Chapter Eighty-Nine
Nathan
The men ran straight for the blue Oldsmobile, but Bree and I were already crouched against the bumper of the black pick-up truck. As soon as they pounded by, I inched Bree around the other side. We had seconds before they spotted us.
“What are you doing?” Bree whispered.
I peeled my shirt off and wrapped it around my elbow. “I’m going to break the window,” I told her.
Bree shook her head.
“It’s the only way, Bree. Now move!”
Bree pushed back against me and shook her head again. Then she reached up and yanked on the door handle. The truck was unlocked, and the passenger side door opened.
I dove inside and pulled her up behind me. Bree leaned back out the pick-up truck door and snagged my shirt as I fumbled with the ignition wires.
The men banged on the bed of the pick-up truck and thought they had us blocked in. Then the truck roared to life, and they all stepped back. Bree ducked as soon as she saw the first gun barrel, but this time we had the upper hand.
I cranked the truck into reverse and barreled backward, forcing the men to dive to the pavement. Then I shifted into drive and gunned it over the edge of the parking lot and down the embankment to the road.
We were a block away before I saw the first gunman stumble into the road. He raised his gun and then lowered it. We were too far away for his shot to do any good.
Bree clung to my shirt, her knuckles white, until we flew out of the small town and into the darkness of the desert road. When she looked all around and saw nothing but long stretches of darkness, her fingers relaxed little by little.
“Can I have my shirt back?” I asked when the little town had disappeared from the rearview mirror.
Bree laughed but the sound was edgy and raw. She handed over the shirt and then rubbed her arms. “There’s only one road. How soon do you think they’ll catch up?”
I was more worried about who they had called and how soon we would run head-on into more cartel men, but I tried to comfort her instead. “I don’t see any headlights. If they aren’t following us now, they won’t.”
“Because they’ve already told someone we’re coming,” Bree said.
She peered forward into the darkness and waited for the next insurmountable obstacle. It didn’t come, and her eyelids grew heavy. Bree nodded off and then snapped awake with terrified eyes.
“Where are they?” she asked.
I couldn’t lie to her. I pointed to a ridge up ahead. “There.”
“We’re just going to drive past them?” she asked.
“See that glow up ahead, just past the ridge? That’s Ciudad Juarez. Recognize that part of town?” I asked.
Bree squinted into the darkness and then brightened. “That’s where Maggie and I crossed!”
“Exactly.” I pressed on the gas.
“But they’ll be following us, trying to run us off the road. How are we going to make a run for it?” Bree asked.
I grinned. “Who said anything about making a run for it?”
Bree laced her fingers through the handle above the passenger side door and hung on tight. She didn’t even flinch as we flew past the row of black cartel cars and their bright headlights flashed into the pick-up’s cab. I pressed on the gas and headed toward the border.
The three cars roared up behind us and ran too close to our bumper and back wheels. I dodged the pick-up truck back and forth, narrowly avoiding their attempts to knock us into a skid.
Bree hung on as we rammed one car into a ditch. The others had to fall back as we careened between the warehouse buildings and headed to the open field that ran parallel to the border.
“See? They think they have us. They’re dropping back,” I told Bree.
She nodded, stiff and determined even as fear etched her features into a wide-eyed mask. “There are more gunmen ahead.”
“Then we’ll just have to take a little detour.”
I cranked the wheel hard to the right, and we bounced over the chipped curb. The last remnants of a chain-link fence burst open against the pick-up truck’s bumper and flew over the cab. A sharp crash behind us roused Bree from her frozen state.
“The fence cracked their windshield,” she said, glancing behind us.
I was glad she wasn’t looking out the windshield as I aimed us straight at the dry culvert. I rammed the gas pedal all the wall down and hoped we’d have enough speed to clear the concrete chasm. The pick-up truck bounced up the lip of the culvert and afterward, the wheels didn’t touch anything else but air.
Then we crashed down on the other side of the field and went careening across the border. Blinding lights kicked on and illuminated a road block straight ahead.
“Holy shit, you were right. The FBI is here,” I told Bree.
She wrapped both hands around the upper handle as I turned the wheel and slammed on the brakes. We skidded to a stop, ten feet in front of a dusty town car.
“What about the cartel?” Bree asked.
A helicopter buzzed overhead, its searchlight illuminating the field we had torn up.
“They’ll disappear before the helicopter spots them,” I said.
“So, we’re safe?” Bree asked. “We’re free?”
“You are under arrest. Exit the vehicle with your hands on your head. I repeat, you are under arrest.” Border security closed in around us.
Bree pried her hands off the handle and put them in the air. I followed suit, raising my hands and looking at her one last time.
We burst out laughing just as the officers ripped open the pick-up truck doors.