Shiver

attention back in her direction at any second, she snuck toward the cab of her truck. The engine was idling, which meant that all she had to do was hop in and take off. Generally, the scrap yard was kept locked. When she’d come hunting for parts, unless someone else was paying, she had scaled the fence. But to get the truck out—with a quick look around, she located the gate. It was open. Yay.
    Bang. A shot exploded behind her, making her jump, galvanizing her into breaking into a run. Whoa, who had fired that? Was it aimed at her? Sam didn’t know, but she wasn’t waiting around to find out. A snapped glance over her shoulder found her trunk companion standing over the man who’d been writhing and moaning a moment before. The guy now lay silent and motionless in the gravel, while her new pal held her gun in such a way that she had little doubt it was he who had just fired. Could anybody say, kill shot? An icy shiver raced down her spine. She might not be into cold-blooded murder, but this guy clearly had no such qualms. Was he killing all witnesses? God in heaven, was she next? Go, her every instinct screamed, and Sam went like the wind. When she reached the truck’s door, she wasstymied briefly because the damned thing, as it had a tendency to do, was stuck. Finally succeeding in wrenching it open, she jumped into the high cab, yanked the door shut, and locked it. Bang! Another shot rang out. Impossible to see what was happening; the truck was facing in the opposite direction. She was betting on another kill shot. Was her buddy coming for her now? Sam’s mouth went dry and her heart slammed in her chest as she grabbed the stubborn old gearshift and wrenched it into drive, then put the pedal to the metal. The engine roared: no hiding what she was up to now. Its inner workings always balky and slow, Big Red didn’t move.
    “Come on!” she screamed at it out loud, banging her palms against the steering wheel. As if in answer, the transmission finally engaged with a jolt. The truck shot forward.
    “Go!” she encouraged it.
    Unfortunately, the only way out that she knew of required a U-turn.
    So jittery with fear by this time that she was practically bouncing up and down in the seat, Sam executed the tight half-doughnut with a grinding of gears and a shower of gravel. The headlights cut a crazy arc through the darkness, the towing assemblage clanked in noisy protest, and the Beemer fishtailed wildly behind as she goosed the accelerator. The truck, finally fully responsive, charged toward freedom. Her cell phone bounced out of the little plastic tray beneath the cassette player and landed in the passenger foot well. For a moment she looked after it with dismay—calling 911 was high on her list of priorities. But stopping and diving after it wasn’t happening: gettingout of there was Job One. The open gate—escape!—waited directly in front of her, perhaps half a football field away. To her left, the long, low warehouses on the other side of the piles of scrap blocked her view of the street. Just ahead and to her right, the two men she had shot, both motionless now, curled like black commas in the gravel.
    “Hey!” From out of nowhere the man who’d been in the trunk with her jumped directly into the truck’s path. He stood facing her, her gun held down by his side as, bent and grimacing, he waved at her, signaling her to stop.
    Like that was going to happen.
    “Move!” she yelled at him through the windshield. She doubted that he could hear her. Certainly he didn’t get out of the way. Clutching the steering wheel hard with both hands, she stomped the accelerator with everything she had. She wasn’t stopping, not for anything. He might have given her a tingle when he kissed her hand, but she didn’t care. He had a choice: move or be road kill. The truck surged, engine gunning, wheels spitting out sprays of gravel, as it bore down on him like a bull charging a matador.
    “Get out of the way!” she screamed again, making exaggerated shooing motions with one arm. If what they were playing was chicken, she knew who was going to win. She just hoped he wasn’t too stupid to . . .
    “Fuck!” At what was almost the last minute, he leaped to the side. The headlights picked up the startled, angry expression on his face.
    “Good call,” she yelled at him. A triumphant smile justtouched Sam’s mouth as the truck plowed over the place where he had been standing seconds before. The resultant