Free Last Exit in New Jersey by C.E. Grundler Page B

cigarette, and took a long drag. “I was told not to return without you.”
    Hazel watched the smoke curl toward the ceiling, and she tried to think. She’d hoped to quietly slip from sight, but clearly that wasn’t happening. If this was going to work, the first order of business was a diversion.
    “Just a minute.” She stepped into the dark shop, re-emerging with a closed cardboard box in her arms. She handed Stevenson RoadKill’s keys. “Give these to my dad.”
    He eyed the box suspiciously. “What’s that?”
    “It’s a box full of mind your own business.”
    He regarded the keys with immense satisfaction, closing his hand around them as though they were some sacred treasure. “My own business.” He laughed as he followed her back to RoadKill.
    Not slowing, Hazel continued past, to the far end of the lot. She checked that no one was watching, then slipped behind the Dumpster and hastily opened the box. She uncapped the two-liter bottle of gasoline she’d lifted from the shop, shoved a bottle-rocket in nose-first, and lit the extended fuse. She dropped the box into the open Dumpster then returned to RoadKill , climbed into the cab, and waited.
    Roughly two minutes later, the first screeching whistle cut through the humid air, stopping everyone in their tracks. The gasoline ignited with a deep FHWHOOM , sending a flaming mushroom cloud upwards, and then the show really started rocking.
    “Hazel?” Her father looked around anxiously as white sparks spewed from the Dumpster like a volcano.
    “Right here,” she called innocently from the truck, admiring the chaos. Contained by the Dumpster, colors frothed from the top in an impressive chain reaction, and a dense cloud of sulfur smoke spread across the lot. It was a shame Micah wasn’t there. He would have appreciated the mayhem.
    “Stay back!” Her father grabbed RoadKill’s extinguisher and charged toward the pyrotechnics.
    “Okay,” Hazel agreed, climbing down from the cab. He didn’t define how far back. The docks were back. He should have been more specific, not that it mattered. By the time the confusion sorted itself out, she’d be gone.
    Kindling’s outboard started with reassuring smoothness. From the boat she watched her father shouting to Joe. The Saturn rockets reached ignition, shrieking as they launched in machine-gun rapid-fire, and everyone jumped back a respectful distance. Hazel spotted Pierce’s boat, still docked and puffing blue smoke as she cast off lines; by the looks of it, he was having engine trouble. She could do this, she told herself as she guided Kindling into the channel. She had to. Once her father was safe, she’d gladly take whatever grief he’d surely give her. Over the racket from the Dumpster, she could barely hear the rumble of her old two-stroke outboard as she pushed the throttle forward.
    Out on the open water with Kindling on plane, skimming over the smooth swells, Hazel felt better. Shore was falling away, disappearing into the afternoon haze. Hot wind whipped through her hair, and the shaking in her hands began to settle. She was back in her element, back in control. Kindling’s hull was solid and her ancient Mercury 175 hummed at peak performance. Pierce’s boat, on the other hand, was forever breaking down, and Hazel knew water had rotted much of the cored hull. Beneath a shiny fiberglass exterior laid a disaster waiting to sink. She figured she’d keep just ahead of them, leading them out toward deeper water, then swing around and ram them with Kindling ’s reinforced bow, shattering their hull like a rotten egg. Then it would be her turn to ask questions while she circled just out of reach. She didn’t want to consider the prospect of being shot at, but it was a risk she had to take. And if they did start shooting, she’d keep the bow up, duck low, and hope they couldn’t swim and shoot straight.
    The next time she looked back, she saw the one thing she hadn’t counted on: Rust , Joe’s old