothes we wore.
“Your evil dudes in the Camaro might stake this place out,” he told me.
“My evil dudes?”
He slid his sunglasses down his nose and glared at me.
“Okay, right. My evil dudes.”
This was all a little too edge-of-the-seat for me. I still couldn’t catch a solid breath.
“So now what?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
We left the vendors and walked cautiously to the grandstand. Couples two-stepped in front of the stage and kids danced in conglomerations. Others sat in the bleachers to watch and listen. Plenty of people milled about. We could get lost in this crowd, but how would we sneak out?
“Are we going to steal a car?” I asked. “Just so you know, I’m really not comfortable with that.”
“Maybe we can bum a ride.”
“Yeah, because we don’t look shady at all, wearing sunglasses at night.”
He groaned. “I don’t fucking know, Ari. I’m not the one who’s part of a goddamn secret society. I don’t associate with stalkers and kidnappers and assholes with helicopters.”
I winced at his under-the-breath outburst. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I got you into all of this.”
He pulled his hat down lower on his brow and shook his head. “You didn’t. I sort of volunteered, didn’t I?”
“And you can un-volunteer at any time.”
“Right,” he scoffed. “Leave you to fend for yourself?”
I smiled, despite the tense moment. “You just can’t resist being a hero, can you?”
“Well, someone’s gotta be.”
Since that fated day at Meg and Sean’s wedding, when Dane had swooped in to save the day—for me and the groomsmen—Kyle had been trying to prove he was a good guy. And continually did a great job of it.
I squeezed his hand and said, “You’re pretty awesome.”
“Regretting marrying the Terminator?”
“I think of him more as the Bruce Wayne/Batman type.”
“You would,” Kyle said wryly.
“Anyway, that’s currently neither here nor there. We have to find an escape that doesn’t put anyone in jeopardy, so I don’t think asking for a ride is an alternative.”
“Then I guess we’re stealing a car.”
I sighed. “There has to be another way.”
He glanced around our immediate surroundings. My gaze followed. He paused. I did as well.
“What?” I asked as we both stared at two officers clearly focused on crowd control.
Kyle put his hand at the small of my back and guided me away. “Just play along.”
“Okay.”
I had no clue what he was up to. We wound through the large groups gathered about, everyone laughing and drinking, having a great time. A part of me envied them, looking so carefree and … safe.
We strolled casually toward the food court, not drawing any real attention, thankfully. Then we passed through plastic white-picket gates and I halted abruptly.
“The beer garden?” I stared up at him, incredulous.
“Play along,” he reminded in a quiet tone.
I huffed a little but followed him to the booth. We stood in line for a few minutes while I apprehensively glanced about. Not that I would know whom to search for—I had no idea who’d been in the Camaro. I kept my eye out anyway.
When we reached the front of the line, Kyle ordered two beers and paid for them. We stepped away and I said, “I can’t drink this. I’m pregnant.”
“You don’t have to drink it. Spill some on your jeans. Your shoes.”
I didn’t know, but the plan did as requested.
“Slosh a little over the rim of the cup,” he added, “onto your hand.”
He did the same. Then he snaked an arm around my waist and pulled me close to him. I tensed, uncomfortable with the intimate contact.
“Relax,” he whispered. “Act drunk.”
I laughed emphatically. Gave a half snort, as though he’d muttered something hysterical.
“Good,” he said. Then he started talking loudly about the music, the band, the dancing. Gesturing obnoxiously with the cup in his hand.
We made our way back to the grandstand and he literally plowed into a skyscraping broad-shouldered guy from behind, Kyle’s beer splattering against the stranger’s flannel shirt.
“Hey!” The mountain of a man whirled around and glared at us. I gulped.
“S’rry, dude,” Kyle said. “Didn’t see ya there. Which is, like, so weird, right? Because you’re … Damn. Seriously tall.” He craned his neck. “They call you Treetop or something?”
My gaze widened.
“What kind of prick are you?” the lumberjack demanded.
“One who works out every day.” Kyle relinquished his hold on me and lifted his arm, flexing his biceps. “You, however, look like you could use some extra weight on your dumbbells.”
Oh, fuck.
Dark eyes narrowed on Kyle. “You are one serious asshole, man.”
Kyle staggered a bit—and spilled more beer on the guy. “Sorry,” he grumbled. “It’s just that … you take up a lot of space.”
“And you need to shut the hell up.”
“Wanna make me?” Kyle challenged as he swayed a bit.
“You need to learn some manners, buddy.” The big lug took a swing and it connected. Kyle hit the ground. I screamed and dropped my beer.
“Son of a bitch!” I yelled, then sank to my knees to check on Kyle, who bled from a split lip. Crimson dotted the front of his new shirt.
“Maybe I should have picked a smaller dude,” he mumbled.
His eyes rolled in the sockets. He likely saw stars. And birds.
“Jesus, Kyle.” My stomach clenched.
“Hey, what’s going on over here?” A new voice.
I glanced up to find the two officers closing in on us.
Time to play my part.
One of them reached for the assailant, but I clumsily got to my feet, stumbled as though tipsy, and declare
d, “Isnot ’is fault.” I waved a finger toward Kyle. “’Is drunk. I mean … heeee’s drunk.” I cleared my throat. “He’s drunk.” I forced the enunciation as though it were challenging.
“Great,” the second cop mumbled. “So are you.”
“Is not.” I shook my head. “Am not,” I corrected.
“Come on,” cop number one said as he helped Kyle up.
“Whoa,” I called out, pressing a palm to the officer’s chest.
Cop number two warned, “Don’t touch him.”
I kept my hand where it was. “He has to drive me home. I have someplace to be.”
“He’s not driving anywhere,” I was informed.
Turning to Kyle, I said, “Then gimme the keys.”
“Yeah, right. Let you behind the wheel of my pickup? Shit, not a chance.”
Cop number two took my arm and said, “Let’s go.”
They led us to the emergency/security building and cleaned Kyle up while attempting to administer a field sobriety test on me. I knew now the trick was to get them to haul us off to jail. That would involve them putting us in the back of the police car and escorting us out without the Camaro driver or the helicopter backup knowing we’d even left the grounds.
I’d already failed the walk-in-a-straight-line test. Told the officer I’d fall over if I closed my eyes and tried to touch my nose—on account of having a problem with equilibrium. Which I pronounced incorrectly.
Finally, he instructed, “Say the alphabet for me. Backwards.”
I laughed and wagged another finger at him. “I always wondered about that one. Most sober people can’t even recite the alphabet backwards.”
He groaned. “There’s always the Breathalyzer.”
“Which I can refuse.” I defiantly crossed my arms over my chest. I might land in jail for some time, but it was safer than what awaited us if we tried to leave here on our own.
“You’re right,” the officer said. “We can do this the old-fashioned way. I can arrest you, take you to the station, book you for drunk and disorderly conduct, and get your alcohol level from a blood test.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
And that’s precisely what happened.