ASHES OF THE HIGHWAY

Before the first pale streaks of gray light began to bleed over the jagged eastern ridge of the canyon, Jack had already transferred the encrypted drive into a waterproof pouch tucked securely inside his own riding jacket. The handwritten ledger pages were carefully refolded and hidden within the false bottom of Maya’s canvas duffel bag.

Cale was awake, sitting propped up against a stack of spare truck tires, drinking a cup of bitter instant coffee that Doc Miller had brewed over a propane burner. His face was the color of chalk, but the wild, panicked look in his eyes had been replaced by a grim, hard determination.

"They're coming, Jack," Cale said, his voice raspy as he took another cautious sip of the hot liquid. "I felt it in my bones before I went under. The man leading the task force is a federal marshal named Vance. He was my superior before I went rogue. He knows every trick I know."

"Vance is a ghost story they tell young agents to keep them in line," Preacher muttered, wiping down the barrel of his Remington with an oiled rag. "Man’s got no badge, no paperwork, and a license to erase anyone who gets too close to the black budgets."

"Well, his ghost is about to catch up to us," Jack said, walking over to the wide metal sliding door of the maintenance shed.

Through a narrow gap in the corrugated iron, the desert landscape outside was beginning to emerge from the violet shadows of dawn. In the distance, above the jagged rim of the canyon, a tiny black speck appeared against the pale morning sky, moving with a steady, mechanical thrum that vibrated through the dry desert air.

"Chopper," Jack stated flatly. "Thermal imaging. They're scanning every square mile of this arroyo."

Maya dropped her tin cup, the clatter ringing loudly in the quiet shed. She rushed over to Cale, burying her face in his good shoulder. Cale wrapped his arm around her, wincing slightly as the movement strained his freshly stitched shoulder.

"Jack," Cale said, looking up with fierce urgency. "You and Maya take the Ford and head north toward the abandoned rail yards in Farmington. I'll stay here with Preacher. We can set up a diversion, draw them away from the kid."

"No," Jack said without a second of hesitation. "We ride together. If we split up, they pick us off one by one. Preacher, do you still have that old trail bike with the extra fuel tins?"