“He gunned it. Wasn’t sure if I should wait for you or go after,” he says.
Catfish throws the tailgate down. “Let’s not worry about that now. Let’s just get the truck loaded.”
We do, arms a blur, while we scan every vehicle that pulls into the lot and every person who walks anywhere near us. But nothing comes of any of it.
“Leave the carts,” Catfish says, and it’s a weird thing to think about, how leaving them in the lot is impolite.
We jump into the truck and Catfish has us moving before I even had time to fasten my seat belt. “You need to fasten your seat belt too,” I say.
Catfish glances at me, then does as I ask.
It’s not until we pull out of the lot and take the snow-packed turn headed west that Catfish starts looking out of his rearview mirror.
“What is it?” I ask, straining to look over my shoulder.
“That blacked-out truck.” He looks ahead down the road and then speeds up.
“Fuck, they’re gonna…shit!” Catfish slams the steering wheel. “They just took the prospects’ truck out. Forced it into a spin.”
“You think they’re coming for us?” I ask, which is a ridiculous question when all the evidence points to yes.
I yank on my seat belt to create some space and take out my phone.
“What the hell are you doing?” Catfish asks.
“Trying to get the license if I can see it. We need to let it get closer.”
“He’s half a block behind us. Any closer he’ll be pushing us off the road.”
The Silverado speeds up, tires fishtailing on the icy road. “He doesn’t have the tire grip you do,” I say suddenly. “Lure him in so I can get the license, then gun it.”
“Can’t do it on Main Street. We’ll end up killing someone or riding into one of the buildings. Gimme a minute to get out of town a little.”
They follow us through the town, past the industrial building and onto the rural road that cuts through the tree line. There’s snow banked on the shoulders, tall drifts that haven’t been plowed. Only compressed by the occasional passing car.
This isn’t the path we took; this isn’t the path to the clubhouse.
I wonder if it’s the road to the ranch house. Some back road, maybe.
Catfish lets the gap close, and I can just make out the license plate. I record it as a voice note, then try to get a photograph, but the beam of the Silverado’s lights blurs it.
“Got it,” I yell. “Go.”
And Catfish floors the truck, leaving the Silverado in the dirt…well, snow. As it tries to keep pace, it fishtails and ends up nose first in a large snowbank.
13
CATFISH
Wren rubs their palms up and down the legs of their jeans, and I take my hand off the wheel for a moment to place it over one of theirs. “We’re okay,” I say. “There are no headlights following us. When it tried to gun the engine to follow us, its rear spun out a little.”
“Why didn’t we stop, attack it? You’re armed, right?”
That was my first thought, until I did the math. I had no idea how many people were in that Silverado. And as much as I wanted to slam the brake, let the fuckers ride straight into the back of my truck, and then jump out to put a bullet through their heads, the idea that there might have been more of them than there were of me was too big a risk.
Protect Wren.
That was our mandate.
