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?

Peter slipped into the line of trees, scanning the night for the silhouette of a pickup, but the bright lights on the big machine were messing with his night vision. He could see enough, however, to know that the Cat’s operator was an artist, swinging the bucket with the grace and precision of an Olympic figure skater, leaving in his wake a long, straight trench with a clean, flat bottom and crisp sides. Part of some kind of drainage system, Peter assumed, designed to dry a chronically wet field.

He worked his way behind the moving excavator, hopped the trench when the cab was turned away, then jogged toward a blocky silhouette maybe forty yards away. It was a big dump truck parked on the packed dirt access road with a long, low trailer behind it.

There was no other vehicle. But the Cat’s operator had done Peter the favor of parking the ten-wheeler facing the road. Peter had never driven a dump truck before. How hard could it be?

He made a wide circle to come up on the far side of the vehicle. He felt pretty good about his chances of finding the keys in the ignition or on the seat. The excavator was facing his direction, so he’d have to move fast once he opened the door and the interior lights came on. Better unhitch the trailer first.

He was curious about the tarp-wrapped rectangle mounted to the tongue, but he didn’t have time to investigate. A fuel tank for the excavator, maybe, or some rarely used attachment.

As he wrestled with the trailer’s mud-crusted drop-leg jack, he heard the excavator’s engine drop down to idle. The work lights, which shifted shadows with every twitch and pivot of the cab, went still. He still couldn’t get the damn jack leg free. Looked like he was taking the trailer, too. He abandoned the jack and hustled toward the driver’s side.

He had his foot on the step and his fingers on the door handle when something slammed into his lower leg and yanked him away from the truck, the door flying open as he fell.

“Ow, shit.” Peter tried to stay upright on one foot while a forty-pound whirlwind growled like a chain saw, adjusted its bite to a firmer grip on his pant leg, and thrashed him like a cheap chew toy with a squeaker inside. “C’mon, really?”

As Peter pogoed across the dirt, trying to figure a way out of this mess that didn’t involve putting his butt on the ground and his face within reach of those teeth, he heard the distinct double-click of a round being chambered in an automatic pistol.

“Son, what the heck do you think you’re doin’?”

19