BooksBarbecue
Back The Runaway
Chapters (80)
  1. Cover
  2. TITLES BY NICK PETRIE
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. 67
  72. 68
  73. 69
  74. 70
  75. 71
  76. 72
  77. 73
  78. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  79. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  80. What’s next onyour reading list?

She shook her head, mouth grim. She gave Peter’s 1968 Chevy a critical glance. “How fast can this thing go?”

He smiled. “Fast enough. I’ve made a few modifications.” The dust boiled into the air, garishly lit by the afternoon sun. A mile or two away, he figured. “What are you running from?”

Her face had gone pale. “Trust me, you don’t want to find out.” She shifted from foot to foot, hands out of her pockets and balled into fists. “Are you taking me or not? Because we need to go right now. Otherwise you best just leave me behind and get yourself out of here.”

“I’ll take you.” As she ran around the front of the truck, Peter climbed behind the wheel and turned the key. The big V8 came to life without complaint or hesitation. He felt its power thrum through the heavy reinforced frame and rise up through the shifter that vibrated under the palm of his right hand.

By then she was in and reaching for her seat belt. He eased out the clutch and made a gentle turn without throwing gravel or raising dust.

“I’m Peter,” he said. “What’s your name?”

She shook her head and stared out the windshield. “Just drive. Please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Peter put the hammer down.

6

The narrow sloping track angled up the bluff, a rough mix of washboard, mud holes, and weed-tufted humps. At thirty miles an hour, Peter palmed the wheel with his left hand as he jockeyed the shifter between second and third, fighting the hill as well as the road. In the mahogany cargo box behind him, tools clattered and banged on their shelves.

Midway up, he shot a quick glance at the girl. She sat easily on the cloth-covered seat, feet spread wide for stability, reminding Peter of a veteran Afghan field commander on his favorite horse. She caught him looking and pointedly reached out the open window to adjust the side mirror so she could see behind them.

Peter didn’t need to look in his rearview to know the dust cloud was getting closer.

The road was a little better at the top. When he hit forty, the truck bucked like a rodeo bull and his teeth clacked together hard enough to make him wish for a boxer’s mouth guard. The girl had her feet braced against the floor now, one arm cradling her enormous belly and the other hand tight on the oh-shit handle. “This isn’t going to do it,” she called over the rumble and rattle. “You might as well let me out here.”

“I don’t want you to go into labor.” Peter had combat medical training and too much experience using it, but that didn’t include delivering babies, especially not on the bench seat of his pickup in the middle of this ocean of grass.

“Don’t you worry about me,” she said. “I’m tougher than I look.”