“Turn here, to the right,” Nathan said. Confirming what he already knew, fresh skid marks marred the pavement where Bridgestone had made a four-wheel slide around the corner. They were now paralleling a sandy dry wash on the eastern side of the road, thick with oak trees and underbrush.

“How you doing, Nate?”

“I’m okay. Stay with him.”

Nathan glanced over his shoulder and saw Grangeland make the turn. Through the thin fog, he saw several other vehicles leaving the driveway from Pete’s Truck Palace to join the pursuit. Bring it on. The more the merrier. The cold wind rushing in the windows against his bare skin became an issue. Compounded by the blood acting like water, Nathan was losing body heat quickly. He fought back a shiver and leaned forward as much as he could to avoid the worst of the wind.

“You okay?” Harvey asked.

“Never better. Keep closing, Harv. We’ll intercept him in thirty seconds.”

“I’m on it.”

Chapter 22

Chapter  22

Ernie Bridgestone whooped in triumph when he lost sight of the headlights pursuing him. He’d lost them.

“Fuckin’ pussies,” he said aloud. “Now who’s doing the squealing?”

He was sure he’d scored at least one hit, maybe two on McBride, the big man with scars on his face. With a little luck they’d be fatal shots. Bleed out slowly, you piece of shit.

Leonard had been wrong about him getting caught after all. Sometimes he wondered if his older brother truly had the balls for this type of thing, trained Ranger or not. He’d been conveniently missing when the time came to head down here and take care of business. Ernie shook his head. He’d actually enjoyed blowing Amber to smithereens. The lousy bitch. She’d betrayed him for the last time. He’d easily spotted the two FBI agents tailing her. Besides, she had it coming for lying to him all these years. Hell, Janey was an adult, she could take of herself. He wasn’t worried about her at all. In fact, she was better off without that sleazy—

He looked in side-view mirror. “What the fu—?”

* * *

Nathan pulled his Sig and hung out the window. When Harv closed to within twenty-five yards, Nathan took aim with both hands and emptied a magazine at the fleeing pickup truck. Each shot he fired illuminated the hood of the SUV in stroboscopic flashes. He aimed low and right, hoping for a skipping shot off the asphalt into the rear tire. He didn’t want to shoot the cab because they needed Ernie alive. He couldn’t risk a lucky head shot. He had an appointment with Ernie’s fingers—an appointment he intended to keep.