I was in Harry’s bedroom, lying on top of the sheets because McGlade had joked about having quote super herpes once too often for it to be funny. We were still chugging along, because he’d taken a bunch of trucker stimulants that he’d picked up at a roadside gas station. Something in an obnoxious neon green bottle called No Sleep 4-Ever!!!

  Yeah, it actually had three exclamation points. And a warning label longer than a chapter in a James Patterson novel. So while McGlade kept the hammer down, cruising at our top speed of 53mph, I stared out the window into the night, thinking about Herb and Tequila, and about the apology I owed my husband.

  By the time four am crawled up on me slow as a frightened caterpillar, my eyes hurt so much from crying they felt like peach pits. I gave Rosalina a pat on her enormous head—she was sprawled across most of the bed like a lumpy, snoring bearskin rug—then got up in search of Visine.

  Nothing in the bathroom medicine cabinet but stolen little bottles of hotel shampoo, so many condoms I wondered if Harry had stock in the company, and more trucker pills, these in an obnoxious bright orange bottle with the label WOKE AS FUCK!!! Three explanation points again. Maybe that was a thing.

  I braved going through the curtain, expecting to see the twins spooning, but they were awake and on the Internet.

  Snuff-X.

  They looked at me like their mother just caught them with a Playboy mag, and I brushed off the mixture of shock and disgust and asked them if they’d seen any more of my friends.

  “There was one viddy of that short guy,” said Heckle.

  “Tequila,” said Jeckle.

  I didn’t want to know what was on the video. Which was why I asked.

  “Cowboy dude has some sort of gun, shoots wires through their chins.”

  “Your buddy didn’t even flinch. Tough mofo.”

  I clenched my jaw, nodded, considered asking them for Visine, decided not to because taking any sort of drug from those two seemed stupid as hell, and walked past them.

  McGlade called the cab of the Crimebago Deux the cockpit, because he’s a pig, and there was a door separating it from the rest of the RV. I didn’t want to walk in on something gross, so I knocked first.

  “If that’s Waddlebutt, I’m out of pebbles,” Harry said.

  “It’s me.”

  “Where’s the penguin?”

  I glanced back at Heckle and Jeckle, and they pointed to the fridge.

  “He’s cooling off. Do you have any eye drops?”

  “Jackie, I’m on a cross country road trip. I’ve got enough eye drops to lubricate a giant squid.”

  I didn’t get it.

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “They have eyes the size of dinner plates.”

  “Can I borrow the eye drops?”

  “Biggest eyes in the animal kingdom. I thought everyone knew that.”

  I’d run out of patience for Harry back in Murfreesboro. “McGlade…”

  “Yeah, you can have some. Give me a second to put my pants back on.”

  I waited.

  “I was kidding, Jackie. Yeah, come in.”

  I opened the door and came in. There was an… odor. And to make things even more disturbing, Harry was driving in his underwear. His boxer shorts had Spider-man on them.

  “You said you were kidding.”

  “I was. About putting my pants back on. If I try that while driving, it could kill us all.”

  “Eye drops?”

  “Glove compartment.”

  I sat in the passenger seat and opened up a glove compartment the size of my kitchen closet.

  “Put your seatbelt on when riding shotgun,” McGlade said.

  Rather than argue I was only going to be a few minutes, I clicked it on. That’s when I noticed the jug of liquid on the floor next to Harry.

  Pale, yellowish liquid.

  “Don’t tell me that’s urine,” I said.

  “Fair enough. I won’t.”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  “Kidding. It’s iced tea. Want some?”

  “Pass.”

  I continued to hunt for eye drops. I found a large first aid kit, some reflective Mylar emergency blankets, a flashlight, some baby powder—

  “Gimme the baby powder,” Harry said.

  —an expired energy bar, more condoms, a stick of deodorant, a pair of socks—

  “And the socks,” Harry said. “My tootsies are freezing.”

  —and some warranty papers. No Visine.

  I handed over the socks and baby powder.

  “I thought you said there were eye drops in the glove compartment.”

  “Nope. I just said glove compartment.”

  “Where are the eye drops?”

  He pointed to the dashboard, at the bottle of eye drops. I wouldn’t say it was giant squid-sized, but it was a pretty large bottle.

  I squirted some in each eye, and after a few seconds of stinging I felt better.

  “So here we are,” Harry said. “Once again.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Harry and Jack, off on another adventure.”

  I closed my eyes, staying silent.

  “On the road. Confronting evil. Saving the world. Just like old times.”

  I thought about Phin. Thought about what a jerk I was. Wondered if four in the morning was too early to call and apologize.

  “You still going to be in this self-loathing funk when the heavy shit comes down?” Harry asked.

  That got me to respond. “What heavy shit? When we find them, we’ll call the police.”

  “That’s the plan. Sure. But how often do plans go our way?”

  “This one will go our way.”

  “Right. That’s why you brought Phin with. Because there will be absolutely no danger at all.”

  “We’re going to let the police handle this, McGlade.”

  “Of course we are. But that doesn’t mean there won’t be any risk. There’s always risk. Don’t you get that? After doing this shit for three-fifths of your life? Admit it, Jack. There’s risk.”

  “What do you want me to say, McGlade? That I’m some kind of thrill seeker, getting off on chasing psychopaths?”

  “No. I want you to say that we’ve chosen professions where a lot of things can go wrong. And do go wrong. Right?”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  “I know it. You know it. And you know who else knows it?” Harry glanced at me. “Herb and Tequila.”

  I felt my eyes start to burn again.

  “It isn’t your fault, Jackie. They chose this profession. Same as us.”

  “It’s not the same. They did it for me.”

  “They knew the risks. Stop blaming yourself.”

  “I left them there.”

  “We left them there. For dead. Because we thought they were dead. And we had to get out of there before we were dead, too. And if circumstances had been different, they would have left us there. But now that we know better, we’re going to make it right. Except we can’t make it right if you’re being a drama queen, focusing on your feelings instead of the task at hand.”

  I didn’t reply. Mostly because I hated it when Harry was right. Happily, it didn’t happen very often.

  “I need more caffeine,” he said, reaching for his bright yellow bottle. “Can you get me a water from the pantry?”

  “How about your iced tea?”

  I picked up the bottle, and noted how warm it was just as Harry gave me a look that said of course that isn’t iced tea don’t be an idiot.

  I dropped the bottle. “Yuck, McGlade.”

  “Don’t judge.”

  “What am I supposed to do? Be proud of you? You want an atta boy for pissing in a bottle?”

  McGlade turned unusually solemn. “Before my last livestream, while you were walking Rosalina, Heckle and Jeckle showed me the footage. Of Herb. I’m not stopping for anything until we get him. Including stopping to take a piss.”

  He looked as serious as McGlade was able to look.

  “That’s… actually a pretty good reason.”

  “I thought so. Until I did it.” He shrugged. “Big mistake.”

  “Not the urinary experience you were hoping for?”

  “It was awful. Why do you think I’m in my underwear?”

  “Because you’re a weirdo pervert.”

  “True. But pissing in a bottle with one good hand while driving isn’t easy. Jack…” Harry’s wince made him look like a gargoyle. “…it got everywhere. My pants. The steering wheel. The dashboard. The windshield. And the trucker pills didn’t help any. It was like a dropped firehose, spraying out of control.”

  That was an image I didn’t need in my head.

  “That’s an image I don’t need in my head.”

  “And I didn’t need it all over my pants. See how much is in that bottle? That’s not even a third of it.”

  There was a whole lot of pee in that bottle.

  While this was a perfect time to heap on the criticism, I felt an unusual streak of empathy for the man.

  “Want me to drive for a bit, while you clean up?”

  “Thanks, Jackie. I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem.”

  “Grab a towel. My seat is still soaked.”

  “Pass,” I said.

  “Can you pull off my damp socks?”

  “No.” I stood up.

  “Help me put some baby powder on?”

  “Sure, Harry. That’s what friends are for.”

  “Really?”

  “No, not really. Even you’re not that stupid.”

  “My thighs are chafing,” he whined. “I think I gave myself diaper rash.”

  “See you later, Harry.”

  “At least bring me my water.”

  I didn’t bring his water.

  After passing the browsing Brothers McCreepy, I climbed back onto the bed, laid on my back, and spent a full minute staring at my cell phone.

  “Screw it,” I whispered. “I’m telling him that I love him and I’m sorry.”

  I dialed Phin.

  Phin didn’t pick up.

  THE COWBOY

  They’re gone.

  Over a dozen volunteers that Yuri insisted on airing out are no longer standing next to the LeTourneau.

  As the Cowboy stares out over the dark, vast plains, the immediate reaction is surprise. There have been many escape attempts in the past, and one mass escape, but they’d been quickly resolved. A man can’t get far lugging a thirty-five pound weight, especially barefoot over rocky terrain. The tracking and rounding up had been simple, even somewhat enjoyable. But the pulling teeth had been like… well… pulling teeth. Even sharing some of the workload with their crazy driver, Dmitri, it had taken over five hours to properly discipline the workers. The Cowboy’s shooting arm had been sore for days.

  So after the momentary shock, the Cowboy descends into full-blown annoyance. They’ll have to organize teams, break out the GPS equipment, unload the all-terrain vehicles—

  “Oh… shit.”

  The tactical flashlight the Cowboy is using focuses on a kettlebell, resting in the dirt, the wire cut.

  Then another.

  And another.

  The realization comes like a slap.

  The GPS trackers are in the kettlebells.

  The anger envelopes the Cowboy like an old cartoon, a red thermometer line rising from toes to head until it feels like steam is about to come whistling out of the ears. The Cowboy’s hand goes for the gun on reflex, draws, and almost shoots into the night when something more powerful than rage takes over.

  Doubt.

  Yuri is going to be furious.

  The Cowboy isn’t afraid of the Belarusian. With proper planning, and the element of surprise, killing everyone on the LeTourneau, Yuri included, would be as easy as winning the Saloon Shootout in Gunslinger Showdown. It might even be fun.

  But there would be consequences. Yuri has mob ties. Former KGB. Bratva. The Cowboy needs to acquire the land train free and clear, not through devious means, or else spend the next decade worrying about being hunted down by some very scary folks.

  Making the white Russian happy is the key to Usher House 2.0. That means no shooting into the plains. That would scare the volunteers, make them run faster, make them harder to catch. Or it might even kill one, and with Yuri so close to his deadline, the loss of a slave would delay things even more.

  The Cowboy holsters the Ruger, then hurries to Car #1 to inform Dmitri of the escape.

  This is just a minor setback.

  It has to be.

  As good as the Cowboy is, taking on the Russian mob would be one of the ugliest forms of suicide imaginable.

  And the Cowboy needs to live for a long, long time.

  HERB

  He had no idea how many days had passed since that fateful shootout in Baja. It seemed like a lifetime ago. A lifetime filled with pain, fear, suffering, despair, and painful, debilitating hope.

  But running through the cold desert, the wind chilling him like an ice bath, the stones and twigs underfoot pinching and stabbing, the days and weeks and months of injury and sickness and malnutrition, Herb had never felt more alive.

  Herb’s grandfather, a child of the Great Depression, had often told Herb that to fully understand the value of a bowl of soup, go a week without any food.

  Herb had grown up in the US of A. Home of the free.

  But he hadn’t truly understood the value of freedom until that very moment.

  It was a high like no other.

  Herb turned, to check on Tequila, who was laboring a few steps behind. He waited for his friend to catch up, and strained to see the land train lights behind them.

  How far had they gone? A kilometer? Two?

  The mountains were still impossibly far away. The plains stretched out forever in all directions. No roads. No fences. No farms. No woods. Just dirt and rocks, grass and scrub brush, the trees so few and far between that they would provide zero cover come daylight.

  Tequila caught up, and Herb clapped his bare shoulder, surprised by how cold his skin was.

  “You okay?”

  Tequila was shivering. “Going to need shelter soon. Exposure. Can’t keep my core temp up.”

  “What can we do?”

  “I’ll build a shelter out of rocks and grass. We can rest and warm up, and it will hide us.”

  “You can do that?”

  Tequila made a strange coughing sound. It took a few seconds for Herb to realize his friend was laughing.

  “Sure, start gathering pebbles while I weave us a roof.”

  “Funny. Real funny.”

  “Sorry. Delirious. Not thinking straight.”

  “Want me to… hug you?” Herb asked.

  “You want to bond? Now?”

  “I saw it in a movie. Skin-to-skin contact could warm you up.”

  “You’re just as cold as I am. That would be like putting ice on ice.”

  Herb looked out over the plains. “So what do we do?”

  “We run until we find shelter,” Tequila said. “Or until we drop.”

  It was as good an idea as any.

  They ran another forty paces.

  And then Tequila dropped.

  THE MAN

  Logging on, he checks Jack’s phone.

  She’s stopped. In Nebraska.

  If he drives fast, he can be in Omaha in under ten hours.

  He wonders if he should wait. Watch to see if she keeps moving west.

  After a few seconds of pondering, he grabs his bag, his guns, and heads for the car.

  Waiting was never his strong suit.

  In the car, he smiles, thinking of Jack’s reaction when he shows up.

  She’ll be very surprised.

  And she’s not going to like it.

  YURI

  Dmitri came on over the intercom. “There has been an escape.”

  “Is the Cowboy handling it?” Yuri replied.

  “He needs help.”

  “Help to catch a single runaway?”

  “There was more than one.”

  “How many?”

  Dmitri paused, then said, “Fifteen.”

  The words were like daggers piercing Yuri’s temples, twisting in his brain.

  “Fifteen,” he repeated, keeping tenuous control over his emotions.

  “Da.”

  “So track them.”

  “They cut their wires somehow. Trackers were in their weights.”

  Unbelievable. Unacceptable.

  If Yuri had been in Belarus and something like this happened, the Cowboy would have been executed for incompetence.

  “How about radar?” Yuri said.

  “I’ve got the wave set for a square meter. We’re getting hits, but the targets are moving surprisingly fast.”

  “Are the rest of the volunteers secure?”

  “Da. Yes.”

  Yuri clenched and unclenched his enormous hands. Hands that were strong enough to crush a soup can.

  But he felt helpless.

  This shouldn’t be happening. Not now. Not when they were so close to the delivery date.

  “Where is the Cowboy?”

  “The Punishment Room. Interrogating one of the volunteers.”

  “Wake up the whole crew. Stay on the radar, give them directions. I want every last prisoner found and returned.”

  “Da.”

  Yuri stood up and exited the train car, climbing down the ladder and stepping out into the night. It was cold, which was good; men exhaust quickly in cold weather. He took a moment to curse himself for being too lenient on the workforce. If they had enough strength to run off, they should have been pushed to harvest faster. But the self-flagellation quickly passed, and his wrath centered on the Cowboy.

  Yuri was supposed to sell the LeTourneau to the Cowboy when the quota was reached. And Yuri was relying on that money.

  But if Yuri’s fear enforcer did anything to delay the deadline…

  Suffice it to say that the Cowboy wouldn’t be pleased with Yuri’s response.

  Yuri took a moment to cool down, then climbed into Car #12.

  As expected, the Punishment Room was occupied. A volunteer, his chin wire still in place, was strung up by his wrists, doing the cattle prod dance as the Cowboy zapped him.