Hawk (A Stepbrother Romance #3)(51)

Then he stops and calls out, back towards the barn. We both look at the same time and see two more come running out, toting shotguns. Tom and Eli walk around the side of the barn and stop, staring fixed into the corn.

Oh shit.

"Let's go," Hawk whispers in my ear.

He pushes through a row of corn and heads fast down the row, still bent double, and I dart along behind him. The farmers are spreading out in the corn, each taking a row, and when they don't spot us, they move to the next one. There's five now, maybe more. It's only a matter of time until they spot us.

It's only half a mile or so to the car but it feels a million miles away. At this rate we'll never make it. As I glance over my shoulder, one of the farmers steps into our row, spots us, and starts running, shouting.

"Fuck it," Hawk barks, "Run! Go!"

He stands up and pulls me along with him, running faster than I thought he even could. I keep trying to look back over my shoulder as I look forward, hoping I don't hook my foot somewhere in these ruts and break my ankle.

Hawk crashes through a crow of corn, and comes out covered in dirt and cuts. He pulls me behind him but it doesn't matter, the farmer is on us. I can see my car in the distance, parked along the edge of the road, the dull blue finish almost black at night, picking up a sheen from the stars.

Not far. I run, and behind me the report of the shotgun is like thunder. He either fired up in the air, or missed. We break into the open and the farmer sprints up onto the road and comes at us shockingly fast, then slows and brings the gun to his shoulder.

A weird noise cuts through the night still, a kind of whoop-whoop sound, like something small moving really fast, and whatever it is whips around the farmer's legs. There's a shocking crack as his knees bend funny, all out of angles, and he goes down in a heap on the road. Shouting, he grabs the shotgun and rolls over with a grunt, and then the handle of a knife appears in his shoulder, the short blade buried in the meat of his joint.

His right arm goes rigid and his fingers open, and out of nowhere a whipcord thin figure all in black runs out into the road and kicks it out of his hands. It goes flying and scrapes across the blacktop. More voices are shouting behind, and lanterns now, too. The black-clad figure turns to us.

"Get in the car and drive. That way!"

I blink, shocked to hear a woman's voice. I look at the car out of instinct, and when I turn back, she's gone, like she just melted into the dark. Hawk doesn't waste any time. He snatches the keys from my hand and I climb into the passenger's side as he starts it up, throws it in gear and floors it.

The, ah, takeoff is not very impressive. It throws me back into my seat a little as the front wheel chirps. Hopefully with the lights off, the five Amish men in the road behind us can't see our license plate or make out the type of car we're driving. Hawk glances back and sets his gaze grimly on the road.

"I knew this was a bad idea," I blurt out.

He gives me a sour look and pushes the accelerator down to the floor. We're not doing forty-five anymore, more like eighty.

Then something big and black blasts past us like we're standing still. Hawk slams the brakes as whatever it is spins out in the road, skidding sideways to a stop.

I lean forward.

It's actually hard to see in the dark. It's a car, but not like any car I've ever seen. It looks like some kind of exotic sports car, but more like a kid's idea of what one looks like than a real one. The tires are too big, too knobby, almost like they're meant for off-roading.

The body sits up a little, too high from the ground and the body panels are all flat and angular, painted a dull mat black that seems to drink up all the light instead of bounce it back. Most of the front and back end is open struts, no body work, and it doesn't have doors; as far as I can tell, the top slides open. Then it does, and the same person from before hops out and runs over to the car.

She yanks the black face mask over her head and shakes out short, sweat-slick red hair.

"Follow me," Jennifer barks. "We need to get off the road."





Hawk





Now





The… thing in front of me starts up again and starts rolling, more slowly now. I keep glancing back, expecting to see headlights, but none appear, and I let out a long, slow breath. Alexis is clutching her arm, trembling. I grab her hand and squeeze, and she looks over at me and rests her head on my shoulder.

"Are you hurt?"

"Just my arm," she sighs. "God that was close. We shouldn't have done that."

I choke the wheel with my other hand. Maybe she's right, but I can't get what I just saw out of my head. My father talking to an Amish man running a freaking meth lab in his barn. The whole thing is so damn surreal. I feel like I'm driving through a dream. Cruising down the highway following… I'm not sure it's a car. It doesn't have a license plate. It looks like some weird off-roading hybrid of a Jeep and a Lamborghini. It has a turn signal, though, and it trips and starts blinking. I slow down, wondering where we're supposed to go when I spot a dirt track.

It's slow going in Alexis' Honda. She sits up a little, but keeps her chin propped on my shoulder. The point of her chin digs into the muscle a little but I don't care, she can do that all night if she wants. I can smell her every time I breathe. The car bounces around us as I slowly work it over ruts and bumps in the dirt track, the vehicle in front of us deftly sliding over them like they're not even there.