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"Here we go," Jericho said, nodding to Tom Fiddler's Chevy Colorado.
"How did you get a truck all the way out here?"
"I was just the passenger. The truck belonged to a man named Tom Fiddler. He was looking for his grandson. The kid ran away from home. Old Tom thought he may have been killed by the Wendigo."
Nashida opened the passenger side door and shielded his eyes from the overhead light. "Stop talking about that bullshit."
"Hey, man. I'm just telling you what he said. Man was worried about his grandson."
Nashida turned to the dark forest.
"What?" Jericho asked.
"I saw a body out there. It was probably a kid, teenager maybe. Looked like he was—"
"Eaten?"
Nashida went quiet, like he was trying to process the situation. It was hard to be skeptical when you keep getting the supernatural thrown in your face.
"Get in the truck. Don't try anything funny."
"Don't worry. I will."
Jericho stepped into the same passenger seat he rode in a few hours earlier. With his hands bound behind his back, it was a lot more uncomfortable this time. Before Nashida shut his door, Ethan Jericho caught a whiff of a familiar stench.
"Aren't you gonna buckle me up?" Jericho asked. "Safety first, right?"
Nashida shook his head, figuring it was a way to distract him, but obliged anyway. He threw the backpack behind the seat and reached over Jericho's large chest to fasten the seatbelt. While he backed out of the passenger door, Nashida noticed Jericho had the silver knife once again strapped to his thigh. He took the knife back, opened the glovebox, and threw it in. Nashida slammed the glovebox shut and side-eyed Jericho. He closed the door and jumped into the front seat, placing the shotgun on the center console between them. He turned the keys, still in the ignition. Guess Tom wasn't worried about someone stealing the thing. The engine roared, and loud music filled the cabin.
You gotta know when—
Nashida smiled for the first time in days. "Hey, Kenny Rogers!"
"Oh God, you too?"
Jericho was even more uncomfortable as the Colorado moved through the woods, trying to find a trail. Nashida had no idea where he was heading. Jericho really didn't either, but he'd let the FBI's best and brightest figure this out on his own.
It didn't mean Jericho had to stop playing cat and mouse with him, though. "What happened to your partner?"
"You know what happened."
"I don't, but I could take a guess. I saw what that thing did to Tom Fiddler. I bet it pulled the same number on your friend. I had a chance to stop it, but someone keeps trying to stop me from killing monsters. Just like last time."
"Shut your goddamn mouth," Nashida said. "The only monster around here is the piece of shit sitting in this truck."
"You should be nicer to yourself. You work hard. It's not your fault you're an idiot."
Nashida turned his head, a bad idea when off-roading. He wanted to scream at the shackled assassin. Instead, he just cranked up the volume, and the radio did the yelling for him.
"Jesus Christ! This is torture! You sure you ain't with the CIA?" Jericho shouted over the mellow voice of The Gambler.
The assassin chuckled. It was important to project strength in these situations, but he had no idea how to get away this time. Nashida didn't need to know that, though. If he kept needling him, the chances of the agent making a mistake were pretty good.
"Here we go!" Nashida tried to shout over the music.
The woods finally opened up to the road. A little less than the five miles Jericho thought. Nashida checked the compass and turned left on Alberta Highway 58. Jericho had to admit, it was nice to see a real road again. After an hour or so, they'd be in High Level. It should be enough time for Jericho to figure out a plan.
"They're gonna give you the chair, you know!" Nashida yelled over the song.
Jericho looked to his left and saw newfound confidence on the agent's face. He guessed seeing the first sign of civilization made this frog a little jumpy.
"They don't give anyone the chair anymore! I'll get a lethal injection after a few appeals! I'll live free on taxpayer dollars for at least another twenty years!"
"Dream on!"
"Shit, that's if they convict me! I don't recall your dumbass reading me my rights! Guess I'm getting off!"
"What?!"
Jericho peered over at the speedometer. Nashida was driving 90 miles an hour, way too fast for the icy conditions.
"You heard me! You didn't read me my rights! Any of the three times you tried to arrest me! I'm gonna be a free man, chilling on South Beach!"
Nashida turned away from the road. "You have the right to remain silent! Anything you say can—"
"What? I can't hear you over this hillbilly shit!"
"I said, anything you say can and will—"
"Fuck!"
Nashida turned back to the road and screamed. Rules of the road say that when you see deer in the middle of a dark highway, you're just supposed to hit it. Trying to stop and swerve at those speeds can cause the vehicle to lose control and flip. Neither Jericho nor Nashida had any idea if those rules changed when you switched a deer out for a two-thousand-pound bison.