overtook the rental as if it were standing still, and shot back out of view into the trees as it cleared the turn.
Grunting aloud from pain because he kept forgetting about his injured shoulder, he slipped the. 500 revolver out of its holster and extended it out the window. He trained the scope on the widest part of the third switchback down and waited, giving the SUV a minute and thirty seconds to appear. It did, and it filled the scope.
The SUV was a new model Chevy Tahoe with green-and-white Colorado plates. No doubt a rental, Nate guessed. Whoever was driving was going too fast, barely keeping the big unit under control. Unfortunately, though, because of the fleeting glimpse of the SUV and Nate’s angled view of the darkened windows, he couldn’t see the faces or outlines of who was driving or how many others were inside.
His instincts told him whoever was driving the Tahoe was after him. That they were hurtling up the mountain because his father had been coerced into placing a call.
They’d appeared behind him so quickly he got another thought that sent a chill through him: Dalisay and the girls could be inside. It was possible whoever was holding them had responded quickly to the call and had brought them along for the ride.
Nate thought: Melia’s first checkup: no cavities!
He pulled his weapon inside the cab of the Jeep and laid it across his lap. Then he weighed his options.
He could simply wait where he was, parked in the only pull-out on the fifth switchback, and take out the driver as the Tahoe roared by. But if the girls were inside and the Chevy plunged off the road…
Or he could drive up ahead, keeping a protective cushion between them, and hope there would be a scenario where he could somehow get the Tahoe to stop and pull over so he could see who was inside and take action. But he knew he was close to the top of the tree line. Even if he got well ahead, he’d have no cover, and the occupants of the Tahoe would see him up ahead on the road and know he had nowhere to run.
Or he could barrel across the highway, mow down the T-posts, and four-wheel it up the Jeep trail and hope his pursuers didn’t notice the damage or the fresh tracks up through the grass as they blasted by. But even if he got away, he had no idea where the road went. He could be trapped in a situation where he didn’t have an escape route. The road might be impassable due to downed trees or a rockslide. Or, if they saw the bent posts and followed and the road opened up, he could be overrun by the Tahoe.
Nate wasn’t encouraged by his options.
He looked out his window to see the white Tahoe blast around the hairpin turn of the closest switchback. He knew at the rate the car was climbing, they’d be right on top of him in less than two minutes.
He took a deep breath. His choices of staying or trying to outrun them or outclimb them all had vicious downsides. And if Dalisay and the girls were inside the Tahoe, all the variables changed.
But he had his advantages. They didn’t know he was there or that he knew they were coming. And although the driver of the Tahoe was likely well trained in evasive driving, Nate owned these mountains. They were his Rocky Mountains, and he knew how to use their savage beauty and extreme character to his benefit.
He’d been in a similar situation once on a mountain road in Montana. At that time, he’d recalled something he’d once learned about counterinsurgency tactics from John Nemecek himself. Nemecek had said, “When you’re in the middle of a shitstorm and your back is to the wall and the only options that exist are fucking horrible, you need to think, that instant, about the last possible thing you want to see coming at you. Then do it to them.”
Nate looked around him and smiled. He released the parking brake and gunned the Jeep up toward the blind corner. In the thin, still mountain air, he could hear the building roar of the Tahoe coming.
Nate knew that for his tactic to succeed, timing was everything. While he roared up the road and careened around the blind corner, he tried to calculate the speed and distance of the closing Tahoe, and visualize where it would be on the highway when he pulled the trigger on his plan.
There were no cars on the stretch of road up ahead of him, and he thanked Providence for a clean palette. Then, out of sight from where he’d pulled over moments before, Nate stomped on his brakes and performed a quick three-point turn so the Jeep was headed back down the mountain. He paused for a few seconds, trying to anticipate the progress of the Tahoe, then tapped on the accelerator.
He coasted around the corner just as the grille of the Tahoe appeared a quarter of a mile below him. The SUV was coming fast. Because the angle of the sun illuminated the inside of the oncoming vehicle, Nate could now make out two forms inside: a driver and a passenger. Dalisay and the girls didn’t appear to be inside, but he couldn’t be sure of it. They might be bound or hunkered down in the backseat.
At the rate of speed the vehicles were nearing each other, he knew he’d have only a few seconds to make this work. At that instant, he eased the Jeep over to the left so it straddled the center line of the road. He took a quick intake of breath and held it, then gripped the wheel tight and locked his arms and floored it. There was now no way the two vehicles, if they stayed on their present path, could avoid a violent head-on collision.
The distance between Nate and the Tahoe melted away. He lowered his chin to his chest and braced himself, even though he knew that if the driver of the Tahoe didn’t veer away, it wouldn’t matter what he did to prepare for the impact. As he hurtled toward the SUV, Nate noted that the rear end of the Tahoe was suddenly fishtailing: the driver had hit his brakes. Nate didn’t slow down. He saw a pair of white palms flash up to the windshield of the Tahoe as the passenger panicked.
Nate bore down.
A second before he drove headlong into the front end of the Tahoe, it veered right. But not fast enough. The Jeep’s right front bumper clipped the rear quarter panel of the SUV and shattered the taillight. The collision had enough impact to wrench the steering wheel hard, but he fought to keep the Jeep on the road and he slammed on his brakes. Behind him, he heard an even louder crash of metal on metal and the crack of broken wood.
The driver of the Tahoe had taken the only available option other than hurtling off the mountain or heading for a fiery head-on collision: he’d shot into the same gravel pull-out Nate had used a few minutes before. But he’d done so recklessly due to the situation, and had flattened the guardrail and broken the posts that held it up. The two left tires of the Tahoe hung over the lip of the road and spun lazily, suspended in air.
When his Jeep finally stopped in a haze of burned tire smoke, Nate slammed the gearshift back and reversed. The side of the Tahoe filled his back plastic rear window and grew larger. But instead of ramming the Tahoe and sending it over the side, Nate jerked the wheel so he slid in next to the SUV with only inches between them. The two vehicles were side by side. Nate kept the motor running in his Jeep.
He bailed out of the cab and kept low. He’d stopped his Jeep so close to the Tahoe that the occupants were trapped inside. They wouldn’t be able to open the passenger door because his Jeep blocked it, and outside the driver’s side was nothing but thin air.
Nate crab-walked around the front of his Jeep with his. 500 Wyoming Express drawn. He was still low enough that he couldn’t see the people inside, and therefore they couldn’t see him. The splinters from the exploded guardrail posts smelled of pine and creosote.
He squatted down by the bent rear bumper of the Tahoe. A deep male voice inside shouted, “Keep still! Don’t move or shift your weight!” As Nate reached up toward the back door handle, he knew why they were panicking. The SUV was literally balanced on the lip of the drop-off. He could feel the big vehicle shift slightly to the left, toward the abyss. It was a miracle it was even still up there.
Even though Nate was ninety-nine percent sure the occupants were operators from The Five, and Dalisay and the girls weren’t inside, he needed to make sure. He stood and threw open the back hatch and leveled his weapon.
“Raise your hands and press your palms to the roof liner!” he barked. “Both of you. Now.”
He didn’t recognize either of the men, but the sight of them jarred him, because they didn’t appear to be the righteous fresh-faced warriors he’d expected. They were older than he’d thought they’d be: late twenties, although ripped with lean muscle. The driver had a shaved head and a lantern jaw and wore a single diamond earring and wraparound sunglasses. He had scooted from behind the wheel toward the center of the Tahoe when he looked back. The passenger was dark-skinned and dark-eyed, and had a buzz cut. His shirtsleeves were rolled back to reveal a latticework of tattoos. He was pressed against the passenger door as if willing the vehicle to shift over to level. A stream of blood flowed down the side of the passenger’s nose from a cut he’d received in the crash.
“You’ve got to let us out of here, man,” the passenger said, pleading.
The bald driver didn’t move or speak, but Nate could feel his glare even though he couldn’t see his eyes.
“Nothing happens until you let me see your fucking hands.”
The passenger shot his arms up and did as he was told. The driver didn’t move.
