Gary picked up speed, passing by commuter cars and the occasional truck. There was a tense moment as a state highway patrol passed going the other direction on the divided highway, but the trooper didn’t turn around.
The dot kept moving for a few minutes, but much more slowly than we did. I guessed they were on a rural road, maybe an unpaved one. The distance between us narrowed.
After a couple more miles and times checking the map, I said, “I think this next off-ramp is the right one.”
A police siren wailed in the distance. Far behind, we could see the flash of lights weaving through traffic. Gary got a car between us and them and got down the off-ramp as fast as he could.
“Did we shake them?” he asked.
I checked the rearview mirror. “Not sure. I don’t see anything. They might be trying to cut us off on the access road.”
We got past the access road and onto a narrow county road without seeing our pursuers and breathed a little easier.
But not for long, because now we were closing in on that baleful red dot we had been chasing. It wasn’t moving anymore.
Trees closed in on either side, broken by the occasional field or pond. There were no houses in sight. Gary slowed, peering to the left and right. He put his gun on the dashboard.
“Good place for an ambush,” he muttered.
Oh dear. He was right. I pulled my 9mm out of my purse and held onto it. I slouched down a bit in the seat to make a smaller target, but that sent a twinge along my spine, so I had to sit back up properly. All those lectures about the importance of posture I had given Martin, and Frederick when he was a boy, came back to me. What goes around comes around.
The car we were tracking was a mile ahead and a bit to the left. We found a rutted old dirt road bypassing a dilapidated and obviously abandoned farm. The road ran off into the woods.
“They’re down there,” he said, slowing to a stop. “We should probably walk so they don’t hear us.”
I checked the sensor. Still nearly a mile. I thought about my back and Gary’s leg and said, “Let’s take it slow and go another half mile. They won’t hear us, and we’ll be closer to the car if we have to make an escape.”
Gary only nodded. He had probably been thinking of his knee and my back too. Driving closer was risky, but us ending up more disabled than we already were before we even got to the scene might prove even riskier.
The path got more rutted as we continued, Gary’s car trundling along and splashing through some puddles. We could see several fresh tracks. At least a couple of vehicles. I didn’t dare get out and take a closer look. Instead I darted glances at the trees to either side, expecting an ambush at any second.
“At least we’ll block their way out of here,” Gary whispered.
That was true. The road didn’t widen at any spot, so they wouldn’t be able to get around us.
That also meant we wouldn’t be able to turn around.
After half a mile, Gary parked and cut the engine. Taking a deep breath, we both took the safeties off our guns and got out. I put on my reading glasses. Gary gave me a curious look but said nothing.
He took the left side of the road and I took the right, getting into the underbrush and moving along a few yards in from the road. Luckily, the forest was thin. Probably a century ago, it had been farmland that had been abandoned and later reclaimed by nature.
Even so, it was slow going for the both of us. I remembered a time when he and I and my late husband, James, had to sprint down the tarmac of a rural air base to catch a military transport plane that was just taking off. We were late because of some trouble with the local militia, and the pilot had received orders to leave. Just as he taxied down the runway, we appeared behind him.
There was no chance for the pilot to stop, so we had no choice but to run with our sixty-pound packs after him. The copilot got to the back and opened the door for us, waving us on.
We all made it. Barely, but we made it. I jumped in first, then Junior leapt in and landed right on top of me, and then just as the plane lost contact with the ground, James vaulted in, landing on both of us. As the plane flew into the air, taking fire from enemies on the ground, we all lay in a cackling sweaty heap, joking about our narrow escape.
Ah, those were the days!
And now they were back, albeit in a slower, more arthritic form.
I saw a clearing up ahead. I peeked through the underbrush, caught Gary’s attention, and signaled that we should withdraw.
Once we got a hundred yards back, he crossed the road and joined me. Then we moved ahead together.
Soon the clearing came into view. We peered through the trees and bushes, trying to make out details without getting too close.
The clearing was the remnant of another old farm. The farmhouse had collapsed to its foundations, but the yard was on rocky ground and still reasonably clear of undergrowth. The car we had been following was parked next to the four-by-four. Several men stood near the ruined old house. I recognized Ricardo Morales, really Ricardo Pretto, president of Escudo Security and son of the man who had died trying to help the United States and his own nation.
Around him stood four younger men and a man who must have been in his eighties. They were all looking at something in a small tin box that Ricardo
