“Haley, grab what you can. Get on the boat. Butch, watch this guy with your rifle.”
The man came out from around the trunk, winded from trying to keep up with Ezra. There were fewer trees near the water’s edge, making it easier to see the guy was in his fifties or sixties. Balding head. Thick glasses. He didn’t appear overly dangerous, nor did he seem to carry any weapons.
He and Haley yanked the tents down and rolled them into crude balls, with the poles sticking out and the sleeping bags inside. He threw his in the middle section of the deck, then caught Haley’s as she tossed it onboard.
“Let’s go,” he hissed.
Butch retreated to the boat.
The man came with him. “Take me upriver. P-please,” he stuttered. “It will get me around them!”
Ezra had a split-second decision to make. The sounds of men talking and laughing was closing in on them, as if the gang members wanted to be heard. It meant they carried no fear of who they might encounter. By contrast, the lone man shook in his tennis shoes.
Ezra reached out a hand. “Welcome aboard.”
CHAPTER 14
Somewhere in Central Wyoming
“Get your gun ready!” Grace shouted over the revving engine. She’d punched the gas pedal, squeezing every ounce of horsepower possible out of her park service truck.
“It is,” Misha said, holding the rifle she’d taken from the TKM guard.
“Not that one,” she blurted. “The big-ass gun!”
The helicopter shooter had stopped firing as she reoriented on the moving truck. Grace wasn’t driving according to any plan or template for dealing with flying aircraft. Instead, she was motivated by the base instinct of survival. The only spot on the entire frontier she could get safe from the bullets was directly below the helicopter.
Misha had to kick the wooden partition behind the rear seat, but he struggled against the g-force of her acceleration as he tried to get in the far back.
The helicopter began moving, though it was hard to tell where. She imagined the woman yelling to the pilot, telling him to swing her around to get a shot on the truck as it sped away.
She smashed the brakes once more when she estimated she’d reached the underside of the copter.
“What!” Misha cried out, falling back into the rear seat again.
“Just hang on. I’m doing something. Be ready with the gun out the back window.” She’d never experienced such focus. Her insides rode a tidal current of panic swirling around fear, but Grace didn’t let it show. Not in front of the hitman. Not in front of Asher.
She cut the wheel before the truck stopped, which whipped the back end sideways. Misha went tumbling again, this time into the rear cargo space. In the middle of the action, she let herself smile at the minor bumps and bruises she was giving to the guy. However, the important fact was he was with his Lahti. It was the only reason she was trying such dangerous maneuvers.
The U-turn wasn’t as clean as a professional stunt driver’s, but she was proud of her performance. As she hammered the gas once more, her truck was aimed against traffic. Lights far down the highway were only a vague concern. They’d either be dead by the time the lights reached them, or…
“Be ready!” she screamed.
“I am trying,” Misha replied.
“It’s still there,” Asher said, looking behind them.
“I know,” she exhaled.
“It’s turning…”
“I know,” she repeated. Her plan was dead simple. Get the helicopter pilot to think she was going to speed down the highway, force them to start a turn to match, but then reverse course at the last second. The park service truck might have been clunky and unwieldy, but it was still more agile than the helicopter when turning on command.
“I can see them now.” Misha spoke dryly. The workman-like tone of an assassin dialing in on his target. “I need second.”
Grace heard the Russian jam metal on metal, like he was cocking the heavy rifle. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed it was balanced on the broken rear window. The lights of the helicopter were coming into view. She also saw the woman behind her own big gun. “Oh, jeez,” she croaked.
Looking ahead, the world turned orange. The tracers fell from the helicopter as the whir of the machine gun dialed back up. However, an ear-splitting hammer drop came from the rear end of the Suburban as Misha fired his anti-tank rifle out the back.
“Holy shit!” she screamed reflexively, only half-aware of what it was. The concussive blast slapped her on the back of the head with real force.
“Hit!” Misha exclaimed, sounding a little excited.
Fingers of light danced outside her window, flying into the fields on both sides of the roadway, suggesting the hit hadn’t stopped the shooter up there.
Another concussive pop rattled the inside of her brain.
Distantly, Misha claimed a second hit.
Grace’s heart begged her to slow down, get out of danger, jump from the target on wheels, do anything to allow it a breather. The orange tracers swung closer to her truck, forcing her to both swerve right and ignore every inch of her body except the two hands working the wheel. One of the orange fingers of death appeared inches from her window. If the bison hadn’t ripped off her side mirror days ago, the maniacal woman’s bullets would have done it in that second.
She swerved onto the shoulder. The grassy median offered a little extra room, but there was a wire running down the middle. If she got caught up in it, game over.
Misha fired a third shot. Her ears were about to burst from the pressure and the painful thunderclap. He scored another hit, but
