Shirlee McCoy - Gone

He floored it anyway, racing toward the entrance ramp to the state highway.

The car was still gaining on them.

“Get down,” he said, speeding around a curve, the exit ramp just ahead. Headlights streamed into the Chevy, their pursuers edging closer. He thought they might slam into the bumper, try to force him off the road. Instead, someone leaned out the window and fired a shot. He felt the quick tug of a blown tire, fought to keep the truck under control as he flew onto the ramp, rubber burning, the Chevy still shimmying.

He didn’t ease up on the accelerator.

He couldn’t risk having the other vehicle pull up beside him. A hundred yards ahead, an emergency turnaround split the wide median between the north and southbound lanes of the highway. He didn’t brake, just spun onto the road, bounced across the median and sped in the opposite direction.

The other driver missed the turn, his brake lights flashing as he tried to stop. It would take a few minutes for him to recover and backtrack. Unlike the rural route they’d been on, the state highway wasn’t empty. Several big rigs zoomed past and a few RVs meandered along. The other driver wouldn’t want to call attention to himself. By the time he found a place to turn without being noticed, Sam would be off the highway, the crippled Chevy hidden from view.

That was the plan.

Of course, he’d learned a long time ago that the best-laid plans didn’t always work out. His relationship with Shelly was a prime example. He’d had it all figured out—how long they’d date, how long they’d be engaged, how big the wedding would be. She’d been in complete agreement. Until she’d met someone else and walked away.

He couldn’t say he’d been devastated. Shelly had been smart and driven, energetic and funny. She was everything he’d thought he’d wanted in a life partner. She’d worked as an ER nurse at a hospital in Houston, and they’d met while he was having a knife wound stitched up. People had said they were the perfect couple, but she’d wanted a lot more than he ever had. More rooms in the house they’d buy one day. More expensive cars. More clothes, shoes and jewelry. After spending nine years in his father’s home, all Sam had ever really wanted was peace.

The Chevy thumped along the highway, the thudding flat making speed impossible. He needed to get off the road, and he needed to do it before the other vehicle caught up. He took the next exit ramp, thumping off the highway and onto a more rural road.

He had to find a safe place to pull off, and then he needed to make a call. Not to the local or state police. He had no idea if there were Organization operatives working for either. He’d call Wren. She could put a team together and be in the area in a few hours. That would push the odds of survival in his favor.

All he had to do was make sure he and Ella survived until then.

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