Crossing Savage by Dave Edlund

sports car. I’m doing everything I can.”
    The first two shots had been poorly aimed, but the third shot connected and the driver’s side-view mirror exploded. Peter jumped and almost lost control. He steadied the wheel, every muscle in his body tensed.
    Jim unzipped his jacket and calmly removed a large semiautomatic pistol from a shoulder holster—a Paraordinance Super Hawg .45 auto. This should even up the odds .
    Peter glanced over and saw the weapon. “What the hell? Where did that come from?”
    â€œLet me introduce you to Karl—I never leave home without him.”
    â€œYou named your gun?” exclaimed Peter.
    â€œWell, we spend a lot of time together.” Jim climbed into the back seat and opened the sliding rear window. He raised the Super Hawg and took aim, firing carefully. The report inside the cab of the truck was truly deafening, and Peter’s hearing was reduced to the ringing in his ears.
    The pursuers suddenly dropped way back. Jim was pretty sure he had missed the driver, but was pleased that the show of force had pushed them back. “Keep it moving, don’t slow for anything!” he shouted
    The sedan continued to hold back and Peter cleared the next hairpin-turn and entered a long stretch of mostly straight highway. The road was still climbing, maybe another three or four miles until they reached the summit of Tombstone Pass. The truck was still accelerating—fortunately nothing critical had been shot up.
    The sedan began to close the gap again. “They’re coming up on us! Try to hold steady and I’ll see if I can slow them down again!”
    Jim was trying to get a steady bead on the front grill of the sedan. The car was about 60 yards distant—just a little closer, Jim thought. It closed to about 40 yards and Jim was putting pressure on the trigger.
    BABABAP! BABABAP!
    Jim ducked at the unmistakable sound of automatic fire. He raised his head and again… BABABAP! He fired off three quick shots, not having time to aim carefully, hoping for a little luck.
    Peter yelled, “What’s that? That’s not what it sounded like before!”
    â€œThey must have dug up a machine gun! We’re gonna be in a world of hurt if they get lucky or close!”
    Peter was approaching a fork to the right. It wasn’t a marked road; it wasn’t even paved. But Peter knew the road—NFD245. It was one of many national forest roads that crisscrossed the mountains—a legacy of the logging industry that used to be the bread and butter of so many Northwest families. Peter slowed to make the turn.
    â€œWhat are you doing? Keep going! They’re getting closer!”
    â€œWe can’t outrun them on this grade! Our only chance is to change the playing field!” Peter turned sharply right and left the paved highway.
    Skinny had the MP5 submachine gun in his grip and was taking aim as he leaned out the passenger window when the truck suddenly braked and turned sharply right. The driver followed, and his maneuver almost caused Skinny to drop the gun. Skinny regained his balance, but he could no longer lean out the window because of the uneven road surface, pitted by frequent pot holes. They kept following the Hummer truck, eating the dust it kicked up from the dry gravel road.
    Peter continued forward, but the rough road forced a much slower speed. Without the threat of gun fire, Jim reached for his cell phone. “I’m calling in backup—this has gotten too serious.”
    He pushed a button to unlock the screen. “Crap! No signal. I guess we’re still on our own.”
    â€œI could have told you that. Dark zone, man—no cell coverage for miles.”
    â€œGreat,” said Jim. “Okay, time for plan B.”
    â€œI didn’t know you had a Plan A, let alone a Plan B,” said Peter.
    â€œI do now. When you see a road to the right, take it and stop as fast as you can. That should leave me