Amish Country Amnesia. Meghan Carver

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       ONE

      Jedediah Miller jerked to the left on the snowmobile, barely skittering it around a stand of barren trees and praying for a fork in the trail up ahead. His hands slipped inside his gloves, and he hitched up his grip on the handlebars. Those two men were following too closely for safety or common courtesy.

      On the other side of the trees, his two pursuers edged closer. Jed’s heart thumped stronger under his snowmobile suit, and he leaned into the machine, urging it to go faster. A small hill quickly approached, and he flew over it, the skis losing contact with the ground for a moment. As he crashed back down, adrenaline beat through him, his pulse speeding to the thrum of the snowmobile.

      The rev of the snowmobiles behind him pushed him on, to a speed that he was sure was not intended for the trail. A speed he wasn’t sure he could manage much longer. These guys drove like professionals, but he was only a casual snowmobiler, saving it for his time off. Trees zipped past him on both sides, and he would have admired the quiet stillness, the hushed beauty of a winter in northern Indiana, the gentle snow-covered hills and the barren trees reaching for every bit of sunshine possible in the muted sky, if not for the two jackals behind him and their mad race.

      A crack pierced through his concentration, and by instinct, he ducked down on the seat.

      They were shooting at him now.

      Bark flew off a tree as he whizzed past, a few bits bouncing off his windshield. Apparently, these two weren’t good shots, at least when they were going at an outrageous speed on snowmobiles. Judging from the closeness of that tree trunk, though, Jed was sure they could hit their mark when they were at a standstill. Determination to survive drove him on.

      He ventured a quick look behind him. Was it Jimmy the Bruise on one of the snowmobiles? СКАЧАТЬ