lane. No cars were coming their way. Sagan’s hands were tight on the wheel, face tense. At first he ignored them, then he finally glanced over.
“Stop the car,” Zachariah yelled.
Sagan shook his head.
———
TOM HAD NEVER DRIVEN A CAR THIS FAST BEFORE. HE WAS PUSHING ninety. Thankfully, this road was a straight shot with few curves. His gaze darted left and right and all he could see was orange trees, their verdant leaves thick with spring blossoms. As a kid he’d worked the Lake County fields during the summer and fall, earning extra money. Back then several local families, all friends, owned the largest orchards. He knew where he was and what lay around him. One rule any good reporter quickly mastered was to learn the lay of the land.
The car behind him veered left in the opposite lane and sped up beside him.
Simon.
Telling him to pull over.
There was no evading the directness of his gaze, the eyes the same—cold and confident—so he reached across to the other seat, grabbed the box with his gun, and laid it on his lap.
Simon was motioning again for him to stop.
His hands grabbed the box and ripped it open.
He regripped the wheel as his left hand found the gun and swung it out the window.
———
“SLOW DOWN,” ZACHARIAH SCREAMED.
Sagan was pointing a gun directly at him.
Rocha slammed on the brakes, decelerating enough for Sagan’s car to race away.
The damn fool had wanted to shoot him.
“Go,” he ordered. “Force him off the highway.”
———
TOM WAS GLAD HE HADN’T BEEN REQUIRED TO PULL THE TRIGGER. He’d never actually fired a gun, and shooting one while driving ninety miles an hour had not seemed the best way to start.
But he’d been prepared to do it.
He’d deal with Zachariah Simon, but on his own terms. What did he have to lose? He doubted Simon would hurt Alle, not until he had what he was after. And Tom could not care less about himself. He should already be dead, so any additional time he spent breathing was simply a bonus. Strange, though, how, in the heat of this chase, he hadn’t thought about dying. All he wanted to know was that Alle would be okay. And the sealed package lying on the passenger’s seat should ensure that would happen.
Something slammed into his bumper, jarring the steering wheel.
He regained control and held the front tires straight. He was about to run out of highway, as this county road would dead-end into another more heavily traveled state route.
Another pop to the bumper.
Simon was slamming into him from behind, staying away from any bullets. He watched in his rearview mirror as Simon’s vehicle dropped back, then sped toward him, this time veering left into the other lane and crashing into his car’s side. He struggled to hold the vehicle on the road, then decided
The front end pounded the earth, then rebounded, the rear tires driving him ahead. He jammed his right foot onto the brake, slowed, then spun onto a dirt lane between a long row of trees.
And raced ahead.
———
SIMON WAS IMPRESSED.
Quite a maneuver.
Tom Sagan was proving a challenge.
Rocha stopped the car, wheeled around, and backtracked to where Sagan had jumped.
“Do it,” he ordered.
Rocha reversed and bought himself more roadway, then accelerated, skipping the ditch, landing hard on the other side. He worked the wheel left, then right, and they found the same lane between the trees Sagan had used, a dust cloud ahead obscuring their view.
They’d have to move slower.
But they would move.
———
BENE WAITED FOR FRANK CLARKE TO EXPLAIN HIMSELF.
