Page 80 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name

Too slow.

The sky lit up like it was caught in the flash of a giant camera. In the boom of thunder that followed, no one heard the crack of the gunshot, not even the man who fired it.

The trooper fell back, hit square in the chest.

Roach hit the accelerator, water spraying out from under his tires.

The only way back was forward.

TWENTY-FOUR

Rain popped loudlyagainst the roof of the car. The wind had picked up, too. Ryan could feel it buffeting the car. He had to drive at a crawl, his eyes glued to the white line, just to avoid driving off the side of the road. Visibility must have been ten feet at most. Beyond that was guesswork.

He calculated in his head how much further it was to their destination. The Louisiana line couldn’t be far off. He guessed it was sixty-odd miles to New Orleans. Given that they were averaging twenty miles an hour right now, that was still hours of driving ahead. And they were heading straight into the storm.

They would never make it. He should’ve reversed course twenty miles back, when the trooper had flagged them down.

He could feel Meek’s eyes on him as he drove. He realized he was still gripping the steering wheel tightly, that his back and shoulders were stiff. Forcing himself to relax, he glanced at her in the rearview.

The rain got even heavier, filling the car with a roar so loud it made it impossible to think straight.

Suddenly, he felt the car lift as they hit a patch of surface flooding. He de-accelerated to avoid hydroplaning, but the car had already lost traction. It slid across the pavement with a wet hiss. He corrected the spin and let the car come to a complete stop.

Meeks was shouting something from the backseat. He kept his eyes straight ahead, his focus on the short stretch of road he could still make out.

There was a movement over his right shoulder. She was climbing between the seats. “Ma’am, you really can’t?—”

Too late. She had angled herself over the center console and neatly into the passenger seat. “I said,” she yelled, “should we be driving in this?”

Unless you’d prefer swimming, he thought. He knew they shouldn’t be driving in this. Less than two feet of water could float a vehicle. Only one foot if it was flowing fast. And if even a tablespoon got into the electrics, this car was going nowhere fast. With them in it.

She said, “Shouldn’t we find somewhere to shelter in place?” Her voice was raised against the sounds of the storm. “There was a turnoff a few miles back.”

He looked around. They were on a stretch of interstate in the middle of nowhere. The view ahead and behind was an opaque curtain of rain. The slash pines that lined the road shook, like they possessed no more rigidity than blades of grass.

“We’re not turning around, ma’am,” he shouted back.

“Why not?”

“Because,” he yelled, “we’re being followed.”

* * *

Jessica stared at him. “Are you sure?”

The marshal nodded. “Definitely since the truck stop. Possibly since Panama City.”

“And you’re only just telling me this now?”

He didn’t respond, just restarted the car and put it back into gear.

She turned in the seat, craning to get a look out the back window. There was nothing out there but water. There was nothing anywhere but water.

“I’m sure,” he said, taking his foot off the brake and edging forward. “It’s a nineties silver sedan.”

She faced him again, recalling the silver sedan at the truck stop. “A Cadillac.”

His eyes connected with hers for the first time since they’d met. The glance was brief, and he broke it off almost immediately. But in it, she saw the same knowledge that must have been showing on her face.