a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye, Max glanced back at his own opponent, and saw him reach for a sawed-off shotgun inside his topcoat.
“Gun!” Max yelled, knowing he was too far away to grab the weapon in time.
Leaping to one side, he grabbed Kris by the arm and pulled her around the front bumper of a small SUV. They fell to the gravel just as the shotgun blast shattered the driver’s side window.
Chapter Two
Max had rolled to the left, simultaneously reaching for the gun at his waist. Kris immediately reached down her right side for her service Beretta. Old habits died hard. All she found now were pruning shears in a leather holder at her belt.
Two more shotgun blasts shook the vehicle they were hugging. “We need them alive,” one of the men called to the other.
Kris saw Max’s reaction and wondered if he’d recognized the voice. But there was no time to discuss that now.
They waited, back to back, crouched low beside the passenger’s side front tire. “Stay close to the tire so they can’t see our feet. Let them come to us,” she whispered, taking a quick look underneath the vehicle, trying to locate their assailants. “I can take down the one who came after me. He’s an amateur.”
Max turned toward the back end of the SUV. “I’m going to the rear axle and take a quick look. Maybe I can get a drop on the one with the shotgun.”
“No, stick close and cover my back. You can’t fire in that direction anyway. A stray bullet could kill a civilian. Make them come to us,” she repeated.
He glanced back at her and realized that he was taking tactical advice from a woman wearing a shirt with a smiling cactus. Before he could give that further thought, she reached into her shirt pocket for her cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.
“Deputies are on their way,” she called out a second later.
They heard running footsteps, followed by the distinctive slam of the van door being pulled shut.
As the van’s engine started up with a roar and they heard the squeal of tires, Max stood.
Kris did the same. “They’re making a run for it,” she said, watching the van accelerate out of the lot. “Wimps!”
“I’ll pursue,” Max said, running to his truck. He suddenly stopped, seeing where the other shotgun blasts had gone. Both his rear tires had been flattened—shredded by the buckshot.
Kris, half a step behind him, grabbed his arm and tugged. “Come on. We’ll take my truck!”
He raced after her. As she opened the driver’s side door, he made a move to edge past her, but she jumped in ahead of him, waving the key in her hand. “Nobody drives my truck but me. Take shotgun.”
“I’ve been trained in pursuit.”
She gave him a level stare. “I’ve threaded my way through ambushes in a Humvee. You want them to get away while we debate our credentials? Go around.”
Spitting out an oath, he raced to the other side and climbed in. “They headed east, toward Farmington,” he said and pointed to the right.
She tossed him the phone. “Update the sheriff.”
Showing restraint with the gas pedal, she didn’t waste momentum spinning the tires in the gravel parking lot. Yet once she hit the pavement, Kris accelerated rapidly, going through the gears of the manual transmission like she’d been raised on high-performance engines. This was the old highway, two narrow lanes worn by decades of traffic, but she took the corners right on the center line, not wasting a single foot of road, yet staying in their lane—barely.
“Seat belt,” she said, without looking over. He’d forgotten in the rush, but she hadn’t.
He reached over and brought down the belt, snapping it in place. Glancing over, he could see they were going eighty-five, whipping around slower-moving traffic on the old road, now more of a country lane passing through the rural community of Water-flow. The van, a bluish-green Chevy, was in sight now, and they were closing the gap.
“Reach down beneath my seat,” she said, “and grab my Beretta. I can’t take my eyes off the road or my hands off the wheel right now.”
He did as she’d asked, still trying to take in the fact that she was behind the wheel and doing some seriously skilled high-pursuit driving. The nine-millimeter pistol in a nylon tactical holster that was held high on the thigh was nearly identical to his own handgun. It would figure she’d make that choice, considering the military supplied a nearly identical weapon to its troops.
“It’s got a key pad lock mechanism,” she said, noticing he’d retrieved the weapon. She called out the numbers—the date of her induction into the Corps.
“And in case you’re wondering, I’ve got a concealed carry permit.”
The road ahead rose sharply for a short distance, and humped up over an old irrigation canal. As they watched, the van left the ground slightly, brushing against the low branches of an ancient cottonwood. Dozens of golden leaves showered down onto the road.
“There’s an elementary school ahead. What time is it?” she asked.
He looked at his watch. “Ten-thirty. The children should be inside, and the parents gone by now.”
“Hope you’re right. Those morons are going to be flying through a school zone at three times the limit.” She eased off on the gas as the low, one-story cinder-block building came into view. “Where’d they go? I can’t see the van.”
“There!” He pointed. “They took a left on the side road. They’re heading for the main highway.”
She took the turn at forty-five, but the tires held, despite the squeal of protest. The van, obviously souped up, accelerated down the straight lane like a drag racer, widening the gap.
“That heap has some serious power,” Max commented. “Once they get to the good roads they’ll leave us in the dust.”
The truck was going eighty, but they were still losing ground, and the four-lane highway was less than a half mile ahead. Max knew there was no entrance ramp, just a stoplight. “Think he’ll try and run it? There’s no way he’ll make the turn.”
“He still hasn’t hit the brakes,” Kris yelled. “He’s gonna get hit for sure, or T-bone somebody.”
Cursing, Kris let off on the gas, touched the brakes, then started gearing down, the transmission roaring in protest. The image ahead of them was surreal, like watching a train wreck about to occur, but in slow motion.
Finally the brake lights on the van flashed as red as the traffic signal. The vehicle fishtailed violently, then entered onto the highway. The van slipped right in front of a big SUV, forcing the driver to practically stand on his brakes, then the lucky pair whipped across three more lanes of traffic like a bullet, untouched. Max could hear the scream of tires from an eighth of a mile away, and blue smoke and dust filled the intersection.
“Hang on, it’s gonna be close,” she yelled as
