The Summer House

Chapter 23

In the last few seconds of our chase I try to focus on Connie’s superb driving skills as we force the Dodge Charger into a dead-end lane, but my mind is racing back to last year, and the voices come to me:

Move, move, move.

Faster.

We’re taking fire.

Connie slams on the brakes.

The Ford skids.

Then a loud bone-shattering thud and metal scraping and screaming and—

Not there.

Here.

We’ve hit a metal pole set across the dirt road, and my chest hurts from slamming against the shoulder harness. My cane is on the floor, but my hand is still holding my SIG Sauer.

Dust clouds settle in front of us. The hood of the sedan is scraped and dented, the heavy white metal pole just a few inches away from the windshield. Any faster or lower, the pole would have shattered the windshield and taken off our respective heads.

I hold the SIG Sauer with both hands so Connie can’t see the shaking. But my left leg, still quietly howling in pain, starts a series of tremors.

“You all right, Connie?”

“Sir... yes. Sorry, are you okay?”

Fire, I think. Slight chance, but what if that collision tore something in the fuel line and there’s a spark? We’re trapped here and Connie can easily get out, but—

I take a breath. “Can you back us out?”

She shifts the car into reverse, backs us out, metal groaning and moaning. The headlights pick up a large dip in the road, explaining why the taillights from the speeding car ahead of us had seemingly disappeared.

Trees and brush are close by, and I see the bent metal pole, set across the dirt lane. At one end is a chain lock, and on the other side is a large bolt mechanism, allowing it to be raised and lowered at will.

I take another breath, squeeze my hands tighter around the comforting grip of the pistol. “This is how it happened,” I say. “One of the guys in the Charger calls a friend. ‘We’re being chased.’ The friend says, ‘Go down this road, get a bit of a lead, and I’ll take care of it.’ The Charger races past the open gate, their friend drops the gate, almost in time to take our heads off. Just like in the ’stan. Villagers and the Taliban, out there keeping watch, talking on cell phones, ready to hit us when they’re good and ready.”

Connie rubs her face with both hands. “Seems like a good explanation, sir.”

My heart rate is calming down. I look around at the darkness about us, imagine men hidden there, watching us, considering us, armed and waiting.

At least we’re not on fire.

“Ask you a question, Connie?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Your first marriage. To George. Why did it end?”

She says not a word, which I expected.