Blackberry Summer. RaeAnne Thayne
looking for a good place to pull over on this fairly narrow road, with the mountains to their right and the reservoir a dark and sullen void across the oncoming lane to the left.
After perhaps two minutes at the slower pace, suddenly the pickup shot forward, fishtailing on the now icy road.
Shit. The idiot was a runner. And under these conditions, too.
He accelerated to keep pace while he picked up his radio again. “Suspect is fleeing. Unit in pursuit. Requesting backup. How far away is the sheriff’s deputy?”
A male voice he didn’t recognize answered. “Just approaching Silver Strike Canyon, Chief.”
“Set up a roadblock at the mouth of the canyon. Don’t let anybody in or out.”
As soon as he spoke, he spied headlights heading toward them in the other direction from town and his insides clenched. Too damn late. Somebody was already coming this way. Possibly more than one vehicle.
As much as he wanted to catch the little punk who had run roughshod over his town—no matter how powerful his father might be—Riley had to consider the safety of pursuit when innocent civilians might be in danger. He had to stop the chase before someone was hurt. He would just have to keep his fingers crossed that the sheriff’s deputies could set up the roadblock at the mouth of the canyon in time. Even if the kid slipped through, he knew where to find Charlie Beaumont.
Riley eased back and turned off his flashing lights to let the kid know he was curtailing pursuit, but the driver of the pickup, probably juiced up on adrenaline and heaven knows what else, didn’t seem to care. The vehicle was still moving dangerously fast, especially on a curvy canyon road in the dark with those big fat snowflakes falling steadily.
After that, everything happened in a blur. At the next curve, Charlie swung too wide, too fast, and veered into the other lane—directly in the path of the oncoming vehicle.
Riley saw headlights flashing crazily as that driver veered to the shoulder to avoid a head-on collision. He held his breath, hoping the other driver would be able to maintain control. For a second, he thought the other vehicle would make it safely back onto the roadway, but he didn’t even have time to offer up a prayer before the vehicle somehow found a gap in the guardrails along the reservoir and a moment later the headlights soared over the side.
“Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit!”
Riley hit the brakes and felt the patrol SUV’s tires slither to gain traction. He turned into the skid and fought to regain control…and as he did, he vaguely registered the headlights of Charlie Beaumont’s pickup were nowhere in sight. How had he escaped so quickly?
He picked up the mic and yelled for the sheriff’s deputy to hold the roadblock and for the dispatcher to send emergency vehicles, that he had a vehicle possibly in the water. Without waiting to answer questions, he grabbed his waterproof flashlight and a crowbar from the trunk, then raced to the edge of the slope.
Snow stung his face, but he barely noticed as he scanned below into the dark water. Finally his flashlight picked up the shape of the vehicle about twenty feet from shore. It hadn’t rolled, a good sign, but it was leaning nose-down toward the driver’s side, submerged in water up the bottom of the windshield.
Riley made his way down the snow-covered slope as quickly as he dared, sliding a little as he went. He was nearly to the bottom when he heard a voice from above, barely discernible over the wind.
“What can I do?” a man called from the road. “Need me to call for help?”
He didn’t recognize the voice and couldn’t make out the man’s features from this angle. “I’ve done that already,” he shouted back. “Keep an eye out and direct the ambulance.”
Until he had a chance to assess the scene, he didn’t want another civilian down here for him to worry about.
“Should I go check on the other guys?”
He paused in the act of shoving his flashlight into his waistband and removing his Glock 9 mm and holster. “Other guys?”
“Yeah. The pickup truck. He spun out and crashed into a tree just around the curve.”
Riley’s gut clenched. He’d been so preoccupied watching in horror as this car sailed into the water that he hadn’t seen or heard the other vehicle’s collision.
For a second he was torn about what to do, then he yanked off his other boot. As far as he was concerned, the suspects could rot while they waited for help. If Charlie Beaumont hadn’t been such an asshole to run, none of this would have happened. Innocent victims got first dibs on rescue, that was his philosophy.
“Yeah, go check on them,” he answered the man he now recognized as Harry Lange, although what the wealthiest man in town might be doing spying on intruders at his neighbors’ house and responding to accidents in the middle of the night was anyone’s guess. “Does your cell work this far up the canyon?”
“It’s spotty but I might get lucky.”
“Call 9-1-1 and tell the dispatch we’ve got two accidents to deal with and we’re going to need all available units up here.”
“Got it.”
He was taking too long with this, while the occupants of the vehicle in the water needed rescue. He just had to trust Lange would be able to reach dispatch to send more help. With a deep, steadying breath, he braced himself and headed into the water.
The shock raced through his nerve endings like ice blocks clamping hard around his feet and calves. He ignored it, pushed past it and waded out.
By the time he had crossed ten yards, the brutally cold water had reached his waist. Snow and wind whipped any exposed flesh and every breath seemed to slice at his lungs like tiny switchblades. He was aware of the bitter cold on some level, but mostly he forced himself to focus on what had to be done.
“Help us. Please, somebody, help us.”
The desperate cry chilled him worse than the elements. By the sound of it, that was a kid’s voice, a young girl, wet, cold, possibly injured.
Kids. Damn it.
“I’m coming. Hang on.”
In the cloudy moonlight, he could finally make out the vehicle was a small SUV, a Toyota, by the look of it. He saw at least a couple of heads and now could hear other young voices crying. The sound of those desperate voices pushed him even faster and he finally just dived in and swam the remaining distance.
With icy hands, he pulled his flashlight from his waistband and aimed it into the vehicle window. He saw a form slumped over the steering wheel where a now-deflated air bag had deployed. He moved the light to the backseat and saw three pale faces staring back.
He tried to pull the doors open but they wouldn’t budge because of the water pressing in. “Can you wind down the window?” he yelled.
“No, we tried. They won’t work.”
Power windows tended not to be real cooperative when the car’s battery was submerged in four feet of water. He pulled out the crowbar, grateful for whatever instinct had prompted him to grab it. “Look, I need you to move away from the window and cover your face with your hands. I’m going to break the window, okay?”
“Okay.” He heard the muffled response from inside.
“Are you all clear?”
“Yes.”
Urgency lent him added strength and he slammed the crowbar into the window. It shattered and he brushed at the glass with his wet sleeve.
“I didn’t think anybody saw us. I thought we would be here all night,” the girl whimpered. He knew that voice, but he couldn’t see her features very well. He aimed the flashlight to get a better look at possible injuries and everything inside him froze.
Macy Bradford.
One of the