CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“I should have taken my car,” Harley said, planting one hand on the ceiling to keep herself in her seat. With every bump, the old truck tried to vomit her out the windshield, as if she were a bad meal it just didn’t want to digest.
Callaway, however, seemed to be enjoying the adventure. He rode the bumps like a surfer, occasionally taking one hand off the wheel to adjust his hat.
“You just bought yours,” he answered. “You gotta build trust before you try something like this.”
Harley heard the lightness in his voice. It was relief, she realized. He liked the open chase, the sprint—not sneaking around in the darkness, waiting to see the flash of the muzzle that would end his life.
Harley could not blame him. Still, she wondered if he might be enjoying it a bit too much.
