BooksBarbecue
Back We Were Killers Once
Chapters (65)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty–one
  25. Twenty–two
  26. Twenty–three
  27. Twenty–four
  28. Twenty–five
  29. Twenty–six
  30. Twenty–seven
  31. Twenty–eight
  32. Twenty–nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty–one
  35. Thirty–two
  36. Thirty–three
  37. Thirty–four
  38. Thirty–five
  39. Thirty–six
  40. Thirty–seven
  41. Thirty–eight
  42. Thirty–nine
  43. Forty
  44. Forty–one
  45. Forty–two
  46. Forty–three
  47. Forty–four
  48. Forty–five
  49. Forty–six
  50. Forty–seven
  51. Forty–eight
  52. Forty–nine
  53. Fifty
  54. Fifty–one
  55. Fifty–two
  56. Fifty–three
  57. Fifty–four
  58. Fifty–five
  59. Fifty–six
  60. Fifty–seven
  61. Author’s Note
  62. Acknowledgments
  63. Also by Becky Masterman
  64. About the Author
  65. Newsletter Sign-up

At least I got past that jerk without either of us plunging into a bomb-like explosion. I yelled an obscenity at the top of my lungs as I sped by him. His windows were closed and for all I knew he had his iPhone plugged into his head, so I feel fairly sure he wouldn’t have heard what I called him.

Funny how as I look back I talk about speeding, but I couldn’t have been going more than forty, forty-two miles an hour. It’s all relative, and nearly impossible to take a 380-degree switchback turn while going that fast. After I got back in the proper lane I had the sense that the grade was easing now, maybe just five percent, and that would mean that the drop was only a few hundred feet. But three hundred feet would kill me just as dead as a thousand feet, and I wasn’t slowing down on my own.

One curve, two curves, three. I was operating on sheer instinct now. Like an animal with a driver’s license.

And then just as suddenly as I had begun the terrifying descent, I was free of the mountain, escaping from its curves as from the tentacles of a giant octopus that had finally let me go. My brights showed that nice long straightaway, and now that I was safe I let my hands shake a bit on the steering wheel and my lungs take in all the air they wanted. At least I still had my lungs. About midway down the road I coasted to a stop.

And stayed, shivering as frantically as an overcaffeinated Chihuahua.

Having continued on its way as a sane person who stayed within the speed limit would, after five minutes the car that had been behind me pulled up beside me. Time had gone by, but anger had not subsided. The passenger window rolled down, the other driver fumbled at something and cursed. Then a flashlight, not that strong but enough to blind me after the dark, and a man’s voice yelled in something like a British accent, “Don’t you realize this is neither the time nor place for joyriding? You could have killed both of us!” Maybe he was responding to my red sports car as much as his own adrenaline, but I really wasn’t in the mood just now for road rage, whatever the excuse.

My window was still down and I managed to say without shouting, “My brakes failed, you fucking nimrod. And turn off that fucking flashlight, motherfucker.”