Free The Polaris Protocol by Brad Taylor Page B

against the ground sucking him under. She rolled over the top of him, the car bucking as if she’d hit an asphalt speed bump. She jerked the wheel to her left and slammed into the street, the pickup and SUV directly behind her.
    She kept the pedal jammed to the floor, but the SUV began to gain, its horsepower much greater than that of her rental. She desperately tried to recall her training.
    Negate his advantage. Make him drive.
    She flew through another intersection, taking a right at a high rate of speed and forcing the SUV to slow or roll over. She worked the car through turn after turn, steam now coming out of the hood of the rental, but gaining distance from the SUV with each one.
    Finally, she completed a turn out of view of the SUV. She took an immediate right, completely lost. She kept her speed and continued turning, striving to maintain an easterly heading by watching the GPS. A light came on in the dash and she saw the temperature gauge buried to the right.
    Jesus. It’s going to quit on me.
    She considered the dilemma of driving on blindly. There were at least three cars chasing her, and she could run into any one of them at any time. If that happened, she wasn’t sure if her rental would hold up for another race. She wasn’t even sure if it would hold up just to get to the bridge—if she could even find it. Given enough time, they would locate her again, of that she was positive. It was their terrain, and they were probably calling in reinforcements right now. The longer she drove, the greater the odds of discovery. When they spotted her they would drive her like cattle until the car died, and she would be caught.
    But you might be a block away from the bridge right now. A block away from US border agents.
    She pushed the car forward, debating, knowing the decision would determine her fate. She saw a concrete wall adjacent to an open field littered with cans and slid in behind it. She shoved her tablet and Jack’s video recorder into her purse and opened the door, her hand trembling at the decision, her conscious mind screaming at her to remain in the vehicle. To make a run at getting to the bridge. She paused for a moment, then committed, leaping out and racing in a crouch down the wall. She reached the street and peeked around the concrete, seeing it deserted. She ran across and disappeared between two houses.
    She sat with her back against the rough brick and stared at her Google Maps display, trying to locate where she was. She glanced back the way she had come and studied the building shadows, determining which way was east. She found her brother’s phone trace on the map and estimated where she had driven since the attack. Worst case, she figured she had about a mile as the crow flies.
    A mile on foot in hostile terrain.

15
    T he lights blazed on and Jack scurried to his corner, as he’d been instructed to do. He placed his hands over a steel eyebolt in the floor and waited to get shackled, his body shaking as if he were in a meat locker. Not because of any drop in temperature. Because he’d seen what these animals were capable of and knew sooner or later it would be his turn.
    After his “rescue” in El Paso, he’d been unceremoniously thrown into the trunk of a car, his legs, arms, and mouth bound with heavy duct tape. He was allowed to keep his watch, and he’d had the sense to check it. They’d driven for about nine hours, whereupon Jack had been taken from the trunk and placed onto the floor of a light airplane, his head covered in burlap. He had no idea how long they’d flown but would have guessed no more than an hour before they landed and he was transferred to the trunk of yet another vehicle. They’d driven for maybe two more hours and stopped. He’d heard the car doors slam, then he’d sat in the trunk forever, the claustrophobia and darkness starting to eat into him.
    Finally, his hood had been removed, and the bald man who had captured him in El Paso had pulled him out, his