North's CYOA 4

North sprinted back to the Fusion.

Air like a razor blade against his cheek.

Numb fingers fumbling the handle.

Dropping into the seat, jabbing the push-button start, engine rumbling to life.

He had enough brains still to put the car in reverse, bounce back down the curb, and steer between the concrete barriers that marked the entrance to the rest area. He shifted back into drive, waited for an eighteen-wheeler to blow past—the displaced air rocking the sedan on its suspension—and hammer the gas.

For the first half mile, there was only the distant taillights of the eighteen-wheeler, the whine of the straining engine, and the faint hint of something burning. North was shivering uncontrollably now. His breath fogged the windows. His knuckles throbbed.

Then a draft of lukewarm air came from the vents.

“Hell fucking yeah,” he managed through chattering teeth. One stiff hand flipped the vents toward him. “Give me that.”

As the Fusion slowly gained speed, he caught up with the eighteen-wheeler. Then he passed it. Another mile, and on the crest of the next hill he caught a glimpse of the hauler. He kept the gas all the way to the floor.

What the fuck were these idiots doing? Something serious; that much was obvious. Something they didn’t want anyone to know about. Were they stealing the cars? They might have unloaded them to document the vehicles, take photographs, and record the VINs. But if that was all, wouldn’t the driver already have a record of all the vehicles he was carrying?

The more pressing question was: how the hell was he going to get Luka out of there?

He didn’t have a good answer to either question.

North settled into an easy seventy miles an hour, and he drafted along behind the hauler—not too close, but not far enough to risk losing him, either. A mile turned into ten. And then ten miles turned into fifty, sixty. North eyed the Fusion’s fuel gauge. A quarter tank. How much fuel did the hauler have? The driver had asked that dumbass question about refueling, but what exactly did that mean? If North had to stop first and find a gas station, there was a chance he’d lose the hauler for good.

But when the next truck stop appeared, the hauler signaled at the ramp. North slowed, letting the distance between them grow, and followed it off the highway.

The truck stop was called Bert’s, and it had flickering lights, rusting pumps, and broken concrete pavement. From a distance, the snow looked like something that had come out of a spray can. A sign on the convenience store announced in red neon CHICKEN WINGS – STEAK – ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT.

The hauler peeled off toward the commercial pumps. North made his way to the retail fuel island. He pulled on his Carhartt coat. He pulled on his Carhartt gloves. He pulled on a trucker hat that said BIG RIG. Shaw had laughed so hard he’d startled Puppy, even after North had told him—loudly—that it was just part of the fucking disguise. His ears and nose were still cold, but he was starting to think he wasn’t going to freeze his tits off.

While North filled up the Fusion, he kept the hauler in his peripheral vision. The driver still hadn’t gotten out of the cab yet. He was doing something—paperwork, maybe. Some sort of log. The pump clicked off. North stood there like he was still fueling. He looked at his phone. Checked how the Blues had done. Waited.

Finally the man got out of the truck, and North got a look at him under the lights: a baby-faced thirtysomething, stocky, with a beard that looked exactly the same texture and color as Chewbacca’s fur. Not as long, obviously. But still. The man started fueling. He took out his phone. North climbed back into the Fusion, started it up, and let the heat wash over him again. He kept his phone out, the screen on, even though he was watching the hauler. If anybody noticed him, he’d just be some bozo looking at his Maps app.

When the driver started to rehang the nozzle, North eased away from the fuel island. He rolled slowly through the lot. He was just another guy looking for a parking spot so he could go inside and hit the buffet—all the E. coli you could eat.

Come on, you lazy motherfucker, North thought, watching the driver. Come the fuck on. You know you want to.

The driver’s gaze swung from the convenience store to the truck.

Come on.

For another half second, the driver seemed torn. And then he started for the convenience store.

Fuck yeah.

North flipped off his headlights. He cranked the wheel, cutting across the parking lot and keeping well away from the flickering security lights. He left the retail fuel island and moved into the deeper shadows beyond the commercial pumps.

Through the convenience store windows, North could see the driver. He was standing at the buffet, talking to a woman in a low-cut top and mini skirt. She was wearing what had to be a wig—and, in North’s opinion, one that looked like it had come from a mortician. Make Mom look like Dolly Parton was probably the first thing most grieving families said. She was also a real booberella.

So, the driver was looking for more than chicken wings.

North grabbed the Fusion’s tire iron and left the car running. He ran across the span of broken concrete—his knees were perfectly fucking fine, thanks—and skidded to a stop at the back of the hauler. A heavy chain and padlock secured the roll-up door. North got the iron inside the shackle of the lock, braced it against the tailgate, and put his shoulder into it.

Metal strained.

He gave it both shoulders.

The tire iron started to bend.

“Come on, you little bitch,” North grunted. “Come. The fuck. On.”

And then the shackle popped free, and with a clatter, the chain snaked loose and hit the tailgate.

North threw open the roll-up door.

Luka lunged forward, swinging something at North’s head.

“Hey!” North barked as he danced back.

Luka caught himself. Aggression melted into something else—he looked like he was trying to smile, but he was shaking, and his color was bad. “S-sorry, North—”

“Is that a can of tire spray?”

Luka gave a half-shrug. He was still shivering. Still trying to smile. But he looked like he had a death grip on his improvised weapon.

“Come on,” North said, grabbing Luka’s other hand to help him down. “We’ve got to get—”

The jangle of a bell. A woman’s laughter.

Then the driver shouted, “What the fuck?”

North yanked Luka down from the hauler, caught the other man, steadied them both.

And the driver pulled out a gun.

Well, shoot (oops, bad choice of words). Luka’s half-frozen, and the guys are in danger. Should they try to make it to the Fusion, even though Luka’s moving slowly? Or would it be better to take cover behind the hauler?

Patrons will decide tomorrow!