The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [187]
Grace hoped that wasn’t an omen.
Now a glittering complex of office buildings slid out of view behind them, and the pickup crested a rise. Colorado Highway 128 stretched ahead—two asphalt lanes winding up and down a series of rolling hills. Urban sprawl hadn’t reached this place yet, and the land was empty and brown: beautiful with the forlornness that comes only to lonely spaces. Ahead, to the west, rose the tumbled granite slopes of the Flatirons, which Grace knew dominated the skyline above Boulder.
“Any sign of them?” she called over the whining of the engine. She didn’t know how many gears this truck had, but whatever it was it didn’t seem to be enough.
Davis squinted blue eyes. “I don’t see anything. No, wait—there’s something going on up there.”
It was a construction zone. There were a couple of backhoes parked at odd angles, and a dump truck took up most of the road. Orange cones were scattered all around, and a man in a matching orange vest held a stop sign. Mitchell slowed the truck.
“We don’t have time for this,” Travis said.
The dump truck rolled a few feet, closing the small gap that remained, then came to a halt.
Grace clenched her jaw. They didn’t know how much of a lead Duratek had—they could already be to Boulder by now. And there were a dozen major roads into and out of the city.
The construction worker was waving the stop sign now.
“You’d better slow down, Mitchell,” Davis said.
A few other cars were stopped. Mitchell started to bring the pickup to a halt behind them. None of the pieces of construction equipment seemed to be moving now. How long was this going to take?
“Travis, Grace,” Vani said quietly, “I am not yet familiar with all the customs of this world. But if these are workmen, tell me why are they dressed in such fine clothes?”
Grace leaned forward, peering through the windshield. The pickup was nearly stopped. Two of the workmen in orange vests were approaching. One of them reached into the pocket of his black dress pants. Beneath the orange vest, he wore a white button-down shirt and a tie. Then she saw it, lurking near one of the backhoes: a shiny black sedan.
Of course, you should have known. The dump truck is empty, and the road hasn’t been torn up.
The men were a dozen feet away. The one started to draw his hand from his pocket. There was something in it.
“Mitchell!” Grace shouted. “Get us out of here—now!”
He must have realized the truth at the same time she did, because even as she screamed the words he punched the accelerator and the pickup sprang forward. Mitchell cranked hard on the wheel, clipped the bumper of the minivan ahead of them, then maneuvered the truck onto the right shoulder. The approaching men scrambled to avoid being struck.
Davis grabbed the dashboard. “Might I ask where you’re going, honey?”
“I haven’t exactly figured that out yet.”
The shoulder was too narrow. On one side was a steep embankment, on the other one of the backhoes. It wasn’t going to work. Mitchell hit the brakes, leaned into a hard turn. The pickup spun in a half circle, then charged straight across the road.
A sound like a backfire set Grace’s ears ringing, then the back window of the truck disintegrated into a glittering cascade of crumbled glass. She shook glass from her hair, then glanced back through the empty space. The two men in dark suits and orange vests held guns out before them.
“Get down!” Travis yelled.
Grace huddled against the seat with Travis, but not Vani. There was another report, and a hot whistling sound.
The sound ceased abruptly, and Grace glanced up. Davis stared with wide blue eyes at Vani’s closed fist two inches from his face. Vani opened her fingers. In her hand was a small, bright bullet.
The truck lurched again.
“Hold on, everyone!” Mitchell called out.
Grace couldn’t see from her vantage. The arm of a backhoe flashed by the window, then suddenly the world outside the pickup tilted wildly. She saw sky, then the flat line of the horizon leaning at a peculiar angle. A curious feeling of weightlessness came over her. The truck