No Perfect Hero(106)

“Roger,” Blake says before the radio cuts off.

I don’t take my eyes off Stewart’s truck for a nanosecond.

He goes barreling through town, swishing around a few people on their way to Brody’s and sending their cars skidding off the road, tires squealing, horns honking, people leaning out of their windows and shouting.

They recoil in even more confusion as I dart past, gripping the steering wheel so hard it hurts my hands, teeth clenched and never looking away from those glowing red taillights in the dark, drawing me on like a demon’s beckoning gaze.

I shift gears, grind down hard on the gas pedal, demand more and more speed from my Dodge, slowly closing the distance between us.

I’ve got to. Before he gets too far out of town, on the open highway, where he’ll have the advantage and that beast of his can smoke us in the dust.

In the passenger seat, Doc calmly checks the clip in his Glock. “He’ll have to slow down to turn at the edge of town where the road curves, Warren. I can try to shoot his tires out. At low speed he’s less likely to flip if one blows.”

“Too risky,” I grind out, leaning into the steering wheel hard, like I can lend my own mass to make the truck go faster. “Not with the girls.”

“Damn. You're right.” Doc's eyes narrow and he nods.

But that turn’s coming up, where Main curves around to become highway again, stretching out toward the Inn and then the main interstate. Stew has to slow down here, or he’ll tumble, and that’s my moment.

The smaller, more agile Dodge doesn’t have to drop speed for the curves, and even as Stewart takes the turn gradually, I go tearing around in his wake and drop into the left lane to come up on him from the side.

Now! I’ll shoot the fucker in the face through the driver’s side window if I have to.

Ripping up next to him, straining to keep pace as he picks up speed with those massive tires churning so tall they’re almost on a level with my head, I can see him in the driver’s seat.

He’s too calm, a tight, almost smirking grin on his lips. Past him, Tara looks bone-white and frozen and clinging to her aunt, Haley grim and silent with her mouth swollen and bruised and split.

I keep one hand on the steering wheel. The other reaches for my pistol.

But before I can draw and aim, Stew cuts a glance at me. His lip curls.

Then it happens.

He sends the monster truck whipping over to shove me like a pissed off quarterback ramming into an opposing team’s player. Pure steel bulk slams into my Dodge, hard enough to make metal screech as the trucks tangle together.

Fuck!

Blood racing, I grapple at the wheel with both hands, wrenching over onto the shoulder and out of his reach before turning back and giving as good as I got.

“Hang on!” I roar.

Doc braces his hands on the dashboard as we hit.

The Dodge may not be the size of a monster truck, but when it catches one of Stewart’s tires, the truck skews to the side, its tail jittering back and forth.

There’s a long, low ditch on the side of the road. Hell, that's it.

If I can just make him tip into it, then it’ll be like tipping a turtle on its goddamn back.

We'll stop this. We'll have him. We'll bring my girls back.

Stewart knows it too. Bastard flings me a vile look as he drags the truck back into line.

But I'm on him again, practically harrying him like a lion after an elephant, nipping at his heels and then darting away before he can use the monster truck’s huge bulk to crush me.

Faster. Faster. We tumble in tandem down the highway, churning closer to Charming Inn.

Only for Blake to come roaring out from the feeder road up ahead in his beat-up old Chevy, intersecting the highway and careening into Stewart’s path, using the entire car to block the road.

Hell, yeah. We’ve got the prick, he’s trapped, there’s nowhere for him to go –

Until he sees his chance and spins off the highway, onto the little dirt track running alongside Charming Inn.

It's the same place where me and Hay sometimes park, the place where I’ve stood under the sunlight drifting through the trees and watched lazy bees while we unloaded groceries from the trunk of her car.

The same place where I’ve walked hand in hand with her down the lane toward the cliff, quiet night memories that Stewart defiles with the vulgar roar of his truck as he goes slamming through, ripping up the dirt track in puffs of dust that blind me as I race on, following.

What the fuck? He can’t. He can’t take that road, it’s a dead end, it doesn’t go anywhere but the cliff.

Everything next happens in slow-motion.

I see movement, quick and frantic, through the rear window of the monster truck.

In the driver’s side, Stewart jerks. The truck spins, careening in a top-heavy spiral, going completely out of control and skidding sideways on its tires toward the drop-off of the Heart’s Edge cliff, digging up massive furrows in the dirt.

It hits something – a rock, a branch – and rolls.

Then goes careening right over the edge, taking my heart with it.

“Haley!” Her name explodes from my mouth as I slam the Dodge to a halt and tumble out, Doc on my heels. We race for the edge.

I’m nearly torn open, picturing the truck crushed down in the valley, Haley and Tara’s bodies broken, only for a desperate call of “Warren!” to lift my heart with fear and hope and disbelief.