Tribal Law. Jenna Kernan

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      “And what happens if we turn around, find Gabe and tell him everything?”

      “Gabe arrests me and probably you. Escalanti tells his people down across the border that we can’t deliver the product and they send killers to our home. Plus Raggar won’t get the delivery and he’ll be after us, too.”

      Selena had had this pressed-to-the-wall feeling since her father returned home this morning. It felt as if someone was kneeling on her chest.

      “Where are we going, exactly?”

      Her father directed her to Sammy Leekela’s junkyard off Route 60, just shy of the border of their sovereign land.

      Sammy Leekela had a part for everything stockpiled on his four-acre lot that was ringed by rusting fencing to keep out the scavengers of the animal and human variety.

      “Here? They’re cooking meth here?” she asked.

      “Perfect place. Off the beaten path but close to Route 60. Lots of land. Fenced. Nothing to kill with the fumes.”

      “I thought it was a mobile meth lab,” she said.

      She paused at the rusty gate. Usually, if she needed a part, she went to the office. But today the gate receded the instant she pulled into the drive. Because they were expected.

      She shivered with dread. Right now her father had broken parole and she had helped him. But if she continued, she’d be a drug trafficker, just like her father.

      If she didn’t, they’d kill her family.

      “Let’s go,” he said.

      She touched the gas and they lurched forward. Her father shot her an impatient look as they rolled in. Sammy gave them a friendly wave and closed the gate, then retreated to his office. Her father directed her to a series of abandoned tractor trailer beds. Some were rusty and dented. But now she noticed one that had an unusual addition—a stovepipe. The trailer in question sat tucked between several others, further hiding it from detection. The only other clue was the number of footprints and tire tracks in the snow. That trailer was getting a lot of foot traffic.

      She couldn’t believe it.

      “I bought our used flatbed here. I still owe Sammy almost nine thousand dollars,” said Selena, her indignation rising.

      “You want me to ask for a discount?” asked her father.

      “No. I do not. I want to go home.”

      “And we will, right after we drive to Phoenix and back.”

      “That’s six hours, you know?”

      Frasco shrugged. “I brought sandwiches.”

      As her father had warned, Department of Corrections officer Matt Dryer was there to meet them. He was the only one they saw. He left the center trailer carrying a blue plastic tub in two hands.

      “That’s it?” asked Selena. “You don’t need a truck for that.”

      “First run. Only a few hundred thousand.”

      “Dollars?” she squeaked looking at the innocuous plastic storage tub.

      Selena wondered how many years in prison that would translate to. Her father had enlisted Selena to make the runs because it was too dangerous for him to be out of the house so much and because she refused to involve Mia in this.

      “You know there’s no end to it,” Selena said. “Once we start, they won’t let us quit.”

      “Hush up now,” said her father and climbed out to greet the crooked DOC officer. He wasn’t even supposed to be on the reservation without an escort. No federal official was. Gabe had taught her that.

      “You all set?” asked Dryer.

      Frasco grabbed one side of the tub and the two disappeared from sight. Selena heard the truck doors open, close and lock. The drugs were now in her truck. She thought she might throw up.

      Her father climbed in and moved to the center seat to make room for her new copilot. How much was Dryer getting to mix them up in this?

      She thought of her siblings and put the truck in gear. They pulled out and had not gone a quarter mile when some idiot roared out of a blind drive right in front of them.

      Selena’s heart rate doubled as she hit the brakes and narrowly missed broadsiding the other vehicle. The original color of the pickup before her was impossible to determine, as it had been rebuilt entirely of salvage, making it look like the Frankenstein of trucks.

      Her initial blast of adrenaline receded, to be replaced by a prickling warning as her brain reengaged, signaling her that this was not coincidence. That truck had cut her off on purpose.

      Their passenger must have reached the same conclusion because he shouted.

      “Reverse it,” yelled Dryer and pulled a pistol from beneath his coat.

      She reached for the gearshift as she gaped at this new threat and saw that the driver of the pickup was wearing a mask so that he looked like a man with a dark goatee, glasses and a black rubber hat.

      The masked man was out of his truck. He pressed the rifle stock to his shoulder and aimed the business end at Dryer.

      Selena had the truck in Reverse and moved her foot to the gas, but a second truck blocked her escape, pulling up fast and skidding to a halt at an angle behind her.

      “Out!” yelled the masked gunman now advancing past his pickup to her right front fender and pointing his rifle at Dryer as he advanced.

      Dryer threw open the door and used it as a brace to take aim with a pistol. Their attacker and Dryer both fired their weapons. Her passenger’s side window exploded and Dryer dropped to the ground in a shower of shattered glass. Selena glanced to the side mirrors and saw a second gunman approaching from the rear along her side of the truck as the masked gunman continued forward at a trot toward the place where Dryer had disappeared.

      Her father lifted his hands in surrender.

      “Out!” ordered the masked gunman, who now stood beside the open passenger door. Selena stared at the face that was not masked. She didn’t know which was more frightening, his rifle, aimed at her or the fact that he did not try to hide his identity. She had seen him before but did not know him.

      A glance across the wide seat showed that Dryer was nowhere in sight.

      Frasco slid across the seat and dropped to the ground as the masked attacker retreated a step. Selena heard the crunch of glass as she followed her father, sliding away from the unmasked attacker, across the warm vinyl and out into the cold air.

      Dryer lay in a heap amid the shards of glass, looking as if he was just sleeping. Where was the blood?

      “Move away from the truck,” the masked man said.

      Something about his voice sounded familiar. She looked at his hands as they gripped the rifle, brown finger ready on the trigger. His skin was the same color СКАЧАТЬ