Amish Hideout. Maggie K. Black

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       FOUR

      He heard her seat belt click. Jonathan’s truck surged backward, coming within a foot of hitting Miller before swerving sharply off the road to get around the criminals’ car. For a split second the entire scene played out before him in a glance. A howling and angry young man was down on the ground beside the car. Another bullet ripped from his gun that once again failed to meet its mark. The second young man bounded from the car and ran toward Miller, filming the scene with his phone as he did, and somehow Jonathan’s eyes managed to meet his and hold them for a split second. They were devoid of emotion. This wasn’t personal. It was just a payday for whatever criminal found her first. How was he supposed to protect Celeste against that?

      Then he threw the truck into Drive.

      “Hold on!” he shouted. “We’re about to spin!”

      He hit the gas and yanked the steering wheel hard to the right. The truck spun. Its wheels skimmed over the ice. He waited until the final moment, and tapped the breaks and yanked the wheel back. The truck righted. They sped forward, down the road as trees and the early-dawn sky flew past them in a blur of white, pale purples and grays. Gunshots faded in the distance. The sun crept over the edge of the horizon. He pulled off the scarf and hat, then glanced at Celeste. “Are you okay?”

      Her smile was weak, but she seemed to be giving it her best shot. “That was some driving. Guessing you must’ve been tearing up the streets when you were a teenager.”

      He shifted his gaze to the windshield ahead. The road spread ahead of him in an endless line of white. “Actually, I didn’t get my license until I was twenty.”

      Before then it had just been horses driving the family buggy. It was funny. As a teenager, he couldn’t wait to get behind the wheel of a car and drive. But when he had, he’d been surprised how impersonal it felt. It didn’t listen or respond. It was just a machine, like any other.

      “Speaking of vehicles, our first stop is going to be switching this truck out for another one,” he said. “I do use the other truck when I can because it drives better. But the fact Lee was recording all that makes it more important that we do. Then it’s about a five-hour drive to the new safe house, which, as I believe you know, is set in an apartment complex in the suburb of Pittsburgh. We’ll stop for breakfast in about an hour, but there are some granola bars, apples and bottles of water in the cooler behind your seat. I’ve got to call my supervisor and let her know where we’re at.”

      He reached for his earpiece, clipped it to his ear and turned on his phone. Celeste’s fingers brushed his arm.

      “Wait, aren’t we first going to talk about what happened?” she asked.

      He sat back. “I don’t know what went wrong, how those criminals found you or what they’re really after. Clearly, someone’s out to get you and trolling to rope in any criminal element they can find, from people with tactical weapons and smoke bombs, to idiots with cell phones. Hopefully, talking to my supervisor will help.”

      He dialed the number.

      “Louise Hunter.” His supervisor’s voice came on the line, crisp and clear. He had no idea how old Chief Deputy Hunter was, but both the streaks of gray in her jet-black hair and the stories she told led him to believe she was probably hovering somewhere on either side of sixty. She was the kind of woman who’d been married to the same man for forty years, had fourteen grandchildren and a career that spanned countless escaped convicts, national manhunts and hundreds of lives saved.

      Jonathan gave her a heads-up that Celeste was sitting beside him in the truck and then filled her in on Rod Cormac’s death and the ambush at the safe house. As much as he hated briefing his boss in front of the person he was assigned to protect, time was of the essence and there weren’t that many options. Then she confirmed what he’d feared—this was the first update she’d received about the situation at the safe house since he himself had called for backup before going to find Celeste. Communications were still down at the farm. He could only hope Stacy and Karl were okay.

      “Rod was a dedicated marshal,” Hunter said. “He’ll be deeply missed.” There was a pause, long enough to let him know she felt the sudden loss every bit as hard as he did. “Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to confirm anything about the situation or the safety of the other marshals on-site. But we have a team currently moving into formation. I will make sure you are updated as soon as we have more information. How is Miss Alexander doing?”

      Jonathan glanced over at Celeste. Her head was turned away from him. The morning rays caught her golden hair.

      “Miss Alexander is safe and well. She was thankfully unharmed and has come through her ordeal with remarkable resilience,” he said. Was remarkable too strong a word? Perhaps. But it was true. “She’d like to speak to you personally about the man she saw in the safe house. She said he looked like Dexter Thomes.”

      “I’d like to speak to her, as well,” said Hunter.

      He reached to turn off his earpiece, then paused. “Are we certain that Dexter Thomes is still behind bars?”

      “Last I heard,” she said. “But I will be confirming that immediately.”

      “Thank you.” He kept one hand on the steering wheel. With the other he switched off the earpiece and then he held out the phone toward his passenger. “Celeste, my supervisor, Chief Deputy Louise Hunter, would like to speak to you. I’ve switched off my earpiece, so her voice should come through the phone’s speaker now. But if not, I’m sure you know how to change that in the settings.”

      “Thank you.” Her fingers brushed his, just briefly, as he handed her the phone and he felt something like electricity rush through him.

      What was it about this woman that had this strange impact on him? Her file had been thin. Her parents had died when she’d been just nineteen, and had no siblings and no significant romantic entanglements. She’d taught herself programming in elementary school and won several computer, electronic and robotic awards in high school and university. She’d started getting a master’s degree but had to drop out for financial reasons and had made her own way as a self-employed computer programmer after having been turned СКАЧАТЬ