“Someone’s in there. I saw a face.”
I have maybe thirty seconds before they look out the back.
I can’t hotwire it. Too much noise. The engine will wake the dead.
I look at the ignition.
The keys are in it.
Shit. Hate that I missed it. Means I’m distracted, and that’s never good. As for the truck, it makes sense—rural Virginia. Nobody steals a rust bucket.
Except us.
“Cassie,” I hiss. “In. Now.”
She sprints. Low crouch. Fast.
She dives into the passenger seat. “They saw me. The curtain moved.”
“Hold on.”
I turn the key.
The engine groans. Chug … Chug …
“Come on,” I mutter. “Turn over.”
Chug … Chug...
The back door of the trailer flies open.
A man steps out. Overalls. No shirt.
And a shotgun.
“Hey!” he yells. “Get the hell out of my truck!”
He raises the shotgun.
“Down!” I shove Cassie’s head toward the dash.
BOOM.
Buckshot peppers the side of the truck bed. Ping-ping-ping.
“Go!” Cassie screams.
I stomp the gas.
The engine catches. Roars. A cloud of black smoke erupts from the tailpipe.
I throw it into reverse. The tires spin in the mud, then grip. We shoot backward, fishtailing.
The man pumps the shotgun. Clack-clack.
“He’s reloading!” Cassie shouts.
I slam it into drive. The transmission screams. We lurch forward, tearing up the grass.
