Page 85 of Canyon of Deceit

The roar of the truck’s engine burst in my ears. I shoved the urge to scream back down my throat. The truck jammed into my bumper. Then harder.

I jerked and fought to keep the car on the road. A bullet whizzed by my left shoulder. I pressed the gas pedal to the floorboard. Chaos surrounded me.

Blane whirled and fired. I heard two shots. Had the shooter in the truck fired again?

The truck bumped me again. I had no idea how fast we were going, when I couldn’t take my eyes off the road. Didn’t matter. I intended for us to survive.

A loud crack like a massive vibration rocked the car and pulled it sharply to the right. A bullet had hit the right rear tire, causing it to thud against the pavement.

“Ease off the gas. Don’t brake.” Blane’s loud voice still had the calm tone I’d come to respect. “Hold on tight. You can do this.”

But that’s where his calm voice fell flat against the truck slamming into the rear of the car again. The world outside the car blurred.

Bullets whistled past my head into the windshield. The car veered more to the right, skidding on the wet pavement, then hitting loose stones on the shoulder. Jolting. Bouncing. An unseen enemy picked up the car and flipped it three times.

My screams echoed around me as the car danced on the verge of devastation.

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. Istruggled 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.