Page 82 of Beckett
“I won’t judge.”
We found Lachlan and said goodbye. He walked us out, promising to keep looking into things on his end. “I’m going to reach out to some contacts in Seattle PD,” he said. “See if they have any similar cases, any patterns we’re not seeing. I’ll let you know if we find anything.”
The afternoon sun had shifted while we’d been inside, casting long shadows across the parking lot. The cool air was a relief after hours in that small room with its recycled air and electronic hum. I took a deep breath, trying to clear my head as we climbed into Beckett’s old truck. The vehicle had seen better days—rust spots on the wheel wells, a crack in the windshield that had been there so long it was practically a feature. But it ran, and right now, that was all that mattered.
“You okay?” Beckett asked as he started the engine.
“Yeah.” I wished desperately that Jet were here, that I could bury my fingers in his fur for comfort. But he was safe at Pawsitive, and that was what mattered. “Just tired.”
“Travis is…different,” Beckett said as we pulled out of the parking lot. “But he’s brilliant. If anyone can find something in the digital trail, it’s him. He used to work for some government agency, though he never talks about it. Whatever happened there, it’s why he doesn’t leave his house now.”
The road to Travis’s house led out of town and into the hills, winding through pine forest. Beckett handled the truck with easy familiarity, taking the curves smooth and steady. The old vehicle protested on the steeper grades, engine whining, but Beckett knew exactly when to downshift, when to ease off the accelerator.
We were almost to Travis’s place, heading down a steep grade, when Beckett frowned. His foot moved on the brake pedal.
Nothing happened.
“What—” He pumped the brake again, harder this time. Still nothing. The pedal went all the way to the floor with no resistance. “Fuck.”
“Beckett?” The word ripped from my throat as the speedometer climbed past thirty, thirty-five, forty. The truck picked up speed like a boulder rolling downhill, unstoppable.
“Brakes are out.” His knuckles went white on the steering wheel, arms rigid while he fought to control the truck as we picked up speed. “Hold on.”
The truck careened down the hill, engine screaming as Beckett downshifted, trying to slow us with compression. The transmission protested with a grinding sound that made my teeth ache. Trees blurred past the windows. My fingers dug into the door handle, knuckles white.
“There’s a bridge at the bottom,” Beckett said through gritted teeth. “If I can just?—”
We hit the base of the hill doing forty, maybe fifty. The truck shuddered and swayed. Beckett fought the wheel, muscles straining, managing to keep us on the road as we approached the bridge. For a second, I thought we might make it. The bridge was straight, if we could just maintain control across it?—
Then the impact came from behind.
The collision slammed us forward, my head snapping back against the seat with enough force to see stars. Metal screamed, a sound that would haunt my dreams. The truck lurched sideways, tires shrieking against asphalt as Beckett fought for control.
Another impact. Harder. Deliberate.
This wasn’t an accident. Someone had rammed us. Someone had cut our brakes and waited.
The truck tipped, tilted, and then we were airborne. Beckett let out a stream of curses and I screamed. Time stretched like taffy as I saw the bridge railing splinter into pieces, saw the water rushing up to meet us, dark and fast and cold.
We hit the water with a crash that drove all the air from my lungs.
Chapter 27
Beckett
Water exploded through the windshield like a living thing, ice-cold fingers reaching for us with violent intent. The impact had spider-webbed the glass, and now the river poured through it in torrents, filling the cab faster than my mind could process. The shock of it—Montana river water in early fall—hit like a sledgehammer to the chest. My body tried to gasp, but there was no air, just water and glass and the metallic taste of blood in my mouth.
The truck groaned around us, metal screaming as it twisted and settled. We were sinking. Fast.
“Audra!” I fought against my seat belt, the mechanism jammed from the impact. The belt bit into my chest, trapping me against the seat as water climbed past my waist, past my ribs. Every drop was liquid ice, stealing sensation from my skin, making my muscles seize and cramp. “You okay?”
“I can’t—” She gasped, thrashing against her own belt, her movements growing more frantic as the water rose. “The belt’s stuck! Beckett, I can’t get it off!”
The truck tilted nose-down with a sickening lurch, settling deeper into the riverbed. Water rushed in faster now, the pressure making my ears pop and my skull feel like it might implode. Through the cracked windshield, I could see nothing but dark water and the occasional glint of our headlights still somehow functioning, illuminating our tomb.
My fingers were already going numb as I yanked out my pocketknife. The cold made them thick and clumsy, like trying to work while wearing oven mitts. I sawed at my belt, the blade slipping twice before catching. The fabric was tough, designed to save lives, but right now, it was killing us.
“Beckett?” Audra’s voice pitched higher, edged with panic.
