Free The Tin Man by Nina Mason Page B

saw her pick up her purse and pull out her gun. Clutching it, she twisted around to look out the rear.
    “It’s a Mustang, I think ,” she told him. “Late model.”
    “Can you see anyone?”
    “ It’s too dark,” she said, “but they’re gaining on us—rapidly.”
    He tightened his grip on the wheel and hit the gas. The car surged forward. He checked the mirror again. Fuck. They, too, had sped up. He pressed the accelerator to the floor. The Mustang pursued, narrowing the gap. They flew past a sign. White Horse. Another fucking farming town.
    They were pushing ninety and the Mustang was still hot on their tail. Farmhouses, barns, and pastures whizzed past in a blur. A police cruiser went by in the opposite direction, then hung a screeching U-turn. Buchanan floored it. The Mustang vanished instantly. Red and blue lights started flashing in the mirror accompanied by a wailing siren.
    “What are you doing?” Thea screamed. “We’ll be arrested.”
    “Would you rather be s hot?”
    Whatever she said next, he didn’t hear. His mind was racing, his gaze darting from the speedometer to the mirror. The cop was gaining. The needle, shimmying, was pushing to the left. He was sweating bullets. His knuckles were white on the wheel. His mouth felt like a sock.
    “What about the guns?” Her voice was frantic.
    “Take mine,” he said, “and stash both of them under the seat. ”
    He wasn’t about to shoot a cop. And he’d rather not give the cop a reason to shoot him.
    “But —”
    “ Just do it,” he barked.
    S he leaned in and plucked the Glock off his lap. The next moment, she had the window down and was leaning out. He heard the blast, then skidding tires. He checked the mirror. The cruiser was spinning. He watched as it jumped the shoulder and rolled.
    “Jesus wept,” he bellowed. “Are you mad?”
    “Shut up and drive.”
    What the bloody hell was she thinking? Now every state trooper in Pennsylvania would be looking for them—along with the Arabs in the Ford.
    “I’ve got a plan,” she told him.
    “ Aye, well,” he said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “I’m glad to hear it. Because I thought you were just being rash.”
    He eased off the gas to a cruising speed of eighty. He could hear nothing but the drone of the engine. He desperately wanted a cigarette, but didn’t dare. He had to be ready for anything, which meant keeping both hands free.
    “Give me back my gun ,” he demanded.
    When she set it on his lap, he caught a whiff of her hair, which had a pleasant honeysuckle smell that made him think of Kelsey. Rage reared up inside him like a wild stallion. He began to hope he would get another shot at the men in the Mustang. He wanted them dead in the worst way, wanted them to pay for what they had done.
    “Where are we going?” he demanded, tired of the games.
    “Intercourse .”
    He choked. Intercourse? Seriously? Was the universe trying to fuck with his head?
    “How much farther?”
    She consulted the map before saying, “About ten more miles.”
    “Keep an eye out,” he told her, “for the cops and that Mustang. And feel free to fill me in on that plan of yours anytime you’re ready.”
    “I think we should lose the car.”
    He nearly choked. “And do what?”
    “Walk , of course.”
    H is knuckles whitened on the wheel. Walk? Ten miles? Was she mad? Just as he opened his mouth to say something disparaging, he saw what looked like lights on the horizon. Flashing lights. His heart jolted. Less than a mile ahead, a line of police cruisers was blocking the road.
    “Holy crap,” she cried, echoing his sentiments.
    There was a thicket of trees on the right. Tapping the brake, he flipped off the headlamps and veered toward it, praying they hadn’t been spotted. He drove blindly into the trees, holding fast to the wheel as he bounced hard in his seat. Brittle branches clawed the doors. He brought the car to a stop and shut off the engine.
    “ We’re buggered,” he said,