Chapter Sixteen

Five minutes later Sam accelerated onto the frontage road that led to the Coot Lake Inn, his tires churning through deep snow. The clouds had opened up again, the predicted second snowfall already starting. Pretty soon the roads were going to be impassible. That meant any backup he might need would be slow to arrive.

Assuming it arrived at all.

He reached over and flipped open the glove compartment, taking out his police radio and keying the mike one-handed.

Nothing.

Sam tried a couple of frequencies before giving up and shoving the radio back into the glove compartment.

He took out his cell phone and tossed it on May’s lap beside Otter. “Call the police station. Tell Doc we might have a situation.”

He switched on the wipers, watching grimly as they merely smeared the snow around the windshield. The snow was thawing and then immediately freezing to the glass, creating an opaque film nearly impossible to see through.

Beside him, May lowered his phone and stared at it.

“May?” He didn’t take his eyes from the road. “What’s going on?”

“You don’t have a signal.” She was already rummaging in the pockets of her black coat. She took out her phone and fiddled with it a moment before looking up. “I don’t, either. Both phones are out.”

Well, shit.

There was a blue lump in the snow on the right side of the highway. A pickup, facing them. Someone had skidded all the way across the highway and into the bank.

As they passed he saw that the front windshield was completely gone.

“That’s Dyadya’s truck!” May swiveled to look back just as he had the same realization.

Sam braked hard, then put the Silverado into reverse. He threw an arm across May’s seat back and stomped on the accelerator, reversing fast until they were parallel to the wreck.

Someone was struggling out of the passenger-side door. The driver’s side was embedded in the snow bank.

There were bullet holes in the grill of the truck.

Sam glanced up and down the frontage road. Empty. He reached for the Beretta under his front seat. “Stay here.”

But May had already shoved Otter onto the floor and was out the other door.

“Damn it, May.” It made his nerves crackle, her out in the open. Sam held the Beretta nose down by his thigh as he got out.

“You must help us!” Ilya was scrambling from the wreck, his eyes wild, glass shards in his hair.

“Where’s my uncle?” May demanded, fierce and low.

“I am here, Masha, mine.” George appeared at the passenger-side door, bright red blood trailing down the right side of his face.

Sam slogged through the snow to him and took George’s arm with his free hand. The blood appeared to be from a small cut at George’s hairline. “You okay?”

“Yes, yes.”

Sam steadied him as George maneuvered down the bank. “What happened?”

George glanced at the Beretta and then gave him a heavy-lidded look. Sam knew immediately he wasn’t going to hear the whole truth—or maybe even any of it. “We have run into old friends. We had a… disagreement.”

Sam looked up in time to see a black SUV rounding the curve a half mile away. It roared as the driver accelerated.

Not good.

“They have automatic weapons!” Ilya babbled, wading through the snow to Sam’s pickup. “We must go! He’s insane, this is well known.”

“Who’s insane?” Sam demanded as he hustled the two men to his truck. “In the truck, May.”

Neither man replied, although Ilya whimpered.

Down the road the SUV skidded and rammed into the packed snow by the side of the highway. The engine suddenly stilled.

“We need the suitcases,” George said, as Sam pushed him into the back of the Silverado.

“No time,” Sam muttered, eyeing the stalled SUV. He needed to get May out of here.

But George stopped dead in his tracks. “The suitcases.” He jerked his chin at Ilya who, even in his panicked state, turned and hustled back to the old man’s truck.

Sam stared at George. “What’s in those suitcases that’s worth more than your life—and May’s?”

A gleam of amusement lit in the older man’s eyes. “Nothing is worth more than my Masha’s life, Officer West, I assure you. But if one wants to bargain with the Devil, it is best to sit down at his table with his favorite vodka.”

Sam watched as Ilya struggled with the two black suitcases. What was in them? What was the “vodka”?

And who the hell was the Devil?

Down the road, the SUV revved its engine.

Well, fuck.

Sam pushed George into the back of his truck. Ilya came panting up with the suitcases. Sam grabbed the suitcases and tossed them in the Silverado. “Get in.”

His pickup was facing the SUV, which was spinning its wheels. Sam climbed in the truck, sticking the Beretta securely between his legs before putting the Silverado into drive and making a U-turn.

He stomped the accelerator, peeling out.

Or trying to.

The snow was flying nearly horizontally now, hitting the windshield and crusting. Even with the wind it was accumulating. The truck bumped over something, skidded, and for a god-awful moment looked like it would go directly into the ditch. Adrenaline spiked along his veins, sharp and acid. Then the wheels caught and Sam began feeding the accelerator more cautiously. He heard a shot and looked in the rearview mirror.

The black SUV was climbing his ass.

He swerved into the oncoming left lane and tapped the brake, letting the SUV shoot past before accelerating again.

“What’re you doing?” May demanded, hanging on to the grip over her door. Her face was chalk white. On the floorboards near her feet, Otter crouched, panting heavily.

He didn’t bother replying. Just steadily applied the gas, his grip firm on the wheel. Ahead, the SUV’s driver had gotten angry. The driver slammed on the brakes, fishtailing before straightening. Sam pulled up beside him, still in the left lane, and immediately tapped the brake.

Just as the SUV made a violent swerve into them. The Silverado was a fraction too slow. The back bumper of the SUV clipped his right front headlight.

Sam swerved. Corrected. Steadied. Kept on the road.

The SUV wasn’t so fortunate. It went into a spin, skidding 180 degrees around until it was actually facing them.

Still sliding backward down the road.

The driver’s eyes were wide through his windshield, his grip on the steering wheel straight-armed and clenched.

Sam showed his teeth at the asshole and picked up May’s left hand, placing it on the steering wheel. “Take the wheel, sweetheart.”

“What—?”

He took his gun, rolled down the window, and leaned out. The wind bit into his cheeks, snapped against his eyes.

“Sam!”

The Silverado jerked to the right.

Sam grabbed the door. “Keep her steady, May. It’s important.” He inhaled, and re-aimed, squinting against the icy snow.

Gripping the Beretta with both hands he emptied the clip into the front of the black SUV.

Immediately, he ducked back inside, grabbed the wheel from May, and began applying pressure to the brake.

Up ahead the SUV jumped as if goosed and flipped, rolling over in midair before disappearing into the ditch. There was a muffled whump.

Sam slowed and then, with the road clear, picked up speed again. As they drove past there was movement in the SUV.

“Jesus,” May whispered, turning back around, white-faced and wide-eyed. Otter crawled into her lap, leaning against her chest and drooling in anxiety. She petted him absently.

Sam’s fingers trembled ever so slightly on the steering wheel. Adrenaline letdown.

“That,” George said from the backseat, “was very good driving. And shooting.”

Sam glanced in the rearview and saw the old man watching him steadily.

For a moment he held the older man’s eyes. There’d been three SUVs, according to Jim. George—and, by extension, May—wasn’t out of danger yet.

He needed to find a safe house.

And then he meant to find out what the fuck was going on.