Chapter 58 Herded

Chapter 58 Herded
Chelsea

✦

The silence that follows his words is the heaviest thing I've ever felt.

It presses down on my chest, making it hard to breathe.

This state's version of the cartel.

The phrase echoes in my head, a death knell for any hope I had of returning to my life. I sit there, staring out the window, watching the monotonous desert landscape scroll by.

It's all just a blur of red dirt and scrub brush, a meaningless backdrop to the horror movie my life has become.

I'm not really seeing it. I'm seeing Alex's face, then Bagly's dead eyes, then the blue eyes in the mirror, each image superimposed over the last until I'm dizzy with it.

Minutes stretch into what feels like hours. The only constants are the drone of the engine and the steady, rhythmic breathing of Livia, still asleep and oblivious beside me.

"Someone's following us."

His voice cuts through the fog in my head, sharp and sudden. I snap my head to the mirror. His eyes are no longer on the road ahead; they're focused on something behind us, his body gone rigid with a tension that's instantly contagious.

My heart hammers against my ribs. "What? Where?"

"Back. About a mile. Don't stare." I force myself to turn slowly, casually, and look over my shoulder through the rear window.

At first, I see nothing but empty road shimmering with heat. Then I spot it. A dark shape, growing larger. It's an SUV, but not like any I've ever seen. It's black, menacing, and sits low on its suspension. It looks armored, purposeful, like a predator that has just locked onto its prey.

"Shit," I breathe, the word a puff of air. "What do we do?"

"I'm gonna need you to get up here and steer again," he says, his voice dropping into a calm, controlled cadence that is somehow more terrifying than panic. "And I'm gonna handle this."

He reaches down beside his seat, and my eyes go wide as he brings up a handgun. It's black and heavy and deadly serious. He slams a magazine into the grip with a sharp clack that echoes in the cab, the sound of a door closing on any chance we had of getting out of this peacefully. He racks the slide, chambering a round. The metallic snick is final.

"What are you waiting for?" he asks, his gaze flicking from the road to me and back again.

I don't hesitate. I shake Livia's shoulder, hard. "Liv, wake up! Now!"

Her eyes flutter open, dazed and confused. "Chelsea? What's going on?"

"Someone's following us," I say, my voice tight with urgency. "I have to get up front and steer for him. You need to get down on the floor. Now, Livia. Hide."

The fear in my voice cuts through her sleepiness. Her eyes widen, and she scrambles to obey, curling into a tight ball in the footwell and pulling a blanket over herself. I clamber over the center console, my movements clumsy and frantic. I practically fall into the passenger seat.

"Sit on my lap," he commands.

I freeze, staring at him. "Uhm—"

He doesn't wait for me to process. His hand shoots out, grabs my waist, and he pulls. I yelp as I'm yanked across the console, landing awkwardly on his lap. My thighs are pressed against his, my back against his chest. I can feel the solid muscle of his legs, the heat radiating from him even through his clothes. He shifts, pushing the driver's seat back a few inches to give me room. "Stay hidden," he says, his voice a low rumble I feel more than hear, directed at the floorboard where Livia is hiding.

My hands are shaking so badly I can barely grip the wheel. "Okay," I whisper. "I'm steering."

"Good. Eyes on the road."

He cranks his window down, and the roar of the wind fills the cab, whipping my hair across my face. He twists in his seat, bracing one arm against the back of mine to steady himself, and raises the gun.

The first shot is deafening.

The BOOM of the gunshot inside the cab makes me flinch violently, and the truck swerves. I correct it, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. I risk a glance in the side mirror. I see a spark erupt from the SUV's grille. It shudders, but keeps coming.

Then they return fire.

POP-POP-POP! The sound is different, higher-pitched. Bullets tear into the back of the truck, the impacts sounding like giant, angry fists pounding on a metal door. One punches through the tailgate, whizzing past my head with a terrifying whizz and embedding itself in the dashboard in front of me. I scream and swerve again, the truck lurching toward the ditch.

"Steady!" he yells, his voice right in my ear. He fires again, twice more, and I see the SUV's driver's side window shatter, spiderwebbing into a million pieces. It swerves wildly, but another vehicle appears, pulling out from a dirt trail hidden by the rocks to our left. Another SUV. Just as black, just as menacing. We're being herded.

"They're boxing us in!" I cry out, my voice cracking.

"Drive, Chelsea!" he growls, firing at the new arrival. "Just drive!"

I floor it. The truck surges forward, but the first SUV is recovering, accelerating to come alongside us on the right. The second is on our left. We're trapped. A gunman leans out of the passenger side of the SUV on my right, a rifle in his hands.

"Down!" the masked man roars, shoving my head down toward the dashboard.

I hear the BRAPPP of automatic fire, and the passenger side window of our truck explodes inward, showering me with safety glass. I feel a sting on my cheek, a cut, but I don't care. I'm just trying to steer, trying to keep us on the road as bullets tear through the metal above my head.

He's a whirlwind of motion. He's firing out his window, then twisting to fire out the back, then back to the side. His movements are impossibly fast, precise, economical. Every shot has a purpose. I see a gunman in the left SUV slump over his steering wheel. The truck veers, crashing into a cactus. One down.

But the first SUV is still there, matching our speed. The man with the rifle is aiming again.

I see a narrow wash—a dry riverbed—cutting across the desert to our right. It's a crazy, suicidal chance, but it's the only one I see.

"Hold on!" I scream, and I wrench the wheel hard to the right.

The truck leaves the road with a sickening lurch, plunging down the embankment into the sandy wash. I'm thrown against him, my body slamming into his chest as we hit the bottom. The suspension groans in protest, but the heavy truck holds together. I'm steering with pure instinct, kicking up a rooster tail of sand and dust, using the walls of the wash as cover.

The SUV can't follow as easily. It tries, but its lower center of gravity works against it. It bottoms out, its front end digging into the sand with a screech of tortured metal.

He sees his chance. "Brake!" he yells.

I slam on the brakes. The truck skids to a halt, and he's already out the door, moving with a liquid grace that's terrifying to behold. He's crouched behind the open door, a perfect firing position. He raises the gun, and I watch through the dusty windshield as he fires three quick shots. The first takes out the SUV's remaining tire. The second shatters the windshield. The third goes through the hole he just made.

There's no more movement from the SUV.

Silence descends, broken only by the ticking of our hot engine and the sound of my own ragged breaths. Smoke curls from the hoods of both disabled vehicles, mingling with the dust I kicked up, creating a thick, acrid fog.

Through the haze, I see a figure emerge. Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the same unhurried confidence as the man beside me. He's wearing tactical gear, but no mask.

The masked man lowers his gun, a sliver of relief in his posture. "Thank God you finally showed up," he says, his voice rough. "That could've ended badly."

The newcomer nods, his gaze sweeping over the scene before landing on the truck. "Heard the chatter. What's the situation?"

"Two survivors. Unharmed," the masked man says, looking back at me. "We need to get the girls to the safe house. Now."