Simon crawled away from his burning car, amazed that he was still alive. He stayed low in the shallow trench running alongside the Mexican highway. His brain was still scrambled from the wreck. He was not entirely sure why he needed to remain out of sight. Only that it was important. Vital.
He clambered over the loose rubble, dragging his canvas duffel along with him. He halted for a moment, willing strength back into his limbs and clarity into his brain. As he gasped for breath, Simon glanced back. His beloved car, his last remaining connection to the life he had once assumed was his to claim, lay on the passenger side in a ditch. The Mustang’s tires were all blown out and shredded. The sun descended behind the rim of the western hills and cast the scene in deep shadows, as though ashamed over what had been done to him.
He gripped the duffel and lifted his head a fraction of an inch above the trench’s lip. On the other side of the road, a man stood waiting for a break in the traffic. The man whistled a cheery tune as he watched the road.
Simon realized he had seen the man before, smirking as Simon had driven away from the border post. Which meant that, unless Simon was very fast and very lucky, he was going to die.
His best hope was to make it to the maquiladora, the industrial zone. The first buildings were less than a mile away. Even as bruised and shaken as he was, he could do that easily. But not with the pack.
The pack contained far more than eleven months of research. The apparatus and the diagrams were his last hope of returning to the university as a physicist. It was his lone chance at the star he had always assumed would one day be his. Saving him from a lifetime of bars and empty chatter and the easy downward slide to oblivion.
He had to find somewhere to hide it.
The duffel bag was too heavy for him to carry very fast. The apparatus it contained had to weigh forty pounds, and there were another ten pounds of graphs and diagrams and spreadsheets and pages from his proposal. But he could at least balance himself better.
Simon fit one arm and then the other through the duffel’s two canvas straps, then slung the bag across his back. He took a hard breath, willing himself forward. When a pair of lumbering trucks hid him from sight, Simon slithered over the trench’s opposite ledge. Then he launched himself up and away.
The bag struck his back with every step. A sharp edge poked his neck. He assumed it was the control panel. Simon would be badly bruised when this was over. If he survived.
The ground was so rough and the light so dim, Simon found the second ditch by falling into it. He was desperate not to roll and damage the apparatus further. He crouched and skidded his way down the side. And at its bottom, he found the hiding place.
A cracked and pitted concrete pipe ran along the culvert’s base. A jagged hole gaped five feet down from where he landed, just large enough to take the duffel. Simon lay on the filthy pipe and shoved the bag up as far as he could manage, getting it well out of sight. Unless they came looking with a flashlight. Unless they guessed he had hidden it here.
He scrambled up the other side and headed into the desert. He was tempted to try for the highway. But the hunter still had his SUV, and there was too much risk of Simon being caught in the open. So he aimed for the fence surrounding the industrial zone.
Simon glanced back and saw the bearded stranger loping toward him. Then the man barked. Like a lone coyote on the scent of prey. A sharp sound, hard and merciless as the terrain.
Simon ran faster still.