American Lease (A Dylan Cold Novel Book 1) Read Free Page A

with the…body. I don’t want to leave him.” Dylan was afraid to speak.
    “Fuck your dog. Go north.” The passenger spoke slowly and clearly. “No toll roads and nothing stupid. If you’re still alive at the border, I’ll tell you what to do before we hit Canada.”

Chapter 4
     
    The last time Dylan had driven this carefully he’d had more than $5,000 of stolen oxycodone in his car. He had been so paranoid about getting stopped he had waited too long at each stop sign and traffic signal. People had honked and screamed at him so much he felt like the whole world was watching.
    He was a young drug addict then. Now he was an older recovering addict who needed to be cool to live, not just avoid getting in trouble.
    As he navigated the quiet streets of town, he considered various escape scenarios.
    If he saw a cop, he could slam on the brakes and dive out of the car. That would have to get some attention. If the man in back wanted to shoot him, he would also have to kill another officer.
    There was no way Dylan could have stopped the first officer from dying, but it didn’t feel right to put another officer at risk. There had to be another way out.
    The car was equipped with airbags. He could drive into a telephone pole and count on his airbag to save him while disorienting his rear seat passenger. Then what? Get out and run? Hope he was able to get his bearings before the bad guy?
    During his football days he could have recovered faster, but it had been years since he’d been hit or even knocked off balance. If the man in back was as trained and hardened as he seemed, it may have been only days or weeks since he had a physical altercation. He’s better equipped for it.
    Just drive , Dylan told himself. Canada is several hours away, let your mind drift and the answer will come to you.
    As they approached the Everett Turnpike, the gunman leaned forward.
    “No tolls,” he commanded.
    “Sorry. Habit,” Dylan answered.
    Dylan continued over the highway and turned north on the old road. There were traffic lights and a few other cars. Not many chances to be spotted and potentially rescued.
    At the first traffic light, Dylan casually looked around as if checking for other cars. He noticed a pile of papers on the front passenger seat but did not inspect them for details. The roads were still quiet due to the early hour, but there were joggers and a small pack of bicyclists coming toward the intersection.
    The next light was even quieter and desperation started to set in.
    Dylan realized that he would likely drive this man all the way to Canada only to be shot in the back of the head. The few people in the world who knew and cared about him would assume he had been using again and had just fallen back in with the wrong people.
    His past sins were catching up with him. Karma really is a bitch.
    One car that looked promising from a distance turned out to be a Volvo with a ski rack. The one police car they drove past had an officer focused on the laptop in his center console. Every second spent on the run made him look like an even bigger suspect in the killing of the cop back in Brookford. Even if this guy let him live, his life would be a total mess for a long time.
    Even Montana would be mad at him for being left alone.
    Montana. Maybe the guy was a dog lover.
    “I know things don’t look good for me, but can I make a call for my dog? He’s just really special and I want someone to look out for him,” Dylan asked. He felt tears welling in his eyes.
    “I don’t give a fuck about your dog,” the man in back snapped.
    So much for that idea.
    They drove on in silence until they reached Manchester and the intersection with 101 and 93.
    “93 has high-speed tolls. I assume there are cameras, but they probably aren’t monitored in real time. It’ll take days to get to Canada on these back roads,” Dylan said, more interested in getting the whole experience over with than anything else at this point.
    “Fine,” came