Thud!The truck bounced wildly. What the fuck had he hit?
“More than that if you total this thing,” Bo added.
“You name it, it’s yours,” Lucky replied, keeping most of his mind on his driving.
The Mustang slammed into whatever lay hidden in the grass. Lucky winced at the impact, and the tell-tale sound of crunching fiberglass. The engine whined, changed pitch, and whined some more.
No going forward. No going backward. Stuck.
Lucky grinned and hauled ass. “Have I ever told you how much I love this Durango?” Not to the point of giving up his Camaro, but still.
Once he put some distance between them and the Mustang, he could double back without being seen. Another half mile ought to do the trick.
He slowed and rolled down the window, the better to hear anything going on. He’d park on the dirt road, take his gun, and approach the car from behind.
Lucky found a good parking spot, killed the engine, and stepped out of the truck. He didn’t have to say a word: the other door slamming told him Bo came too.
Acrid smoke stung his lungs.
“Oh, shit!” Bo yelled, tearing off toward the Mustang.
No running with all the torture he done lately to his bad leg and other assorted body parts. Lucky climbed back into the truck and gunned the motor, following the flattened grass.
The Mustang sat immobile, smoke curling from underneath.
And that was why one shouldn’t park in an unmowed field. Hot engines could set dried grass on fire in a heartbeat.
Lucky grabbed his old .38 from under the seat and hopped out of the truck, gun at the ready. No movement. Maybe the driver ran. He paused long enough to take a picture of the tag and eased around the car. Bo caught up, barely winded, and took the other side.
More than the radio pounded.
Screaming and beating increased the closer he got.
“Help! Help me!” a man yelled, face distorted in terror and partially hidden by a hat. Flames licked up from underneath the car. A tree stump gouged into the car door.
In a few seconds the whole field would go up like a torch. Lucky eyed the truck.
No, he couldn’t leave someone to burn to death.
He yanked at the door handle. Fuck, that was hot! In one smooth motion he yanked off his T-shirt and wrapped his hand.
“Help me!” the man screamed, pounding harder. “The window’s stuck!”
The door wouldn’t budge, and the other side of the car already burned. Bo circled but shook his head and ran back to Lucky.
“Cover yourself!” Lucky shouted.
The man flinched back and Bo stopped a few paces away.
Grasping the barrel of his .38, Lucky swung with all his might. Cracks spider-webbed over the side window. He slammed his gun down again. Glass flew.
The man attempted to scramble through the window, pellets of tempered glass flying. Lucky grabbed his arm and hauled him the rest of the way out.
The man doubled over coughing. Bolting upright, he slammed a bloody fist into Lucky’s jaw.
Would take one hell of a lot more than a punch to faze Lucky. But was this moron for real?
Bo took the guy down with a flying tackle and wrestled an arm behind his back. The hat sailed into the dirt.
