Laurel resisted the impulse to follow him and offer to buy him dinner. “You’re losing it,” she muttered, pulling out of the parking lot. “Now you’re talking to yourself. You know, madness and genius are flip sides of the same coin.”
Enough of that. The ground metaphorically shifted beneath her when she thought about Huck Rivers. When was the last time she’d had her hormonal levels calculated? She was pushing thirty, so perhaps the biological clock legend had some truth to it. Her mother most likely had a tea for that.
The windshield wipers rhythmically scraped falling snow off the window, and the heat poured through the vents, making her drowsy. She blinked several times to keep awake. The night was dark, the trees silent, and the world wintery.
She drove for several miles outside of town toward her mother’s house, rethinking the events of the day. Had Pastor John known of Lisa’s possible pregnancy? A burst of wind tossed ice and snow across the window and she slowed down, turning up the speed of the wipers. Then she continued around a curve, careful of the ice.
A sharpcrackblew open the back window. Ice flew inside and she ducked, instinctively slowing down.
Another crack echoed, and a projectile glanced off the top of the vehicle. That was a shotgun! She hit the gas pedal and looked frantically around, trying to find the threat.
Fast and ominous, a tall truck roared out from between two trees, fishtailing on the road behind her. Even from a distance, she could see the darker shade of chains secured to the overlarge tires. The driver partially leaned out, pointing a handgun at her car, the snow falling and lightening his black sweatshirt.
She swerved around another curve just as bullets pinged along the right rear side of the SUV.
Gasping, she fumbled for the phone in her laptop bag and pressed the button. “Dial 9-1-1,” she yelled, speeding up but swerving across the ice. She overcorrected and managed to bounce off the opposite snowbank and into the middle of the road.
“9-1-1, what is your emergency?” a calm female voice asked.
“This is FBI Special Agent Laurel Snow, and I’m on Birch Tree Road being pursued. Shots fired and agent under duress,” she yelled.
The truck burst forward in a rush of speed and smashed into the rear of her SUV.
She fell forward and the vehicle spun in a wild circle. The phone clattered onto the floor. She regained control and punched the gas, driving down the middle of the deserted road, her ears ringing. There was no way she could outrun the truck. She caught sight of another curve up ahead and pressed the gas pedal even harder, wincing as the SUV jumped and then started to slide.
She hit the curve and let gravity take over, spinning the vehicle into the trees. The passenger side hit with the crunch of metal on bark. Her seatbelt jerked her back, stealing her breath, just as the airbag blew into her face. Pain flared along her forehead and dust flew up her nose.
Silence reigned.
Gasping, crying, she yanked her weapon out of her waistband and jumped out of the vehicle, falling in the snow. Panting, she managed to slog through the freezing drifts to the nearest tree just as the truck skidded to a stop.
She dropped to her knees, aimed, and fired.
* * *
Huck went ice cold when the call came over the radio. He dialed into the office. “Play me the 9-1-1 call,” he ordered, spinning the truck around in his driveway and listening. He’d turned off Birch Tree Road to get to his place, and Laurel should’ve continued on it to reach her mother’s house on the other side of the forested land. The operator played the tape for him, and his gut hurt.
He pressed the pedal and careened down his road before turning onto Birch, fishtailing until he regained control. Two other officers and an ambulance were also on the way to the scene, if there was a scene, but he was several precious minutes ahead of them all.
Why had he let her go home alone? He should’ve at least driven her.
Then he shook his head. He hadn’t been on a date with her. Not in a million years would he have driven Monty, or another colleague, home. Damn it. He slammed his fist on the steering wheel, and Aeneas looked up from his bed in the back seat. “You might need to work tonight, buddy,” he said. What if Laurel had been shot? Or run off the road? Or, God forbid, taken?
He went even faster, much too fast for the icy conditions. In fact, he had to use all of his strength to keep control of the vehicle.
Aeneas barked from the back seat.
“I’ve got it,” Huck said tersely. He slid around another curve and nearly passed the half-buried SUV off to the side of the road in the trees. Instead, he stopped and jumped out of the truck, pulling his weapon free of its holster. “Laurel?” he bellowed, opening the back door and letting Aeneas have his head. “Find her, boy. Search.” Then he edged around the back of the truck. He could only see one vehicle, and her call had mentioned a truck following her, so where was that truck? “Laurel?”
Aeneas barked and bounded through the snow toward the SUV. He reached the front door and barked three times before sitting. The front door opened, and Laurel staggered out, covered in snow, her gun in her hand. Blood covered the right side of her face.
The relief that shook Huck nearly dropped him to the ground. Seeing her alert with Aeneas guarding her, Huck immediately scouted the entire area, gun out, looking for the threat.
“I think they drove off,” Laurel said, sounding dazed.
Huck waded through the deep drifts to reach her, the snow reaching his thighs. “Are you hurt?” He reached out and secured her weapon since her hand was shaking.
“No.” The woman looked dazed.
