Page 36 of I'll Be There
“My guess is that if we get our hands on Honda, we’ll get some answers,” Pete said. “I promise.”
Tough guy Pete. Conner glanced at Micah, who was also hiding a grin.
“Brakes!” Conner slammed his hand on the dash as the truck’s taillights lit up.
Two miles from the border.
“Hold on!” Micah said, and also hit the brakes. The Honda barely slowed as it cut off the highway onto 593, the Canadian border road.
“Apparently, he’s onto our grand plan,” Micah said, working the wheel, the tires screeching as he brought the truck around, onto the road. Reuben and Pete slammed against skinny Romeo in the back. He grunted, pushed them away.
“Time for us to get serious,” Conner said. “Pull up next to him.” He opened his glove compartment and pulled out his own conceal and carry Glock 26.
“Seriously? You had that when we crossed the border?” Micah said. “We could have been arrested.”
Conner glanced at him. “Plausible deniability?”
“I’m going to plausibly denyyouwhen we get back.”
More of a gravel road than a highway, the road kicked up dust as the Honda zagged down it.
Micah was fighting to keep the truck steady on the slick gravel. Conner leaned out the window, aimed for the tires. Squeezed off a shot.
Missed.
The truck jostled him into the window and he grunted.
“Give it to me,” Reuben said from behind him. He rolled down his window.
Conner came back in and Reuben grabbed the gun. “Trust me.” Then he leaned out the window, took a breath, and squeezed the trigger.
The back tire popped, and the Honda fishtailed.
“Nice shot,” Conner said.
Shooter righted the truck and ground the tire down to the rim.
“Determined little bugger,” Micah growled.
“Not so little. The guy kicked the tar out of me,” Conner said.
Reuben leaned out the window again. “Steady, Micah,” he said in his low baritone.
He squeezed off another shot.
The tire exploded, and without the sway of the other wheel, the fishtail action launched the Honda. The truck flipped, over and over, landed hard in the ditch, and rolled into the scrubby pine, wheels up.
Oh. Now he really wanted to swear. Conner stiff-armed the dash as Micah hit the brakes.
The stink of gasoline and burned rubber soured the air as they piled out. Romeo made it there first, was kneeling by the driver’s window. “Bad news.”
Pete came around the front. “Ouch—”
No, no—Conner shoved Romeo out of the way, landed on all fours.
Apparently Shooter hadn’t been wearing his belt, had made it halfway out of the windshield.
Conner turned his face away, his gorge rising.
