Texas Outlaw (Rory Yates #2) - James Patterson Page 0,85

the time to explain to Ariana what I’m doing. I’m just up and gone.

I snag the satchel without breaking stride. Bullets strafe the dirt behind me as I dive behind Kyle’s F-150. They fire into the truck, and a metallic symphony fills the air. Jewels of glass explode from the windshield.

I make myself as small as possible, curled up and head down like I’m in elementary school during a tornado drill. Hollywood will have you believe a bullet can’t pass through a vehicle, but that’s far from true. A round from an AR-15 could enter a driver-side door and fly right through and out the passenger door on the other side. Fortunately, I’m at the front of the truck and they’re shooting from the back, at a slightly downward angle from the hill, so there’s a whole lot of metal to go through to get to me. They have to practically shoot through the whole truck lengthwise.

Finally, the firing stops. The silence in its aftermath is overwhelming.

I dig into the satchel, trying to be quiet so they’ll think I’m dead. I glance over at Ariana. She has a terrified, confused expression on her face, but when I pull out a bundle of road flares from the bag, a different look comes over her features.

A look of hope.

I’m hiding behind Kyle’s truck—or what’s left of it—which means I’m halfway between the tanker and my truck. My truck has a large colorless puddle underneath, and the air has reeked of gasoline since the sniper first shot it up, so I assume the gas tank’s been punctured.

I pull the cap off the flare, exposing the igniter button on the end. I hold the sandpaper surface on the igniter, ready to strike. Watching from the tanker, Ariana gives me a nod.

As soon as I scratch the rough surface against the flare, brilliant, burning light bursts from the stick and the air is filled with the smell of sulfur. Molten chemicals spray onto my shirtsleeve.

I rise to my knees and lob the flare up into the air toward my truck, like I’m back on the football field making a short pass over a line of defenders to a receiver across the goal line. Only instead of my tight end, I’m throwing to a puddle of gasoline.

The flare lands right where I want it, and the effect is instantaneous: flames erupt around my truck. A column of thick black smoke rises into the air.

When Kyle was digging into his storage box, he must have had the realization that if we could light one—or both—of the trucks on fire, we might create a wall of smoke that could cover our retreat.

McCormack’s men seem to realize what’s at stake because they spring into action. The ATV motor roars, and I risk a glance to spot the gunmen charging down the hill. They’re not far away at all—fifty yards from the tanker, maybe closer.

“Run!” I yell to Ariana, and I light the second flare.

I back away from Kyle’s truck and give the flare a sidearm toss to squeeze it between the bumper and the ground. The gasoline underneath the truck ignites with a whoosh, and suddenly the air around me is twenty degrees warmer. I run, keeping the wall of smoke between me and the sniper on the hill. Bullets from the M24 come sailing through the cloud, but Gareth is firing blind. Without even discussing it, Ariana and I meet up and race toward a rocky ravine up ahead that bisects two hillsides and looks like it will be out of Gareth’s sight.

The ATV roars around the tanker, carrying two of McCormack’s men, the driver gripping the wheel with both hands and another guy on the back trying to steady his AR-15. Before he can get his bearings, I draw my pistol and spin and shoot, all in one fluid motion. The gunman on the back tumbles off, his flaccid body like a sack of dead weight.

The driver skids to a stop and reaches for the TEC-9 strapped to his chest. He swings the gun toward us, but I don’t give him the chance to pull the trigger.

He slumps over the steering wheel, one of his eyes replaced by a bullet hole.

Then Ariana and I continue to sprint toward the cover of the ravine. The AR-15s start up like chainsaws, ripping the air apart. Bullets fly through the smoke, tearing giant clumps of dirt from the ground. But the shooters can’t see us and don’t realize that we’ve