back to the left. Her view in the direction of the turn was blocked by
a tall dike like she had walked along the previous night. She didn’t see the
roadblock until she was already most of the way through the turn.
A large pickup and SUV, painted brown with gold stars on
their doors sat across the road. Both vehicles were labeled as Crittenden
County Sheriff. Four men dressed in jeans and white T-shirts leaned on the
vehicle’s fenders, pistols on their belts and rifles in their hands. A month
ago the sight of law enforcement might have made Rachel cringe and look at her
speedometer, worried she was about to get a ticket. Now, she was immediately
suspicious and slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a halt thirty yards
from the men. She shifted into reverse, but kept her foot on the brake when
two of them raised their rifles and aimed them at her.
From the back seat the two little girls started crying and
Dog growled, staring at their ambushers through the windshield. Rachel debated
flooring the throttle and trying to steer around the bend in reverse. Could
she do it without putting the car into the ditch or getting stuck in the soft
dirt of the shoulder? Would the men really start shooting, and if they did
were they good enough to hit her? But if they didn’t hit her, they might hit
Dog or the children.
One of the men who hadn’t raised his rifle stepped forward
and lifted a small, powered megaphone to his mouth. He claimed he was with the
Sheriff’s Department and ordered Rachel to turn the car off and step out with
her hands over her head.
“Girls, get down on the floor. Now!” Rachel said without
turning her head.
She heard them scrambling behind her, flicked her eyes to
the mirror to make sure they were down, then took her foot off the brake and
floored the accelerator. The engine bellowed and the rear tires screamed as the
heavy car shot backwards. The men were caught off guard for a moment. They
could tell the driver of the vehicle was a woman and the last thing they
expected was for her to run. Women were supposed to cry and beg, but
eventually do what they were told to do. They weren’t supposed to go
screeching away in a cloud of tire smoke.
The first bullet punched through the windshield as Rachel
was turning the wheel to steer the car around the bend in the road. It blasted
through just below the rearview mirror and on through the back window. That
was the only bullet that hit glass before they disappeared behind the
protection of the dike. The car was going fast and Rachel fought the wheel,
trying to straighten them out, but every time she corrected their direction of
travel, she over corrected.
By the time she thought to take her foot off the gas, it was
too late and the car went into a spin, ending up with both rear tires and one
of the front ones in the soft dirt on the left shoulder. They were facing back
the way they had come and Rachel shifted into drive and pressed on the
throttle. The car moved a few inches before the rear tires dug deep into the
dirt. In seconds the rear wheels were buried all the way to the axle.
17
Master Sergeant Jackson sat in a web sling, behind the
pilots of a Black Hawk, staring out the open side door at miles and miles of
nothing but rice paddies. Two Rangers sat farther back, lost in their own
thoughts as the big helicopter pounded through the humid air. A door gunner
was strapped in behind a minigun, an Army Private sitting to his side, ready to
provide any support he might need.
They had been searching for Rachel and Dog for hours.
Jackson had promised the Major that he would personally take charge of the
search, and he was keeping that promise. He doubted they would be found alive,
if they were even found, but he knew the mission the Major was on and looking
for lost friends was the least he could do.
The search had gone back up and down the river several times,
high passes for a
a tall dike like she had walked along the previous night. She didn’t see the
roadblock until she was already most of the way through the turn.
A large pickup and SUV, painted brown with gold stars on
their doors sat across the road. Both vehicles were labeled as Crittenden
County Sheriff. Four men dressed in jeans and white T-shirts leaned on the
vehicle’s fenders, pistols on their belts and rifles in their hands. A month
ago the sight of law enforcement might have made Rachel cringe and look at her
speedometer, worried she was about to get a ticket. Now, she was immediately
suspicious and slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a halt thirty yards
from the men. She shifted into reverse, but kept her foot on the brake when
two of them raised their rifles and aimed them at her.
From the back seat the two little girls started crying and
Dog growled, staring at their ambushers through the windshield. Rachel debated
flooring the throttle and trying to steer around the bend in reverse. Could
she do it without putting the car into the ditch or getting stuck in the soft
dirt of the shoulder? Would the men really start shooting, and if they did
were they good enough to hit her? But if they didn’t hit her, they might hit
Dog or the children.
One of the men who hadn’t raised his rifle stepped forward
and lifted a small, powered megaphone to his mouth. He claimed he was with the
Sheriff’s Department and ordered Rachel to turn the car off and step out with
her hands over her head.
“Girls, get down on the floor. Now!” Rachel said without
turning her head.
She heard them scrambling behind her, flicked her eyes to
the mirror to make sure they were down, then took her foot off the brake and
floored the accelerator. The engine bellowed and the rear tires screamed as the
heavy car shot backwards. The men were caught off guard for a moment. They
could tell the driver of the vehicle was a woman and the last thing they
expected was for her to run. Women were supposed to cry and beg, but
eventually do what they were told to do. They weren’t supposed to go
screeching away in a cloud of tire smoke.
The first bullet punched through the windshield as Rachel
was turning the wheel to steer the car around the bend in the road. It blasted
through just below the rearview mirror and on through the back window. That
was the only bullet that hit glass before they disappeared behind the
protection of the dike. The car was going fast and Rachel fought the wheel,
trying to straighten them out, but every time she corrected their direction of
travel, she over corrected.
By the time she thought to take her foot off the gas, it was
too late and the car went into a spin, ending up with both rear tires and one
of the front ones in the soft dirt on the left shoulder. They were facing back
the way they had come and Rachel shifted into drive and pressed on the
throttle. The car moved a few inches before the rear tires dug deep into the
dirt. In seconds the rear wheels were buried all the way to the axle.
17
Master Sergeant Jackson sat in a web sling, behind the
pilots of a Black Hawk, staring out the open side door at miles and miles of
nothing but rice paddies. Two Rangers sat farther back, lost in their own
thoughts as the big helicopter pounded through the humid air. A door gunner
was strapped in behind a minigun, an Army Private sitting to his side, ready to
provide any support he might need.
They had been searching for Rachel and Dog for hours.
Jackson had promised the Major that he would personally take charge of the
search, and he was keeping that promise. He doubted they would be found alive,
if they were even found, but he knew the mission the Major was on and looking
for lost friends was the least he could do.
The search had gone back up and down the river several times,
high passes for a
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