Criss Cross

Chapter 85

I bolted from the thicket and went down the steep grade, one eye on Nolan, who was closing fast on the SUV, and the other on the three men still watching the machines working. They seemed oblivious to what was happening behind them.

As I sprinted to the men, I happened to glance through the open passenger window of one of their pickups and saw keys on the dash.

Nolan was already inside his car. I felt like I had no choice.

Less than fifteen seconds later, I threw the Chevy in gear, hit the gas, and spun the wheel, throwing dirt and gravel toward the three men, who had finally turned and were running at me.

I didn’t care. Nolan had already left the construction site.

I accelerated across the clearing, bumping over ruts, just as lightning flashed overhead. The skies opened and it began to pour buckets.

If you’ve never driven in a mid-Atlantic spring deluge of three or even four inches an hour, I can tell you it’s a disorienting event. So much rain falls so fast that your wipers can’t possibly keep pace with it, and you’re forced to slow to a crawl.

It was a good thing I slowed because when John Sampson suddenly jumped out in front of me from behind a debris pile, I was able to slam on the brakes and skid to a stop.

He jumped in. “Go!”

I smashed the gas pedal and we slid in the greasy mud but then found gravel and I was able to keep the truck fishtailing toward that dirt road leading out.

“How the hell did you get in front of me?” I asked, peering through the downpour.

“Road goes around the swamp.” He gasped, chest heaving for air. “Saw the clearing from it and came in from the side just in time to see Nolan getting into that SUV and you running for the truck, looking like the swamp thing.”

I had no time to reply or laugh because we’d made the road, which narrowed and offered little improvement over the raw ground behind us. We bounced and slid and almost went off it twice.

“He can’t outrun a truck in this muck,” I said. “My mike’s dead. Call Bree. Tell her what’s happening.”

“Chief Stone,” Sampson called.

“Right here,” Bree called back.

“Suspect is in a black BMW SUV, leaving a construction site on a new—”

“There he is!” I shouted.

We’d come around a curve in the road, and the BMW was sliding all over the place. I was barely keeping us on the road but I sped up. Or tried to.

Neither of us was wearing a seat belt, and we hit one rut so hard our heads smacked into the ceiling of the cab. I let up on the gas, trying to orient myself, and I realized that Nolan had slowed, not stopped, just before we were hit by a spray of mud and gravel slurry thrown by his spinning back wheels. Even with the rain pouring down, it coated our windshield in reddish brown.

I couldn’t see a thing and slammed on the brakes.

“He’s high-centered!” Sampson bellowed. He threw open his door and shot out, only to slip and sprawl sideways in the mucky road.

I was already exiting the other side of the truck, arm up to shield my face and head from the hail of mud and gravel, which suddenly stopped. The SUV’s door flew open, and Nolan jumped out.

I started to go for my weapon, but even through the driving rain, I could see he was unarmed as he took off toward the paved road. I tried to sprint after him, but almost immediately my right foot submerged in the mud up to my calf and I went to my hands and knees.

I fought my way back to my feet, losing my right shoe when I pulled my leg free, but I was buoyed by the fact that Nolan had fallen into a low spot in the road filled with mud that looked like pudding. He’d gone in face-first and was wallowing around, trying to find his footing, while I took a wider stance and made short chopping strides toward him.

I came around the front of the vehicle. Nolan was up and staggering. Sampson was abreast of me and also charging Nolan.

It felt like old times. John and I had played high-school football together, both defensive ends. Each of us knew what the other was going to do without either of us saying it.

My feet found the far edge of the bog, and I drove off it, hurling my head and shoulders low toward the back of Nolan’s legs. Sampson aimed high.

We hit the Kyle Craig lookalike at the same time and slammed the dirtbag down so hard he made something of a man-shaped crater on impact. And his flimsy knapsack tore open, revealing stacks of hundred-dollar bills inside.