me a mockingly serious nod. “Absolutely. You sounded exactly like a truck driver.”
I gave him a narrow-eyed look, which he ignored while navigating us a lane over in between traffic that had slowed to a crawl. An exit was up ahead and he aimed for it. It was only as we were sliding out of traffic that we saw the flashing lights at the top that indicated more cops waiting for those doing exactly as we were trying to do—get around the checkpoint.
Devon jerked the wheel and maneuvered back into the lane, bypassing the exit.
“Better to stick with the motorway,” he explained before I could ask. “They’ll be under more pressure to move quickly there, what with traffic tied up like this.”
I was nervous as we crept along, wondering what was going to happen. What if they recognized me? Would they arrest me on the spot? I assumed they would. What would happen to Devon?
“Annie, this is Slackjaw. You off the boulevard?”
I pressed the button and spoke. “Negative. Bears all around.” I hoped that meant what I thought it did.
“Copy that. Meatloaf and Kentucky George, you copy?”
The CB crackled. “That’s a big ten-four, Slackjaw. Mealoaf here. Any ideas for rescuing Annie?”
“There’s a bull hauler in front of me. I reckon we can convoy us a spot of trouble, come back.”
“Roger, Meatloaf. I’m comin’ up on your donkey now in the granny lane. Kentucky’s got eyes on the gumball machines. Annie is in front of me. Annie, I hope you got your ears on.”
I couldn’t decipher most of that except the last part, and I thumbed the button.
“Annie’s here,” I said. Now I noticed the semitrucks surrounding our SUV. I figured Meatloaf was in front of us while Slackjaw and Kentucky were behind.
“Keep up, Annie. We’re about to put the hammer down. You copy?”
“Ten-four.” I was getting good at this, though I still didn’t know what was going on. “What are they doing?” I asked Devon.
“I believe they’re going to run the checkpoint,” he said, “with us in between them.”
I stared at him, open-mouthed. “But . . . why would they do that?”
“They’re American truck drivers,” he said dryly. “You probably have better insight into their behavior than I do, my dear. I’m guessing their love for the law is less than their desire to assist a damsel in distress.”
I couldn’t fathom it, so I decided to just be grateful for their intervention as the truck in front of us sped up. The headlights from the one behind us were blinding as they blazed through the rear window, right on our tail. Devon sped up and I could see the checkpoint up ahead.
My palms were sweaty as I clamped my hands on my seat, my nails digging into the leather. I didn’t speak, not wanting to interrupt Devon’s concentration as he stayed right on the bumper of the truck in front of us, accelerating.
The police saw the trucks coming—they were kind of hard to miss—and started scrambling to get out of the way. Beyond the checkpoint, the highway was clear.
People were yelling and drivers of the cars we passed watched in open-mouthed wonder at the caravan of three semitrucks and an SUV barreling past them. The trucks blew their horns and I couldn’t help covering my eyes as we crashed through behind Meatloaf. There was the screech of metal against metal and the sound of tires squealing. I held my breath, waiting for the crash. But nothing hit us, and a moment later, I chanced a look.
“They’re barricading the road behind us,” Devon said. The SUV was still going top speed and accelerating.
I twisted in my seat to look behind us. All three truckers had stopped, parking their rigs across the road to prevent any quick chase from the police. They had indeed covered for us.
“Peach, are you through?” I heard over the CB. I quickly thumbed the button.
“Ten-four. Thank you all for doing that.” I had no idea how much trouble they’d be in, but I hoped it wouldn’t be more than a slap on the
I gave him a narrow-eyed look, which he ignored while navigating us a lane over in between traffic that had slowed to a crawl. An exit was up ahead and he aimed for it. It was only as we were sliding out of traffic that we saw the flashing lights at the top that indicated more cops waiting for those doing exactly as we were trying to do—get around the checkpoint.
Devon jerked the wheel and maneuvered back into the lane, bypassing the exit.
“Better to stick with the motorway,” he explained before I could ask. “They’ll be under more pressure to move quickly there, what with traffic tied up like this.”
I was nervous as we crept along, wondering what was going to happen. What if they recognized me? Would they arrest me on the spot? I assumed they would. What would happen to Devon?
“Annie, this is Slackjaw. You off the boulevard?”
I pressed the button and spoke. “Negative. Bears all around.” I hoped that meant what I thought it did.
“Copy that. Meatloaf and Kentucky George, you copy?”
The CB crackled. “That’s a big ten-four, Slackjaw. Mealoaf here. Any ideas for rescuing Annie?”
“There’s a bull hauler in front of me. I reckon we can convoy us a spot of trouble, come back.”
“Roger, Meatloaf. I’m comin’ up on your donkey now in the granny lane. Kentucky’s got eyes on the gumball machines. Annie is in front of me. Annie, I hope you got your ears on.”
I couldn’t decipher most of that except the last part, and I thumbed the button.
“Annie’s here,” I said. Now I noticed the semitrucks surrounding our SUV. I figured Meatloaf was in front of us while Slackjaw and Kentucky were behind.
“Keep up, Annie. We’re about to put the hammer down. You copy?”
“Ten-four.” I was getting good at this, though I still didn’t know what was going on. “What are they doing?” I asked Devon.
“I believe they’re going to run the checkpoint,” he said, “with us in between them.”
I stared at him, open-mouthed. “But . . . why would they do that?”
“They’re American truck drivers,” he said dryly. “You probably have better insight into their behavior than I do, my dear. I’m guessing their love for the law is less than their desire to assist a damsel in distress.”
I couldn’t fathom it, so I decided to just be grateful for their intervention as the truck in front of us sped up. The headlights from the one behind us were blinding as they blazed through the rear window, right on our tail. Devon sped up and I could see the checkpoint up ahead.
My palms were sweaty as I clamped my hands on my seat, my nails digging into the leather. I didn’t speak, not wanting to interrupt Devon’s concentration as he stayed right on the bumper of the truck in front of us, accelerating.
The police saw the trucks coming—they were kind of hard to miss—and started scrambling to get out of the way. Beyond the checkpoint, the highway was clear.
People were yelling and drivers of the cars we passed watched in open-mouthed wonder at the caravan of three semitrucks and an SUV barreling past them. The trucks blew their horns and I couldn’t help covering my eyes as we crashed through behind Meatloaf. There was the screech of metal against metal and the sound of tires squealing. I held my breath, waiting for the crash. But nothing hit us, and a moment later, I chanced a look.
“They’re barricading the road behind us,” Devon said. The SUV was still going top speed and accelerating.
I twisted in my seat to look behind us. All three truckers had stopped, parking their rigs across the road to prevent any quick chase from the police. They had indeed covered for us.
“Peach, are you through?” I heard over the CB. I quickly thumbed the button.
“Ten-four. Thank you all for doing that.” I had no idea how much trouble they’d be in, but I hoped it wouldn’t be more than a slap on the
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