Cindi Myers - Saved By The Sheriff

“These are the two boxes he wants to start with.” Brenda pointed to two white file boxes, their tops crisscrossed with red and white tape. “All the files for Hake Development.”

“I was surprised when my mom told me Mr. Hake still hasn’t done anything with that property,” Lacy said. “I remember he had big plans for a bunch of luxury homes—even a golf course.”

“An environmental group successfully got an injunction to delay construction,” Brenda said. “I’m not sure what’s going on with it now. Maybe Henry Hake changed his mind.”

“Maybe.” Lacy picked up one box, while Brenda carried the other to the car. Boxes safely in the back seat, Brenda locked up again and the two friends set out once more.

“They haven’t done much to fix this road,” Lacy said as they bumped over a series of ruts on the gravel track that led away from the storage units.

“I guess with no one living out this way, it’s not a priority,” Brenda said.

“Right.” Lacy looked over her shoulder to make sure the file boxes hadn’t slid off the seat, and was surprised to see a pickup truck following them. “If no one lives out here, I wonder who that is?” she asked.

Brenda glanced in the rearview mirror. “I don’t recognize the truck,” she said.

“Maybe it’s a tourist,” Lacy said. “He could be looking for somewhere to hike. Or maybe it’s someone else with a storage unit.”

“It looks like a ranch truck, with that brush guard on the front.” The heavy pipe, gate-like structure attached to the front bumper would protect the headlights and grill from being damaged by brush when a rancher drove through the fields.

“I didn’t see any other vehicles there,” Lacy said. “And we didn’t pass anyone on our way out here.”

“Whoever he is, he’s driving way too fast for this road,” Brenda said.

Lacy glanced over her shoulder again. The truck was gaining on them, a great plume of dust rising up in its wake. “He’s going to have to slow down,” she said. “Or run us off the road.”

Even as she spoke, the truck zoomed up, its front bumper almost touching the rear bumper of Brenda’s car. The lone occupant wore a ball cap pulled low on his forehead, a black bandanna tied over his mouth and nose.

“What does he think he’s doing?” Brenda’s voice rose in alarm. The car lurched as she tapped the brakes and Lacy grabbed on to the door for support. The screech of metal on metal filled the vehicle, which jolted again as the bumpers connected.

Brenda cursed, and struggled to hold on to the wheel. Lacy wrenched around to stare at the driver once more, but she could make out nothing of his face. He backed off and she sagged back into her seat once more.

“He’s crazy,” Brenda said. The car sped up, bumping along the rough road. “As soon as I can, I’m going to pull over and let him pa—”

She never finished the sentence, as the truck slammed into them once again, sending them skidding off the road and rolling down the embankment.

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