Before I get on I-30, I find an eighteen-wheeler parked at a nearby truck stop and duct tape my phone that Keegan is probably tracking to the undercarriage. Now he’ll think I’m going wherever that truck is heading.
I follow the GPS on my burner phone to Lake Ron Hubbard, then Google the dock where Casey told me to meet her and follow the directions. As I cross a spillway bridge, I see Casey’s car just a few vehicles ahead of me. Relief floods through me. They haven’t gotten to her yet.
I pass the person in front of me. Now there’s nothing but a gray van between us. I turn off my GPS since I don’t need route guidance from here.
Suddenly the van in front of me swerves into the passing lane and accelerates quickly, drawing even with Casey and sideswiping her car. She jerks toward the bridge rail, then rights herself. The van moves over again, scraping her good, sparks flying as metal grates metal. They’re trying to push her over, and they just might succeed—she’s up against the rail with nowhere to go.
I lay on my horn and stomp my accelerator, ramming the van’s bumper. Casey slams on her brakes and the van turns sideways. Cars screech to a stop behind me. I back up and go around the van, getting between them and Casey’s car.
Who are they? Keegan and Rollins were in Keegan’s red sports car, not a gray van. They must have others in Dallas helping them.
I turn my car sideways on the bridge to prevent them from reaching her, but the van turns around, then screeches back the way we came across the bridge and out of sight.
Cars are coming, so I move my car in front of Casey’s and back up toward her, my emergency lights blinking. Someone will call the police soon if they haven’t already. I get out and run back to her car, try to open the door. “Casey!”
Her door’s bent and she can’t get out. I run around to the passenger side and get it open. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” she says, but I’m not sure she is.
“Get out,” I say. “Can you climb across?”
She hands me her bag and I take it. It’s heavy, and something clunks inside. I slide the strap over my head, then help her climb out. Her shoulder must be hurting. She’s holding her arm close to her body, and she’s limping. I help her to my car and get her in, then I run around to my side. My car is still running, so I shift it into drive and go.
I get off the bridge and mix into the traffic as I hear sirens.
“They almost killed me, just like they did him,” she says.
“Brent?”
“No!” she cries. “That was . . . the Trendalls. I went by their house to see if their car was dented . . . and they saw me and followed . . .”
I want to go after them, but more than that I want to get Casey to safety. “Do you need a hospital?”
“No. I’m fine. Just . . . don’t go to the dock. Don’t go anywhere I’ve been before. Just go . . . somewhere else.”
She’s breathing hard. There’s blood on her temple, and a knot forming there. She’s still holding her arm carefully.
“I got the computers and papers,” she says. “They didn’t get anything back at the motel. But how did they know I was there?”
“I think they were tracking my phone, so I got rid of it.”
I drive, not sure where to go. I probably should pull over and check my car. I can tell one of my headlights is broken, and the front end is dented. But the car seems like the safest place for Casey right now, so I drive into the darkest part of the night until I’m sure no one is behind us.