Page 5

5

Grant pulled the truck back onto the narrow, barely two-lane country road, taking care not to accelerate too loudly so the Russians wouldn’t hear him passing.

He headed for Route 16, a north-south state highway running from New Hampshire’s seacoast to the White Mountains. He chose north for no reason other than because the farther north you went, the more small or unmarked roads there were, and the easier it was to lose someone.

As he drove, he hit Sarah’s number on his phone. It rang five times before she answered.

“What’s up?” she said abruptly. She knew that if he called her at school, it would have to be something important.

“Where are you?” Grant asked.

“At school. Classes are over. I’m using the photocopier. Everything okay?”

“Don’t go home,” he said. He needed to project a tone of calm, suppress the fear in his voice. He had to keep her on board, get her to do what he asked, to understand the urgency. “I want you to call your aunt Tilda and ask if you can visit her for a while. Okay? Don’t go home. Everything you need you can get later. Just do not go home, you hear me? Or to my house.” Her apartment was on the second floor of a wooden triple-decker a few blocks from the Starlite Diner.

“What? Why —?” Her voice sounded frantic.

“Remember I told you one day I might have to leave suddenly? Well, this is that day. You—”

“If you don’t tell me why—” She sounded panicked now.

He interrupted her, speaking as calmly as he could. “Some bad people are after me, and I don’t want them going after you. If you go home, they’re going to take you hostage, or worse.”

“ Hostage? What are you talking about?”

“Sarah, these are—I know this is freaking you out, but I just need you to trust me.”

“Grant—”

“I know you have a bunch of questions, but this isn’t the time.” He found himself short of breath.

“Grant, you’re scaring the hell out of me!”

“Here’s what I need you to do—”

She started talking, but he cut her off. He wondered if she could hear the fear in his voice. He tried to sound firm, composed, resolved: “ Listen to me, okay? Do you have the burner phone I gave you?”

“It’s in my car.”

“Good. Grab it and turn it on. From now on, I’ll call you on that number. Not your iPhone. Okay? Turn off your iPhone, and keep it off. They can use it to track you down.”

“ Who , Grant? Who’s going to track me down?”

“No one. Not if you listen to me, do what I say.” In the truck’s rearview mirror, he saw the black Tahoe loom into sight. He felt a jolt, a surge of adrenaline. To Sarah, he said, “Go to Tilda’s. We’ll talk soon. You just need to get a move on. Now!” He hit the red button to end the call.

Now he wasn’t sure where he was going; he knew only that he had to escape these guys.

But he couldn’t go to the police station in town. That he knew for sure. How could he explain who he was after they’d run his name through their records? Would they take him into custody? Probably.

That was obviously out.

Behind him, the Tahoe was closer. He had to outrun them, elude them. The Tahoe was fast, faster than his truck, a five-year-old Ford F-150 Raptor he’d bought used last year. But the Raptor had almost twice the horsepower of his pursuers’ car. He’d bought it not for speed but to tow commercial fishing boats.

All this meant he wasn’t going to be able to easily outrun his enemies.

And the guys in the Tahoe were armed, he knew. He wasn’t. That was the simple, terrifying fact.

The only advantage he had was that he knew the roads around here and they didn’t.

When he came upon U.S. Route 302, a spur off NH 16, he took it, heading west.

The Tahoe, wherever it was, was far behind him.

Route 302 was a two-lane road that, at this time of the year, boasted dazzling foliage. On either side were steel guardrails. He glanced in the rearview: he seemed to have lost the black Tahoe. He allowed himself a moment of relief; he let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Every once in a while, a Tahoe would pass by, heading east, and his breath would catch. But it would not be a black Tahoe driven by a completely bald man. It would be a different color, with a different driver.

Now he knew which way he’d go. He’d take 302 toward the town of Hart’s Location, and then take Sawyer River Road, which cut through White Mountain National Forest. There was something about the woods of New Hampshire that felt protective, safe.

He glanced in the mirror again. He was so far ahead of the Tahoe by now that they wouldn’t be able to tell where he’d turned off the highway. And not being New Hampshire natives, they’d have no idea he’d driven into the forest. It wouldn’t occur to them.

A few thousand feet later, he saw the sign for Hart’s Location and abruptly took the left turn.

Now he was on Sawyer River Road, a narrow two-lane road that sliced through the Pemigewasset Wilderness recreation area. Tall old-growth trees lined both sides of the road. As he drove, he continued checking his rearview. No black Tahoes. As far as he could see, his was the only vehicle on the road.

Grant noticed there were no cars parked alongside the road. Odd , he thought. Hikers usually parked along this stretch of Sawyer River Road before entering the forest.

He kept going. The road twisted and degraded until it was nothing more than a wide dirt trail. And then, suddenly, he came upon a gate blocking the road. A sign on it read, ROAD CLOSED .

The road had evidently washed out.

For a moment he paused, foot on the brake, trying to decide what to do next.

If he turned around and headed back to 302, he’d either run into the oncoming Tahoe or be spotted by them. And this time, they’d use their weapons.

He was trapped.