The Easy Way Out

40

She put off comfort stops for as long as she could. Bathroom breaks meant leaving the car unattended, a car with almost four hundred thousand dollars in small bills in the trunk. As night fell, when she saw a sign for an upcoming rest stop she was on the brink of an emergency situation. Rachel hastily parked the car and zipped into the public bathroom. She finished her business, washed her hands, then jogged out to the parking lot.

Facing her vehicle, a pickup truck idled, its headlights illuminating her car. She squinted into the glare, able to make out only silhouettes and the Confederate flag license plate affixed to the bumper. She hopped behind the wheel and backed her car out of its space. As she drifted toward the exit, the pickup followed. Whoever they were, they sure as hell weren't going to take her hard-earned money.

Experience had proven that exceeding the speed limit meant cops but Rachel had a bad feeling, a very bad feeling about the guys in that truck. She stomped the accelerator, jetting down the dark highway. When she checked the rearview mirror, she watched the pickup streaking up the passing lane then swinging in behind her.

She saw an exit up ahead and at the last minute, she swerved onto the ramp. The pickup hurtled the hill, nearly rolled, regained its footing, and followed. She drove into a small, rural community, eyes on the rearview mirror as she cruised through a one-stoplight town. The truck trailed not far behind.

She unzipped her satchel on the passenger seat, located the Glock, then pulled into a gas station, concealed in the shadows, away from the overhead light washing the gas pumps. She watched as the truck slowed, feeling the adrenaline flooding her bloodstream. She squinted to identify the passengers but the window's glare made it impossible as the pickup crawled past.

Before bullets punched through her windshield, Rachel hit the gas, wheeled her car out of the gas station, roaring in the opposite direction. In her mirror, she watched the backup lights glow on the truck as the driver began to turn around.

She spun through a sharp left turn down a sleepy residential street, then screeched into a parking space against the curb. With her gun in hand, she raced across the road, crouching under the cover of shadows. Moments later, her pursuers rounded the bend. As the truck rumbled past, she heard two male voices. She took slow, even breaths, going still and watching.

The vehicle turned around at the end of the street and made a second pass from the opposite direction. The truck braked abruptly when the passenger hollered, "Whoa! There she is."

A silhouette jumped down from the cab and crept across the street to her car. While the driver watched his partner circling her vehicle, Rachel stepped out of the charcoal shadows to the driver's window, pointing her Glock at the back of his head.

"What're you lookin' for?" she growled.

He jumped, startled. When he saw the gun, he wilted and raised his hands.

"You're driving down the highway a hundred miles an hour at night wearing sunglasses?" His cavalier actions infuriated her. She took a half step closer.

He ripped the sunglasses off his face. "I'm just, I'm just..." he stuttered, his breath reeking of beer. If he was of legal age, it wasn't by much.

Unaware of the situation, his buddy opened the passenger door. "She's gone off some--" He broke off his sentence halfway into the cab and automatically raised his hands.

"Who the fuck are you and why are you following me?" she snarled.

"Just a couple of good ol' boys," the passenger said innocently, his face going chalky. "Out honky-tonkin'."

She watched their expressions and their trembling hands. "I got an idea the kind of honky-tonkin' you had in mind for me."

"No, ma'am." They shook their heads in unison, two scared boys with smooth cheeks and wide eyes, the very embodiment of non-threatening.