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 looked at him, blinking. “I don’t know the address. There’s no mailbox. It’s at the dead end of a dirt road, right on the river. Set deep in the trees. Look for the crosses.”

That wasn’t much. Peter opened his door and raised his hands through the gap. The driver was still shouting, but Peter ignored him. “What direction and how far?”

“East, maybe twenty miles? Right across the county line.”

“Okay.” Peter took a deep breath, preparing himself. His mouth tasted of copper. Adrenaline burned in his blood like gasoline. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Wait.” The tendons stood out on the backs of her hands as she ripped the doubled hem from her skirt in a continuous ring. She lifted her feet to free the fabric, wrapped it into a small, tight bundle, and held it out to him. “Take this. For safekeeping.”

He had new questions now, but they’d have to wait. The driver stepped closer. Peter was out of time. He took the bundle and thumbed it into his front pocket, then swung his legs out and got his boots planted. He kept his eyes on the driver, but in his peripheral vision, he saw the girl’s hands at the neck of her dress, tearing it open.

Then he launched himself out of the truck. Two long fast strides, and he dove headlong off the edge of the bluff.

Chased by the dull booms of shotguns, firing.

9

In the air, Peter’s racing mind hoped for three things.

One, that he’d leaped far enough, and the bluff was steep enough, for him to make it all the way to the water.

Two, that the river had risen high enough and carved a channel deep enough to prevent him from breaking his neck on the bottom.

And three, that the road dust had limited the other men’s vision as much as his own, or at least enough to keep them from filling him with buckshot while still on the fly. If they were duck hunters, he was fucked.

He’d never jumped from that height before, and had timed his dive badly for the distance. As gravity pulled him down to the churning river, his legs toppled forward, his feet overtaking his head. He heard two more thudding shotgun blasts—BOOM BOOM. Still somehow unpunctured, he had time to close his eyes and take one last breath before he hit.