The Trinity Game

hauling ass,” said Trinity.
    “Keep your eyes peeled, I can only watch one si—hold on…right there, perfect.” Daniel turned into a driveway and stopped behind a battered, once-green GMC Sierra with about twenty years on it. The cabin had no electricity, much less a satellite dish. To the right of the cabin, a pile of freshly cut firewood and an axe sticking out of a tree stump. Tall rose bushes bloomed fiery red against the cabin’s wall, and a massive Cracker in faded denim overalls stood cutting back excess leaves with a twelve-inch Bowie knife. He looked to be in his mid-thirties. He turned and stared at them. He didn’t smile.
    Trinity said, “From where I sit, this is about as far from ‘perfect’ as we are from Seattle. I say we back the hell outta here.”
    “Stay in the truck.” Daniel got out slowly, closed the door. To the man with the knife, he said, “Good morning—”
    The man let out a humorless snort. “
Was
good, until you showed up. Round here, folks get gutted for trespassing.”
    “Sorry, I, uh, didn’t see a sign posted.”
    “’Round here, don’t need a sign.” He gestured to the road with his knife. “You girls best be on your way.”
    Daniel raised his left hand and reached for the door handle with his right. “No problem, understood.” He opened the door of Trinity’s truck. “Before we go, can I interest you in swapping trucks?”
    “Huh?”
    “Straight swap, our truck for yours.”
    “What am I gonna do with a pretty toy like that? I look black to you?”
    “Your Sierra’s worth—what?—maybe five, six hundred bucks? But fresh tires, so I figure you’ve kept it running OK.”
    The big man stepped forward, holding the knife at chest level. “So?”
    “Our truck’s practically new, decked out with all the options, worth fifteen or twenty times as much. Call it a pretty toy, but it’s also a pretty valuable toy. You can sell it, buy a good solid truck with plenty years left in it, and pocket some serious cash in the process.”
    “Can’t sell it if it’s hot.”
    Daniel held the man’s eyes. “It’s not.”
    “Cross your heart and hope to die?” The man shook his head and snorted. “Big City faggots always thinkin’ we just a bunch a gullible morons up here.”
    The blade rose, its sharp tip now pointing directly at Daniel’s chin. Electricity hummed through his nerves, his fingertips tingling. In an instant, his right foot slid back into position, weight shifted to the balls of his feet, and his core muscled contracted.
    “Keep waving that blade around, Clyde, and I’m gonna get the sudden urge to defend myself. Which would look a lot likeme breaking your wrist, dislocating your knee, and shoving that pretty knife up your ass.”
    It stopped the man cold. The blade came down a few inches and he stood with his mouth half open, probably trying to decide which of two possibilities was more likely to be true. Either Daniel was insane, or…
    “Don’t make me prove it,” said Daniel. “And you’re the one making assumptions: talking about big city faggots, when I never said shit about mutant inbred hillbillies.” Then, softening his tone, “Now I came in peace to make you an offer, and the offer still stands. The Caddy’s not stolen, but for the sake of argument, you could strip it and sell it a piece at a time. The catalytic converter alone would buy two of your trucks. So you wanna make a trade, or what?”
    The man sucked air through his front teeth, and the hand with the knife dropped down by his side. He walked slowly to the back of Trinity’s Escalade and pointed at the tailgate with the tip of the knife and said, “C’mere.”
    Daniel walked back, stood beside the man, and looked at the bullet holes put there by Samson Turner. One in the bumper, four in the tailgate, and one more, higher, on the pillar to the left of the rear window. Three inches to the right, and it would’ve exploded through the back of Daniel’s head.
Three inches.
The thought turned his groin to ice.
    The man said, “Who’s chasin’?”
    Daniel shrugged. “Wish I knew. But we can’t hang around, so the offer expires in ten seconds. Yes or no?”

    The windshield was stained nicotine yellow and the cab smelled like cigarette smoke and body odor in equal measure, but at least the redneck had taken care with maintenance. Daniel checked the oil as he topped up the gas and found it clean, recently changed. Brake and transmission fluids both fine, tire