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

the abrupt reply.
    Dylan navigated the car onto the highway and brought it up to speed.
    After only a few minutes at full speed there was a sign warning of construction and reduced speed.
    “Could be a good place to escape.” The British accent sounded sweet. “Or to die.”
    “Look,” Dylan started before the traffic slowed, “the way I see it now, this ends with a bullet in the back of my head. Either it happens in front of a cop and you go down for it or I wait and it happens in the woods somewhere in Canada and no one ever finds my body. Which one would you prefer?”
    The man in back did not immediately reply.
    Construction work had not begun yet and there was not even a noticeable slow down in traffic. Dylan clenched his fist in frustration.
    There was bound to be more construction at some point. He needed to think of a plan to take advantage of the opportunity when it arose.
    “I’ve escaped from maximum security facilities in three countries,” the man in the back seat said. “Getting caught and locked up is a pain in the ass, but it’s not the end of the world for me. You still wind up dead.” There was a tinge of laughter in his voice.
    “Then let me help you for real. Montana is the only thing in the world I care about. If my life is over and I can’t help him, I might as well go all-in with you,” Dylan said, thrashing between giving up and fighting for survival.
    “What color is my hair?” the man in back asked.
    “What?” Dylan assumed he misheard or misunderstood the question.
    “If you look in the mirror again, you’re dead. What color is my hair?” the man asked again.
    “Brown?” Dylan responded nervously.
    “Keep driving, eyes forward, and you have one chance to survive. If you don’t believe me, try something, and your precious doggie will never see his master again.”  
    Dylan had no idea if he had been right or wrong about the hair. He started to think about what the man looked like and how he would describe him to a sketch artist. Nothing distinguishing came to mind.
    The guy in the back of the car was your average, stereotypical white man. Somewhere between five-ten and six-two, he probably weighed anywhere from one-ninety to two-twenty. His hair was brown, or dirty blonde, or was he wearing a hat? There was absolutely nothing about this man that would make him stand out.
    While the miles raced past, Dylan developed a new hope—that the man would pass out. His hip was bleeding badly and clearly he had been up early that day. The only problem would be in determining when he was out.
    Please let him snore.
    When they reached Canterbury almost fifty minutes later, Dylan decided to think only good thoughts. Don’t think about escaping, don’t think about the hassle he would face if he lived, think only about walking in the woods with Montana.
    His dog had kept him sober on a number of occasions. Now he was keeping him from breaking down and giving up.

Chapter 5
     
    “Don’t go daft on me,” the man in back said as they entered Vermont.
    So much for passing out, Dylan thought.
    “I really gotta piss,” Dylan said, stating a fact more than asking to stop.
    “I don’t fucking care. Piss or don’t piss, you stop the car and you’re dead,” his captor answered.
    The urge really hadn’t been present long but suddenly the need for relief consumed him. Dylan thought he heard water and then seemed to notice every pond and wetland on the side of the road. As they cruised along at seventy miles an hour, Dylan scrunched his toes and then released them. His fingers squeezed the life out of the wheel and then stretched out as straight as he could make them.
    A new set of options raced through his head. He could just start peeing and sit in it or he could try and unzip his fly and try to relieve himself in the foot well.
    There was something about being found dead in a car sitting in a puddle of your own piss that bothered him. Though when a bullet passes through your brain,