Page 50 of Canyon of Deceit

FORTY-NINE

BLANE

I never lost consciousness in the car’s harrowing triple flip.

A miracle. Instincts told me I’d fallen off another cliff.

We’d landed upside down, then the car rocked and righted us.

Rain doused the vehicle. I smelled gas. Releasing my seat belt, I pressed on the start button ending the engine’s steady hum.

Therese.

I swung her way. The left side of her face had sunk into the inflated airbag, her blue-green eyes closed. She whispered my name. Sweet lady. A trickle of blood flowed from her temple. “I’ll get you out of here.”

The odor of gas increased.

Therese lifted her head. “Where... where are the shooters?”

I looked behind us. “Long gone. They probably think we’re dead.” The gas smell permeated the air. “We need to get out of the car.”

She blinked.

“Unfasten your seat belt.”

She looked at me as though unable to comprehend my words.

I stretched over her limp body to unfasten her seat belt.

Wouldn’t budge. In my jeans pocket I carried a pocketknife.

Had it for years. I struggled to retrieve it from the pocket with my broken arm.

Finally yanking it free, I cut the seat belt binding her.

I attempted to open her door. Jammed. I shifted to open mine. Jammed. My open window gave me access to the door from the outside. It refused to budge. I squeezed with my good arm, and awkwardly jerked.

I drew my SIG from below my seat and used the grip to pound the door lock. The door released, and I blew out relief.

The gas stench rose.

Another glance at Therese showed her eyes were closed. I pulled her from under the deflated airbag and tugged her toward me. My casted arm slowed every move while time ticked, and I feared a spark would ignite the gas fumes, detonating us into the hereafter.

“Therese, wake up.” She failed to respond. I maneuvered her body over the console, adding more bruises to her body from my vigorous rescue attempt.

I backed out of the car and ignored the rain. I grasped beneath her arms to pull her out, then slid backward in the mud with her atop my chest. Now wasn’t the time to panic but to put distance between us and the car.

Car doors slammed, and two teenage boys in torn jeans towered above me. “We’re here to help,” one said.

“Thanks. Guys, this car is going to explode. We need to get clear ASAP.”

“Let’s do it,” the same teen said, a lanky youth sporting cactus-green hair.

One of them, an Asian young man, lifted Therese off me and carried her to safety, and the other, a muscular Latino boy, wrapped one arm around my waist and assisted me down the road’s shoulder. We limped several feet until the fiery explosion behind us sent us flying into a water-laden ditch.

I spit out muddy water, my hearing muffled. The three of us crawled to the top of the ditch with the other teen carrying Therese. Please, let her be all right.

“Anyone hurt?” I managed.

“We’re good,” the teen said who cradled Therese. “The lady is unconscious.”

The wails of an emergency vehicle screamed to a halt.

“Thank you,” I said and thanked God. “We’d be dead if not for your bravery.”

“No problem,” the Latino teen said near me. “We were just driving by. Glad to help. You must have had a blowout and the car flipped.”

“Something like that. Did you happen to see a pickup tailing us?”

“No, sir,” the other kid said. “Not a thing in sight.”

“What are your names?” I didn’t ever want to forget these teens.

The Latino kid pointed to himself. “I’m Gabriel and this is Michael.”

Go figure. Angels in ripped jeans and lettuce-hair.