The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [188]
“Now, Mitchell!” came Davis’s shout.
Again the pickup lurched, then with a jolt that caused Grace to clamp her teeth down on her tongue, sky and earth righted themselves outside the windows. The engine roared as the truck gathered speed.
Trying not to cut herself on broken glass, she pulled herself upright alongside Travis. The construction equipment was rapidly shrinking outside the back window. She could see the tire gouges in the embankment on the south side of the road—which was barely less steep than the other, and which Mitchell must have used to gain their freedom. She saw the men in black suits throw off their orange vests and run to the sedan. But it was on the other side of the dump truck. They waved their hands frantically, but the shadow inside the dump truck seemed to be having trouble operating it, and it struck one of the backhoes.
The pickup descended over a hill, and the scene was lost to view. Grace turned around. Travis was watching Davis and Vani. She handed Davis the bullet.
“Keep this for luck,” she said.
Davis still stared at the bullet. “That I will, ma’am. That I will.”
Travis studied Vani, his gray eyes intent. As if aware of his attention, she lowered her head, gazing at her hands in her lap.
The land rose and fell beneath the truck. The mountains loomed closer.
“How much farther to Boulder?” Grace said.
Davis answered. “I don’t think it’s far. If I remember right, this road hits Highway 93 just east of the foothills. It’s 93 that heads on up to Boulder.”
“And it also heads south to Golden,” Mitchell said.
“Faster,” Grace breathed in Mitchell’s ear.
She watched the speedometer climb to the right: 70, 80, 90. The truck rattled as if it were going to fly apart.
A green sign flashed by outside the window, too quickly for Grace to read. They reached the top of a large hill, and the land fell away into a deep, dun-colored bowl. Where the highway flattened out at the bottom was a black tangle.
Five eighteen-wheeled trucks were stopped on the road. The first one had jackknifed and fallen on its side, blocking the road. A column of black smoke billowed into the air. The second truck had smashed into the first. The others had managed to avoid a collision, but the drivers had steered them in various directions to keep from striking the trucks ahead.
“There!” Travis said, pointing through the windshield. “Do you see it? Just past the first truck.”
His new eyes were too good, and there was too much smoke. Then the smoke coiled, breaking apart for a moment, and Grace did see. Lying across the road was a black limousine. Its side was smashed in by the impact with the first truck. It must have pulled out onto the highway just as the caravan reached it. There had been no time for the trucks to stop—or for the limousine to roll out of the way.
“Deirdre,” Travis whispered, voice hoarse.
In her mind, Grace spoke another word. Farr.
On the sides of the black trailers, crescent moons gleamed in the waning daylight. Dark figures were climbing out of the cabs, stumbling among the wreckage. The accident must have just happened.
“All right,” Mitchell said. “We found them. Now what?”
It was Vani who spoke. “There is room to the right side of the road. You must use it to get us to the head of the caravan. If they are yet alive, the Seekers will be there. Perhaps they will have discovered in which vehicle the knight is being held.”
Mitchell shifted gears. “Yes ma’am.”
The pickup roared down the hill.
Be all right, Farr, Grace said to herself, not even sure why she did, only that it was all she could think of right then. Damn it, you had better be all right.
The black length of the rearmost truck sped by. Two big men in black jeans and T-shirts looked up, faces dazed. Guns were holstered to their sides. One of them clasped a hand to his head while blood seeped through his fingers. Before they could react, the pickup blazed by.
Mitchell wove around the next trailer. Another of the guards dived and rolled on the asphalt to avoid being run over. Mitchell gunned the engine, swerving