Page 30 of Dusty
The SUV was already turning to follow, but Dusty had the advantage of knowing the northern part of San Antonio, having spent a lot of time here when he’d first moved to Houston for work. Visiting San Antonio had become something he did when he had some extra time. He liked visiting the River Walk and some of the historic buildings and sites. Now it looked like that knowledge was paying off. He took a sharp right onto a narrow side street, then immediately left into an alley, zigzagging through the neighborhood.
Sharon braced herself against the dashboard, knuckles white. “They found us. How did they find us so fast?”
“I don’t know,” Dusty said grimly, checking the rearview mirror. The SUV was still there, keeping pace despite his evasive driving. “But we need to lose them before we head back to Shiloh Springs.”
He swerved onto a major roadway, merging into busy afternoon traffic, hoping to use the other vehicles as cover. For a few precious minutes, it seemed to work—the blackSUV disappeared. Dusty maintained his speed, weaving through traffic with practiced precision.
“I think we lost them,” Sharon said, her voice shaky with relief as she twisted in her seat to look behind them.
“Maybe,” Dusty said, unwilling to let his guard down. “But we need to be sure before we head out of the city.” He took the exit for a gas station stop on the outskirts of San Antonio, pulling into the nearly empty lot and circling around to the back where a couple of dilapidated cars sat against a chain link fence that had definitely seen better days, listing awkwardly in several places.
“Wait here. Keep your head down.” He jogged over to a solitary eighteen-wheeler, one with Arizona plates preparing to leave. Looked like the driver had stopped for a bathroom break, which was lucky for them. The driver, a bearded man in his fifties, had just climbed into the cab and started the engine.
“Hey!” Dusty called, approaching the truck. He flashed his deputy badge. “Need a favor. Can you take this with you for about fifty miles and then toss it out your window?”
Two minutes later, he’d passed his phone to the driver, who stashed it in his box, bound for Corpus Christi. Dusty watched the semi pull away, hoping the diversion would buy them some time. While they’d ditched Sharon’s phone on the way to San Antonio, there was nothing to say Madison hadn’t tracked his as well. Jogging into the gas station’s tiny convenience store, he picked up a couple of spare phones and headed for the pickup.
Back in the pickup, Sharon looked at him anxiously. “You think Cooper hacked your phone too?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.” Dusty said, pulling back onto the highway. “We need to get back home. Rafe and the others can help keep you safe while we figure out our next move. Which includes getting that evidence to Antonio, so he can assure that the FBI is taking the case seriously.”
They rode in tense silence for nearly an hour, the San Antonio skyline fading behind them as they traveled northeast. Dusty began to relax slightly as the miles stretched between them and the city. Hopefully the SUV had been fooled into following the eighteen-wheeler driver. He hadn’t seen anything that made him think the SUV had caught up to them, but something still felt off. And the itchy feeling on the back of his neck hadn’t gone away. Plus, the steering wheel had developed a slight pull to the right, requiring more effort to keep the truck centered in the lane. He really hoped they weren’t about to have another problem.
“Something wrong?” Sharon asked, noticing his frown.
“Not sure,” Dusty said, testing the wheel with a gentle back-and-forth motion. The resistance was worse than before. “Steering feels weird.”
He slowed the truck, pulling onto the shoulder. “I need to check something.”
Outside, Dusty circled the vehicle, examining each tire. Nothing obvious—no flats, no visible damage. On a hunch, he crouched down and ran his hand along the truck’s front bumper.
His fingers brushed against something that shouldn’t be there—a small magnetic box attached on the passenger side. His blood ran cold as he pried it loose and held it up.
A tracker. Son of a slimy snake, it hadn’t been his phone they’d hacked. It was the truck.
“I hate this,” Dusty muttered, dropping the tracker on the ground and grinding it with his bootheel. That explained how they’d found them at the shelter. It wasn’t Sharon’s phone either. Still meant they’d somehow placed the tracker when they’d stopped for gas earlier at the truck stop and ditched her phone. He felt like a complete fool for letting it happen. He wasn’t at the top of his game because he was worried about Sharon. Should have anticipated they’d find a way to followher, since they were bound and determined to take her back to Madison.
As he started to straighten up, Dusty’s eyes narrowed as he noticed a small puddle forming beneath the truck. He couldn’t be sure, but his best guess was the power steering fluid, and it was leaking fast. Just his luck, he’d bet one of the bullets clipped the line, causing the leak.
Dusty climbed back into the cab. “Found a tracker attached under the truck. They’ve been following us the whole time.”
Sharon’s face paled. “What do we do now?”
“We need to get off this road,” Dusty said, scanning their surroundings. They were in rural Texas now, farmland stretching in all directions. “Truck’s not going to make it much further. Steering’s going.”
He put the pickup in gear, grimacing at the increased resistance in the steering. They limped along at reduced speed, Dusty’s eyes constantly searching for somewhere to hide.
About two miles ahead, he spotted an old barn set back from the road, partially hidden by a stand of live oaks. The weathered structure looked abandoned, no vehicles or equipment visible nearby. He took it as a good sign, though if he was writing about this, it would be too good to be true. Good thing this was reality and not fiction.
“There,” he said, nodding toward it. “We can hole up there until help arrives.”
The steering grew increasingly difficult as they turned onto the rutted dirt road leading to the barn. Dusty wrestled with the wheel, every turn requiring both hands and considerable force. The truck shuddered and groaned, the power steering completely gone now.
“Almost there,” he grunted, sweat beading on his forehead as he maneuvered the failing vehicle around the side of the barn, out of sight from the main road. It rolled to a stop, the enginesputtered and made a coughing sound before it quit completely. Dusty turned the key a couple of times, and the engine wheezed once, then died. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the steering wheel. Just his luck, one of the bullets must have damaged the engine. Rafe wasn’t going to be happy that Dusty had killed his truck, but at least he’d kept his passenger alive. He breathed a sigh of relief, happy they’d at least managed to get out of sight. Too bad it wasn’t far enough away from where he’d killed the tracker. He only hoped it was far enough to lose their tail.
“End of the line,” he said, pocketing the keys. “Let’s get inside. I picked up a spare phone while I was at the gas station. I’ll call Rafe.”
He helped Sharon from the truck, casting nervous glances back toward the road. No sign of pursuit yet, but Dusty knew it was only a matter of time. With the tracker disabled, they’d bought themselves some breathing room, but Madison’s men wouldn’t give up so easily.
