Page 9 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“Grant, you’re scaring the hell out of me!”

“Here’s what I need you to do—”

She started talking, but he cut her off. He wondered if she could hear the fear in his voice. He tried to sound firm, composed, resolved: “Listento me, okay? Do you have the burner phone I gave you?”

“It’s in my car.”

“Good. Grab it and turn it on. From now on, I’ll call you on that number. Not your iPhone. Okay? Turn off your iPhone, and keep it off. They can use it to track you down.”

“Who, Grant?Who’sgoing to track me down?”

“No one. Not if you listen to me, do what I say.” In the truck’s rearview mirror, he saw the black Tahoe loom into sight. He felt a jolt, a surge of adrenaline. To Sarah, he said, “Go to Tilda’s. We’ll talk soon. You just need to get a move on. Now!” He hit the red button to end the call.

Now he wasn’t sure where he was going; he knew only that he had to escape these guys.

But he couldn’t go to the police station in town. That he knew for sure. How could he explain who he was after they’d run his name through their records? Would they take him into custody? Probably.

That was obviously out.

Behind him, the Tahoe was closer. He had to outrun them, elude them. The Tahoe was fast, faster than his truck, a five-year-old Ford F-150 Raptor he’d bought used last year. But the Raptor had almost twice the horsepower of his pursuers’ car. He’d bought it not for speed but to tow commercial fishing boats.

All this meant he wasn’t going to be able to easily outrun his enemies.

And the guys in the Tahoe were armed, he knew. He wasn’t. That was the simple, terrifying fact.

The only advantage he had was that he knew the roads around here and they didn’t.

When he came upon U.S. Route 302, a spur off NH 16, he took it, heading west.

The Tahoe, wherever it was, was far behind him.

Route 302 was a two-lane road that, at this time of the year, boasted dazzling foliage. On either side were steel guardrails. He glanced in the rearview: he seemed to have lost the black Tahoe. He allowed himself a moment of relief; he let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Every once in a while, a Tahoe would pass by, heading east, and his breath would catch. But it would not be a black Tahoe driven by a completely bald man. It would be a different color, with a different driver.

Now he knew which way he’d go. He’d take 302 toward the town of Hart’s Location, and then take Sawyer River Road, which cut through White Mountain National Forest. There was something about the woods of New Hampshire that felt protective, safe.

He glanced in the mirror again. He was so far ahead of the Tahoe by now that they wouldn’t be able to tell where he’d turned off the highway. And not being New Hampshire natives, they’d have no idea he’d drivenintothe forest. It wouldn’t occur to them.

A few thousand feet later, he saw the sign for Hart’s Location and abruptly took the left turn.

Now he was on Sawyer River Road, a narrow two-lane road that sliced through the Pemigewasset Wilderness recreation area. Tall old-growth trees lined both sides of the road. As he drove, he continued checking his rearview. No black Tahoes. As far as he could see, his was the only vehicle on the road.

Grant noticed there were no cars parked alongside the road.Odd, he thought. Hikers usually parked along this stretch of Sawyer River Road before entering the forest.

He kept going. The road twisted and degraded until it was nothing more than a wide dirt trail. And then, suddenly, he came upon a gate blocking the road. A sign on it read,ROADCLOSED.

The road had evidently washed out.

For a moment he paused, foot on the brake, trying to decide what to do next.

If he turned around and headed back to 302, he’d either run into the oncoming Tahoe or be spotted by them. And this time, they’d use their weapons.

He was trapped.

6

The sign said the road was closed, but he could easily drive around the gate and take the degraded road, for a while, anyway. He peered ahead. In the near distance, he saw downed trees and tree limbs. But that seemed like the only feasible option: driving through the woods.

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