Outside, someone shouted, “What was that?”
Ben and Sam went silent.
Sam switched off the light.
A second voice said, “There are footprints in the snow leading to the barn!”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Ben climbed into the driver’s seat.
He felt like an astronaut stepping into an original Apollo rocket. The car felt new, it even smelled new. But it was an anachronism. It was like driving off the car lot for the first time, nearly five decades late. The odometer displayed 865 miles. The damned car hadn’t even reached its first 1000 miles. It felt like a tragedy. The car was born to be driven, not stored in pristine museum-style perpetuity.
Outside, someone fumbled with the barn’s door handle.
Ben gripped the steering wheel. The curved instrument panel featured several round dials for gauges and other switches offset by a faux-wood inlay that matched the steering wheel and door panels. He ran his eyes across them. To the right were the now antique radio, cigarette lighter and ashtray at the center and glovebox door on the right.
He dipped down, hiding in the Strato bucket seats, unique to 1970 models — they featured squared-off seatbacks and adjustable headrests.
A flashlight beam shined across the car.
Someone said, “I don’t see anything.”
“Could it have been an animal in the snow?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. A coyote or something?”
“I doubt it. Those weren’t coyote tracks. Besides, they only reached the door. Did you see any exit tracks?”
“No.” The second voice admitted, but there was impatience behind it. “Look, the barn’s empty. There’s nothing inside except for the old man’s Camaro. Let’s head back, its cold out here!”
“All right, all right.” The first voice admitted. “Hang on a second, will you.”
Ben heard footsteps approach.
“What is it?” the second guy asked.
“The cover isn’t sitting right. If the boss came in and saw it like this, there would be hell to pay.”
“So fix it and let’s go.”
Ben held his breath.
Beside him, Sam looked for anything that might be used as a weapon.
Ben saw the man lift the cover, fluffing it as someone would a bedsheet. He was carrying an AK47 strung casually over his shoulder and wore the vacant expression of all security guards approaching the end of the graveyard shift when nothing is happening.
Their eyes met.
The guard’s eyes widened. It took a moment for incredulity to be replaced with action.
Ben didn’t wait.
He turned the ignition.
The Camaro’s big block V8 revved into life. Its engine produced a deep, gravelly sound, which resonated throughout the barn.
It brought a smile to Ben’s face.
The guard found his composure, already trying to unsling his weapon. “Stop! Get out of the car now!”
Ben shoved his foot on the clutch, pushed the 4-speed Hurst shifter into first gear, revved the engine hard and dropped the clutch.
The tires screeched, scrambling to find their perch on the oak flooring.
The solid muscle car lurched forward, like a caged wild animal suddenly released. The car shot forward. A couple seconds later, all 3,310 pounds of steel and genuine Chevrolet craftsmanship struck the dilapidated barn door, sending the rotten wood into a mass of splintered shards.
Two shots fired!
And one of the guards shouted, “Sweet Jesus! Don’t shoot the boss’s car!”
Ben shifted into second.
At the end of the path he threw the steering wheel to the right, swinging the heavy car around like a go-cart.
On the main path, he kept his foot pressed down hard on the accelerator.
He jammed on the brake as they reached another fork in the road, the Camaro’s tires digging into the snow-covered trail.
Ben yelled, “Which way?”
Sam gripped the edge of his seat. “Go right!”
Ben swerved to the right. A large Ford Pickup met them head on. At a glance, he could see the passenger with a machinegun ready to fire.
Ben shoved his foot on the brake and yanked the wheel round in the other direction.
“Change of plans!”
The Camaro locked its wheels, fishtailed and swung in on itself. He brought the shifter back to first. When the car completed its 180-degree slide, Ben switched from the brake to the accelerator, flooring it hard.
The tires spun in the snow before reaching the thick gravel below, and shooting forward again.
Behind him, he heard the rapid staccato of machinegun fire.
“Don’t shoot at the car!” he yelled. “Your boss won’t fucking like it!”
Sam made a wry smile. “Or us for that matter!”
Ben quickly shifted up gears until the car was pummeling along a riparian trail at forty-five miles an hour. The trail snaked round two soft bends and he never once took his foot off the accelerator. He dropped down the gears as the trail dipped downward and they crossed a frozen stream, before gunning the pedal up the opposite bank.
The Camaro’s engine roared in a symphony of gravelling induction noises.
Sam glanced at him and smiled.
“What?” Ben asked.
“You’re enjoying this!”
“Hey, I’m entitled to! In the past seventy-two hours I’ve had my entire life taken away from me, everything about my life is a lie, and people keep trying to kill me — so yes, I think a little bit of fun is okay.”
He reached a blind bend and threw the gear down to second.
The car slid sideways, Ben counter-locked the steering and shoved his foot down hard on the pedal. The engine cackled with pleasure.
They reached the open end of the corner and he straightened the wheel, shooting forward once more.
He turned to Sam. “All right, a LOT of fun!”
The trail dipped down into another bank, crossing a small frozen river. Half way up the next bank he jammed on the brake. In front of them, a second Ford Pickup came to a sudden stop.
Sam yelled, “Backup! Backup!”
Ben threw the shifter into reverse. He looked over his right shoulder as he headed in the opposite direction.
“Where am I going?” he asked. “Those other guys aren’t that far behind us!”
“Stop!”
Ben hit the brakes.
He took in the landscape at a glance. There was a single road; it meandered around Devil’s Lake — or whatever lake they were nearby. That road dipped into what would have been a shallow river crossing, but this time of year was all frozen. He had a truck in front of him and another one behind him. No way to get around either.
There was nowhere for him to go.
Sam said, “Go that way!”
Ben looked in that direction. “Are you crazy?”
More shots fired.
It was enough encouragement.
Sam yelled, “Go! Go!”
He gunned the accelerator and the Camaro lurched forward onto the icy river. It was a really bad idea. He had no idea if the surface ice would even take his weight and even if he did, it was like ice skating without the skates. The 25.5-inch original tires just didn’t cut it.
The river was nearly eighty feet wide at the crossing, but it soon narrowed. Ben kept it in second gear, making the conscious decision not to use the brake.
Ben tried to steer. The wheels were getting just enough traction to still maintain control, but everything took a lot more effort. He was using bigger, stronger movements to make small corrections.
Sam glanced in the right-hand rearview mirror. “They’re following!”
“All right, I guess I’ll just have to speed up!”
He added just a touch more pressure to the accelerator and the Camaro rose to the challenge. The river snaked through a dense forest. Ben felt like a rally car driver, making constant changes to the steering, brake, and accelerator.