Free Fall
Page 45
“Yup,” the man said, turning around and wiping his hands on already greasy jeans.
The sound of his voice knocked her back into the here and now. “What?”
“It’s your carburetor.”
“Excuse me?”
He motioned her over and she watched him point kind of randomly at her engine. “I know a fair amount about cars,” he said in a relaxed drawl. “Your carburetor’s clogged. It’s not serious, but you ain’t driving out of here.” He took a few steps back toward his truck, leaving her looking at an engine that didn’t have a carburetor, let alone a clogged one.
When she turned back toward him, she spotted a car approaching from the other direction. The man glanced up at it but didn’t seem to notice when it came to a stop about a hundred yards up the road. “Tell you what—there’s a town about twenty miles from here. I’ll run you up there.”
Quinn felt the palm of her hand sweating as she subtly began to unscrew the wing nut holding the jack to the side of the engine compartment She could hear the nervousness in her voice when she answered. “Thanks anyway, but I called Triple A from my cell phone. They’ll be here any minute.”
The man smiled and she saw his eyes twitch right to confirm that the car across the road was still there. “Well, hell, I can’t just leave you here. Why don’t we leave a note for them?”
The nut came free and Quinn wrapped her hand around the cool metal of the jack. “Really, I’ll be fine.”
“I’m afraid I have to insist,” he said, suddenly losing the drawl that had been so evident a moment before. When he reached out to grab hold of her arm, Quinn swung the jack. It caught him on the shoulder with enough force to throw him off balance and knock him back onto the road. She saw the surprise on his face as it was briefly illuminated by the truck’s headlights and heard the squealing tires as the car across the street spun around and started speeding toward them.
Quinn stood over the man, gripping the jack but not knowing what to do. He took advantage of her indecision, reaching into his jean jacket and pulling out a gun.
This time the jack hit him in the chest, a full, desperate swing with Quinn’s entire weight behind it. She could barely hear the air escape him and the clatter of the gun spinning across the asphalt over the roar of the approaching engine.
There was no time. She ducked into the open door of her car and pulled a heavy knapsack from it, then ran around the violently coughing man lying in the road to the driver’s side door of his truck. It was still running and she floored it just as the car behind came skidding to a stop. For a few moments it receded in the rearview mirror, but then it started to close fast
She felt the impact as the car’s front bumper slammed into the light back end of the pickup. Her hands were slippery with sweat, making it even more difficult than it should have been to bring the vehicle out of the dangerous fishtail that resulted. She watched in the rearview mirror as the car behind her slowed and then started to accelerate again. This time it was going to hit her hard—she’d crash for sure.
At the last possible moment she yanked back a lever on the floorboard and turned the wheel, sending the truck skidding off the road. The four-wheel-drive system engaged as she smashed through a wood fence and started bouncing wildly through a field of cut hay. The car tried to stay with her but went wide and was slowed considerably by the loose dirt.
Quinn continued to push the old truck, dodging obstacles as best she could at the speed she was going. When she looked back again, the car chasing her had stopped and she could see the brief dimming of its headlights as someone moved through their beam. She ducked her head and continued forward, finally jumping up on a dirt road and jamming the accelerator to the floor.
Quinn pushed the empty Dumpster forward a few more feet and then squeezed between it and an enormous propane tank. The truck was completely hidden from view now behind a closed gas station some fifty miles from where she’d broken down. She started to get into the cab but it felt too claustrophobic. Instead, she grabbed her knapsack and climbed into the open bed, hugging the pack to her for warmth as she pressed her back against the tailgate.
It had been planned. There was no doubt about that. Somehow they had known where she was going. They’d siphoned her tank so she would break down on the loneliest section of road between Quantico and her father’s farm, and they’d replaced her gas gauge so she wouldn’t know it.
Quinn suddenly realized she was shaking all over. Who were they? And what did they want? It had to be CODIS—what else could it be? Other than that, her life was completely ordinary. Whoever these men were, they didn’t want that subroutine to become public. What was their connection to Eric Twain? Were they protecting him for some reason? Why? What possible reason could they have?
When she’d managed to calm herself down a little, she climbed out of the truck and walked quietly to the pay phone on the back wall of the gas station. Taking a deep breath, she dialed and willed David to answer.
“Hello?” His voice was groggy.
“David!”
“Quinn? Where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to call you all goddamn week.”
“David, listen—”
“Hey, what the hell time is it?”
“David! For once, just shut up and listen.”
“Jesus. What?”
“I think I’m in trouble and I need your help.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Do you remember that place we used to jog sometimes when we first met?”
“You mean—”
“Don’t say it!”
“Quinn, what the hell’s wrong with you?”
“I think someone could be listening.”
“You think someone could be listening? What—”
“Can you meet me there? In two hours?”
She heard him rustling around, probably turning a light on. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Don’t let anyone follow you.”
“Follow me? Quinn—”
She hung up and ran back to the truck. She’d already been there too long. They’d be looking for her.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
In no particular order, I’d like to thank Darrell and Elaine Mills for their support on so many fronts. My wife Kim, who didn’t have to suffer quite as badly with this book, but whose pain was no doubt still significant
Armando Menocal, Jeff Scully, and Mike Fischer for their help with those horrible cold weather activities. Special thanks to Sam Lightner for the geography lessons, proofreading, and all the belays.
Pete Groseclose for helping me cover up my embarrassing lack of knowledge where firearms are concerned. Jeannie Barrell for yet another geography lesson.
Mike Kahoe for some unfortunate inspiration.
And finally, my friends in New York: Robert Gottlieb, Matt Bialer, John Silbersack, Caitlin Blasdell, and the rest of the gang at Harper and William Morris.
About the Author
KYLE MILLS
lives in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, where he spends his time skiing, rock climbing, and writing books. He is the author of Rising Phoenix and Storming Heaven.
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Other Books by
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
AVON BOOKS
An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
Copyright © 2000 by Kyle Mills
Excerpt from Burn Factor Copyright © 2001 by Kyle Mills
ISBN: 0-06-109802-7
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © JULY 2010 ISBN: 978-0-062-03193-8
First Avon Books paperback printing: February 2001
First HarperCollins hardcover printing: May 2000
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