Page 2

Chapter One

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Crossfire

Four days earlier in Penrose, Colorado

Wright leaned over his shoulder, peering out at the road ahead. “Shit, man. Can you even see?”

Peterson didn’t answer, intent on driving. The prison bus was a beast in the best of times, and this was definitely not that. The wiper blades were basically just moving ash back and forth, smearing it across the windshield in dark streaks. Visibility was down to a few yards, the entire sky blotted out by smoke. It wasn’t much past noon but looked like twilight, the only sign of daylight an apocryphal red sun.

It’s like driving into hell , Peterson thought, repressing a shudder.

Wright wasn’t helping. Every few minutes he’d let out a low whistle and say something stupid, like, “You sure this road is still clear?”

No, dumbass , Peterson wanted to snap. I’m not sure of anything anymore . The road had been clear when they’d left the supermax an hour earlier, but how in the hell was he supposed to know now? Cell service was down, and they were supposed to stay off the radio unless there was an emergency.

It hadn’t been like this when he drove to work that morning. The only sign of a wildfire then had been a slight tickle in the back of his throat as he belted out “Jolene,” evoking memories of camping with his dad when he was a kid. Aside from what looked like morning fog, you’d barely have known a fire was raging nearby.

Well, it sure as shit looked like it now. On this section of Route 24, you usually could see for miles, low, scrub grass–covered hills stretching into the distance. But now, all that dry brush was aflame. The wildfire was eighty acres wide and growing by the minute. The smoke to his right was tinted red, and he would’ve sworn heat was coming off it. Should I call in? Their bus had already been diverted once because I-25 was overtaken. If this road had become impassable, too, wouldn’t someone have let them know?

Peterson swore under his breath. It was the warden’s fault for waiting so long to start the evacuation. Granted, shifting more than three hundred of the nation’s most dangerous criminals to different prisons probably wasn’t easy. He’d heard rumors that Colorado State Penitentiary had flat out refused to take any, claiming they didn’t have beds to spare. Which was why he was driving these assholes to Sterling Correctional instead, nearly two hundred and fifty goddamn miles away. And at the rate they were going, they wouldn’t get there until nightfall.

Peterson really didn’t want to be dealing with these creeps after dark. He was a year into this gig and already hated it. Lifers like Wright got off on the power trips, but that wasn’t his scene. If it weren’t for the benefits, he would have left after a month; now, he was just waiting on a transfer to minimum security. At least there you were dealing with human beings. A glance in the rearview mirror showed two dozen figures in dusky orange scrubs, each shackled in a bus seat. As the last guy hired, Peterson had been assigned the worst of the worst: cartel bosses, serial killers, even a couple of goddamn terrorists. They were, to a man, eerily silent and expressionless. He wondered if that meant they were as freaked out as he was.

Either that, or they were plotting something. One of them was a notorious escape artist, and when he’d gotten the assignment, Peterson’s first thought had been, Shit. I bet we end up getting mowed down by a bunch of narcos with AR-15s.

But even they wouldn’t be crazy enough to drive through this , he thought grimly.

“Shit!” Wright cried out.

Reflexively, Peterson hit the brakes. The rear of the bus skidded as the tires fought for purchase. Wright was thrown against the wire gate separating them from the prisoners, his yelp matched by shouting from the back. There were a scary few seconds as Peterson rode the tipping point; he could feel the back of the bus wanting to cant sideways, dragging them with it. But the beast righted herself at the last moment, and he heaved a sigh of relief.

It was short lived.

“Ho-ly Christ,” Wright breathed, leaning forward.

The fire had jumped the highway, leaving Peterson staring at a solid wall of flames. It looked how he’d always pictured the Red Sea when Moses parted it, red stretching up on either side and smoke swirling in between. Tendrils started to leach into the bus despite the closed windows, and a few of the assholes in the back started coughing. One swore in Spanish, yelling for them to turn around. Within seconds the cry was taken up by the others, a cacophony of men screaming for him to head forward, or back, Just go, you bastard! , Drive, asshole! , along with a lot of choice comments about his mother.

“Peterson,” Wright said from his shoulder. “Hate to say it but they’re right, man. I think we gotta go back.”

Peterson realized he’d frozen. He shook it off and checked the side mirror. It didn’t look much better behind them, but at least that section of road was familiar. He cautiously shifted into reverse and slowly started to back up the beast. Route 24 was just two lanes, barely deserving of the title “State Highway.” He cursed under his breath; this was going to require a twenty-point turn.

He was halfway through it, the bus perpendicular to the road and straddling both lanes, when Wright shouted again. Higher pitched this time, really more of a scream.

Intent on making sure the unwieldy bus didn’t slide into the trench lining the berm, Peterson chanced a look where Wright was pointing.

A semi was coming straight at them, screaming out of the smoke at a hundred miles an hour. Through the windshield, Peterson could see two men in cowboy hats, their eyes wide and mouths open. The truck braked hard, stuttering into a skid. The back swung out as it started to jackknife, but it was too late. There wasn’t even time to pray before the semi slammed into them.