I glanced in the mirrors, checking the traffic. “I hope you’re right.”
“Other people swear by their honesty.”
“Okay.”
An older model pickup changed lanes, passing other vehicles while speeding up. I eyed it in my left hand mirror, expecting it to pass. It surged forward, giving me a better view of its front end. Its grill had been smashed in, its right headlight gone. A chill raced down my spine.
“Heads up,” I said, my tone grim. “We may have trouble.”
Brody turned in his seat. “Shit. Silver Ford truck. I think we found our hit and run driver.”
The Ford sped up, coming abreast of us. The driver turned her head to the right, staring straight at us. At me.
Then Bethany lifted the gun.
Chapter Eighteen
Brody
“Hang on,” Lindsey screamed, and spun the wheel.
She hit the brakes and spun the wheel, careening the Ford around a corner, the rear tires smoking. I grabbed the upper handle to brace myself, trying to watch the silver truck over my shoulder. It vanished from my sight, yet my gut told me Bethany Byrd wasn’t done with us yet.
“Were you a NASCAR driver in a past life?” I inquired as Lindsey sped the sedan down a lightly traveled side street.
“I must have been,” she answered, blowing out a gust of breath. “How else could I have pulled that off?”
“Slow down, we don’t want to attract attention.”
She slowed, then stopped at a stop sign, both of us looking for the silver truck amid the vehicles that passed in front of us. “I don’t –” I began.
“There she is,” Lindsey snapped, her face turned to the left. “Hang on.”
“What are you –”
I got no further as Lindsey floored the gas pedal. Tires screeching in protest, the sedan’s rear end swinging sideways, she plunged us straight into the cross traffic. Horns blared, cars skidded, as the drivers fought to avoid collisions. I caught a rapid glimpse of the silver truck, unable to either halt without being rear ended, or turn to chase us, continuing straight on.
The sedan, not a scratch on its shiny red paint, left the chaos behind and entered the sedate quiet of the street beyond. Lindsey slowed, shooting me a grim glance. When I gathered a little spit into my mouth, I gasped, “You’re insane. You gotta be.”
“We were perfect sitting targets,” she growled, stopping at the next stop sign. “Would you rather be dead?”
“Um.”
“I didn’t think so. I bet you any money she’s turning around to head us off.”
At the next break in traffic, she turned the sedan left, and accelerated to match the flow. We both watched for Bethany’s next try, eyeing the mirrors, every intersection we crossed. I breathed a little easier when no silver pickup showed up to ram us or follow behind.
“She must have been tagging along since we left your house,” I commented.
Lindsey half-shrugged, half-nodded. “I can’t say that I was watching for someone following. But wouldn’t I have seen her in the neighborhood?”
“Not if she was smart and held back,” I replied. “This thing is colored like a neon light.”
“I guess it is.”
“So what now?”
“Evasive maneuvers.”
