Page 42 of Red Rooster

Red pulled her feet down off the dash and sat up straight beside him. “What is it?”

“Transmission.” He pressed the gas pedal to more revving, and yet more slowing.

The truck cruised to a halt on the shoulder and then just sat there, idling. Useless.

Rooster killed the engine and braced both hands on the wheel. Listened to the hissing and popping under the hood and counted to ten silently in his head.

When that didn’t do a damn thing to alleviate the awful, dark swell of panic building in the back of his head like a tidal wave, he said, “Shit,” with great feeling. That didn’t work either, but it was like a valve opening, steam pouring out. “Shit, shit, shit, shit–”

Red laid her hand on the bare skin of his forearm. No power this time, only the cool press of her palm. “It’ll be okay,” she said, aiming for brave, voice shaking just a fraction beneath the façade. “We’ll call a tow truck. Maybe someone will come by.”

That wasexactlywhat he was worried about. An hour out from Evanston City was too close for comfort; close enough to be overtaken by anyone who might be following.

A part of him acknowledged that he was super paranoid.

A part of him knew that no government on earth would let someone with Red’s power slip through the cracks and eventually give up on chasing her down.

He shut his eyes a moment and shoved the exhausted, emotional, runaway side of himself down into its little box, letting the Marine side take over. When he opened his eyes, he felt alert and industrious.

He peeled his fingers off the wheel and handed Red his phone. It was prepaid, but still a smartphone, and had basic Internet capabilities. “Here. Google a tow company we can call. I’m gonna check the truck.”

She flicked him a quick, knowing look and took the phone with a nod.

“Lock the doors behind me.”

Another nod, this one distracted as she scrolled through the phone’s offerings.

Rooster climbed out, shut the door, and waited for the thump of the locks engaging before he moved.Good girl.

The truck was, close as he could tell, totally fucked. From what he could see crouching in the dirt, the transmission was leaking fluid, slick with more of it.

He dropped the tailgate, opened the camper shell, and climbed up into the dark, hot interior of the bed. He’d built the three gun racks there himself, in a borrowed workshop in Tulsa. Crafted boxes and their sliding drawers, glued diamond plate to the exteriors. They would look like toolboxes to the untrained eye, but when he opened the one on the left he was greeted by a third of his arsenal, drawer, after drawer, after drawer of it.

One drawer housed collapsed duffel bags, and he started filling them with all that he could carry: all his handguns, a shotgun, even a broken-down M4. Box, after box, after box of ammo. And a handful of tactical knives.

Satisfied – as close to it as he could get – he zipped the final duffel and climbed out of the truck, dragging the heavy bags with him.

Just in time to see a flatbed pulling up behind them.

Panic rose like bile in the back of his throat. His hands twitched on the handles of the bags, and his first, knee-jerk urge was to pull the twelve-gauge from the bag in his right hand and shoot right through the windshield, turning the driver’s face to hamburger.

No, he thought, wildly, savagely.You can’t have her.

But then he forced himself to take a breath and read the details. It was a white flatbed rather than a panel van or unmarked Suburban, mud-spattered wheel wells and a layer of reddish dust on the hood. The tag on the front labeled the truck’s owner as an Oklahoma fan. And the driver, clearly visible through the untinted windshield, was a lone man with a baseball cap and no sunglasses, squinting at Rooster from under the brim of his hat.

Probably not a team of paramilitary, government-funded kidnappers.

Probably.

The driver gave a little wave and cut his engine, opened the door and got out slow, like he could read the tension in Rooster’s body. “Hey,” he called, stepping around his door, but hanging back. Hands in view, posture non-threatening, no visible weapons. He wore battered Wranglers, a plaid shirt, and a windbreaker; his hat was stitched with OU, a match to the truck’s front plate. “Engine trouble?”

Rooster set the bags carefully on the ground, and reached inside his own jacket as he straightened, heart pounding. Because the man in front of him was the man from the diner, the one Red had healed.

“Nah,” he drawled, “transmission.” And drew his Colt in one smooth motion, muzzle pointed at the man’s heart. “On your knees,” he said, toneless and calm. “Hands behind your head. I won’t ask twice.”

To his credit, the man didn’t react the way most people did in this situation. No gasping or flailing or insisting that he didn’t mean any harm. No reaching for his own gun – which would have gone badly for him. No, instead, he lifted both hands, nice and slow, to press them to his hat and then sank down to his knees in the dirt, expression careful, but not hostile.

Surprise stayed Rooster’s hand a moment.

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