“Which is the safest?”

  “There’s nothing safe. We have to get that through our heads.”

  Randy laughed in a panicked way and closed his eyes for a second, as though trying to absorb the truth.

  While they finished their coffee, Lauren thought about Breeze and the Tappan ranch in Wyoming. It was a beautiful place in the mountains. Suddenly, begging her best friend’s forgiveness for her part in Jim’s death didn’t seem like such a hard thing.

  But Breeze is in Denver. Her eyes went to the smoke pall where it glowed brown and ugly in the morning sunlight. It seemed to hang over the city like an evil and malignant pestilence.

  Breeze? You all right up there?

  She tried to second guess how Breeze would react. Last Lauren had heard, Breeze had a BMW 650.

  Come on, Breeze. Be smart enough to realize how this is coming down.

  Lauren prayed that Breeze was already headed north. Hell, she could have made it all the way back to the ranch by now. With that thought, Lauren emptied the dregs onto the fire and kicked dirt over it to smother the coals.

  As she walked to her bike, Lauren tightened her helmet’s chin strap and paused. Instead of pulling her right glove on as usual, she tucked it into the tank bag, along with her cup, and zipped the pocket closed. She had almost dropped her S&W last night, fumbling because of the heavy glove. The thick padding had jammed in the trigger guard.

  From here on out, she couldn’t afford to take any chances.

  She started the bike, flipped the switch for the heated grips to compensate for the loss of her glove, and gave Randy a nod. After creeping through the traffic last night, he’d learned a lot about the use of his clutch, but he still bobbled as he pulled out in her wake.

  Today makes us, or breaks us.

  CHAPTER TEN

  9:O5 AM Monday

  After a harrowing ride past stranded motorists, Lauren rolled up before the gas pump at the Pay-N-Pak General Store in Fairplay. The sign read: $20.00 a gallon. Cash Only!!! Pay inside.

  She used her heel to lower the kickstand and stepped off, feeling a bit of monkey-butt: that numb sting that reminded her she’d been riding on a dual-sport bike with a skinny and under-padded seat. By now, she suspected, the first wave of exodus would be starting from Denver. Despite the occasional cars and trucks they’d passed, roads had been clear enough that she’d ignored the stop in Bailey and pushed on to Fairplay.

  In the vacant lot across the street, it looked like people were living in their cars. Hastily scribbled cardboard signs in the windows read: Need Cash! Any donation helps! and PLEASE FEED OUR CHILDREN!

  Randy killed his engine a foot behind her and pulled his helmet off. “God, I’m cold.” He pulled off his gloves, blowing on his fingers, and asking, “How’d your butt ever get to be so tough?”

  “Doesn’t feel very tough at the moment,” she replied as she glanced at the high mountains around them. This early in June, patches of snow still stood out white against the gray granite peaks where they jutted into the clear blue mountain sky.

  Randy promptly gave her a sheepish look, then pulled his phone to check for messages.

  She walked up to the station door and went inside. A woman—maybe mid-forties with red hair—sat behind the counter. A big TV screen hung on the wall over her head, but it was turned off.

  “Where’d you come from?” the woman asked.

  “Up from Deckers.”

  “How’s it look?” she asked.

  “Road’s still open. More than I can say about I-25 between Colorado Springs and Denver.”

  “Headed far?”

  “Trying to get to Wyoming.”

  “You got a ways to go, then. Need to fuel up?”

  “Both bikes. Shouldn’t take more than four gallons.”

  Lauren handed her a hundred dollar bill, which the woman held up to the light.

  “You’ll get your change if there’s extra.”

  “Thanks.”

  While Randy hit the Men’s room, Lauren walked back outside, topped off their tanks, and went back to buy two microwave burritos. As she carried them to the counter, Lauren studied the almost empty store shelves, and thought about the TV being off. National TV used satellites to beam their broadcasts around the country and world. So, was the whole world in chaos?

  Placing her chicken burritos on the counter, she asked, “What do you hear about the roads up north into Wyoming? I’m figuring on taking 9 through Breckenridge.”

  The woman’s brows lifted. “Well, I heard they were going to close Interstate 70 at the Eisenhower Tunnel last night. Heard it’s passable west of the tunnel, but don’t try Denver. Governor cracked down with a total curfew. Lot of shooting last night. This credit card thing is really playing hell. Stores won’t take the food stamp cards. Government cards. Nothing except cash.”

  She gestured to the parking lot outside. “Like them folks living in their cars. Just had credit cards and not enough cash, so they’re waiting it out. Figure the cards will be accepted sometime on Tuesday, and they can gas up and get home.”

  “Anything on the national level?” She couldn’t keep the dread out of her voice.

  “Not much. TV, phone, even most radio has been shut off by the government ’cause they’re afraid of another cyber hack, but we heard the president’s big address last night on our shortwave radio.”

  “What did she say?”

  The woman gave Lauren a disgruntled look. “You ask me, she’s a broken record. Keeps repeating the same old garbage. Things like, ‘This lawlessness must end,’ and, ‘I’ve called up the troops to put down violent protests,’ followed by a plea to be patient, communications will be up and running again in a few days, and this will all be over soon. ‘Shelter in place, shelter in place. The government will fix this.’ Over and over.”

  “You think it’s true?”

  “Damn well better be. We’ve got people huddling in their cars all over town. Stranded, waiting for the credit card machines to go back online.”

  “I understand.”

  The woman gave Lauren a skeptical look. “Bet you don’t. You don’t have any kids with you. Most of those people out there in the cars do, and they’re terrified. They can’t even buy a bottle of milk for their screaming babies.” The woman counted out Lauren’s change. “That’s what’s left of your hundred dollars.”

  “Thanks.”Stuffing it in her pants pocket, Lauren glanced up at the dark TV screen. It was habit. “Why was there so much shooting in Denver?”

  The woman pointed to her head. “Never understood those folks on the Front Range. People have gone crazy. Man in the gray Chevy out there said they made it out in a nick of time ’cause they knew all the back roads to take. Said the governor called out the National Guard, but half the soldiers didn’t have cash to buy gas. The rest couldn’t get across Denver to report for duty on account of the abandoned cars on the roads.”

  “So crime is running wild?”

  “The way I hear, it’s a free-for-all. Word is that the murder rate has climbed two thousand percent and scared people are barricading themselves in their homes.”

  The woman tipped her chin toward Randy, who was fiddling with his phone as he stood in the door. “You and your friend might want to get on those bikes and as far from here as you can.” She paused. “Got enough cash?”

  Cautiously, Lauren answered. “Hope so.”

  “Good, ’cause I don’t think charity is going to be in any kind of oversupply in the coming days.”

  After Lauren and Randy walked back to the bikes, he said, “At least there’s phone service, but it’s all National Security Alert stuff from the Department of Homeland Security. Like they preempted the system. The whole page scrolls down with all these new rules and regulations. No unnecessary travel. Shelter in Place. Obey all military and police instructions. Do not hoard food. Do not do this, do not do that. God, it’s like a freaking bad movie.”

  Lauren pulled out her own phone, finding the same thing. Prominently displayed, a line of text from her provider told her that by order of the President and the Department of Homeland Security, during the current emergency internet access and phone service would be temporarily interrupted. A whole list of laws, executive orders, and the applicable regulations followed.

  Like, who the hell cared about that, right?

  When she tried her email, the screen remained blank. Same thing when she tried calling Tyrell. Just...nothing. The effect that had on her was as upsetting as anything to date.

  “Talked to a guy while you were getting gas,” Randy told her as he put his phone away. “Denver sounds like what happened in downtown Kabul when we pulled out.”

  The images that flashed through Lauren’s mind made her grit her teeth: Little girls being dragged out of houses…boys and men shot down in the streets…bodies with nooses around the throats hanging from windows.

  Lauren handed Randy a burrito and unwrapped hers. She ate fast and washed it down with a bottle of water from her pack. Tyrell had told her about Afghanistan. About how the different tribal regions stayed in an almost constant state of war, raiding each other, burning fields, taking hostages. After twenty years of freedom, resistance fighters were everywhere, struggling to win back their country from the Taliban. Maybe it hadn’t been a waste after all.

  Lifting her helmet from her mirror, she pulled it down over her ears and threw her leg over the motorcycle. When she hit the ignition key, the Kaytoom came alive.

  She said, “Gangs are a lot like tribes. Let’s hope the country isn’t headed that way.”

  Randy looked around the parking lot where people were waiting in their cars. “All these folks think the problem’s going to be fixed in a day or two.”

  Lauren nodded. “President Brown keeps promising.”

  As she accelerated across the lot and headed for the junction with Colorado 9, she wondered if there was anything that anyone could do.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  At Frisco, expecting to continue north on Colorado Highway 9 they took the onramp to I-70 East. A quarter mile later, a Colorado Highway Patrolman at the checkpoint turned them around, informing Lauren—in no uncertain terms—that travel any farther east or north was “prohibited”. He motioned her to take the crossover to the west bound lane, sending them back the way they’d come.

  Relegated to Interstate, she and Randy made their precarious way to Wolcott, where they talked their way past an Eagle County deputy sheriff to head north on Colorado 131.

  At the junction in Toponas, Lauren twisted the throttle open when several men who’d been leaning against a pickup tried to flag her and Randy down. It was a pattern she quickly adopted. A motorcycle moving at a hundred miles an hour made an effective ally.

  But Lauren was smart enough to know she couldn’t run the next roadblock. They’d made it to the turnoff where Colorado 14 turned off of US40. A Jackson County deputy sheriff sat with his car straddling the centerline. A small knot of men stood next to a pickup behind him. Some wore billed caps, others were in cowboy hats. Most were carrying rifles. Their gun barrels glinted blue-black in the slanting rays of afternoon light.

  As she approached, the black-haired deputy flipped on the flashing lights and stepped out into the road, calling, “Can I help you?”

  Lauren killed the bike and instinctively removed her helmet. The deputy’s expression changed perceptibly, obviously expecting a man.

  “We’re headed for Wyoming, trying to get to a friend’s ranch outside of Hot Springs,” Lauren told him.

  Randy shut his Kawasaki down and removed his helmet, too.

  “Can I see some ID?” The deputy was giving them a squinty-eyed look. Maybe trying to look tough?

  Lauren and Randy handed over their licenses.

  The deputy’s eyes narrowed. “Says you’re residents of Colorado Springs.”

  “I was studying at the university there. Randy, here, is from Seattle. We worked at a bank in the Springs.”

  The deputy arched an eyebrow. “You have cash?”

  “A little,” Lauren said. “Enough to buy us a meal and get us to Rawlins up in Wyoming.”

  “How much fuel you got in those tanks?”

  Lauren pushed back on the bars and studied him. In his twenties, he kept one hand propped on the pistol in his belt holster. “Like I said, we’re just passing through. We’ve got enough gas to get us to Rawlins, so we’re not going to be any trouble for you or the other officers.”

  “You’re already trouble. You probably haven’t heard, but they’ve declared a National State of Emergency. No unnecessary travel.” He gestured to her motorcycle. “Which is what you’re doing.”

  “Look, we’re just trying to get across the Wyoming line. After that, we’ve got family who’ll take care of us.”

  “Uh-huh.” His lips twitched. “Well, you’re not going to. On top of President Brown, your governor up in Wyoming is a son-of-a-bitch. He’s closed the borders. Says he doesn’t want to be overrun by people fleeing the cities in surrounding states.” The deputy worked his jaws as if he was chewing on something. “It’s going to cost you a hundred bucks.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “To get past us. Call it a toll. You know. Like a toll road. We got families, too.”

  Careful.

  Lauren winced. “How about twenty-five. It’s not like we’re rich.”

  “Seventy-five.” The deputy said. “I got a heart. But that’s my last offer. Pay up, or turn those bikes around and get out of here.”

  Lauren took a deep breath, pulled out her wallet, and shelled out seventy-five dollars. Let the deputy see that doing so pretty much cleaned her out. The rest of her cash was in Tyrell’s bag strapped to the back of the bike.

  “Thanks for your business,” the deputy told her. “Oh, and just so you know, I’m radioing your tags ahead. You’d better be across the Wyoming line or in the refugee camp by midnight.”

  “Refugee camp?”

  “That’s what they’re calling all the vehicles that are stalled-out up on the Laramie road just south of the Wyoming border.”

  “All right,” Lauren told him and clamped her helmet onto her head. The deputy stepped back as she started the KTM. She toed it into first and motored past the rifle-toting men, then accelerated down the long slope into North Park with its world-renowned hay fields. The fragrance of new-cut grass hay carried on the wind—curiously clean and fresh in contrast to what they’d just endured.

  Five miles on, Lauren eased onto a pullout. Killing the bike, she stepped off and waited for Randy to shut down.

  “I’ll pay you back, Lauren. I can’t believe we really just had to bribe a deputy.” Randy said in disbelief as he rolled up beside her.

  “Yeah, well, it has me thinking. You’re wearing that fancy ICON touring jacket. It’s got a hidden pocket, doesn’t it?”

  “Sure. Down in the back under the lining.”

  “How much money are you carrying?”

  “Three thousand four hundred and change.” When her mouth gaped, he added, “Like you, I figured maybe I’d better close my account.”

  “All right. I suggest you put all but about fifty bucks in that hidden pocket. Call it insurance in case we get shaken down again.”

  Stunned, he said, “Right. Okay.”

  While he did it, she pulled fifty from the envelope in the boogie bag and slipped it into her wallet. Almost as an afterthought, she reached into Tyrell’s bag and moved the loaded .45 pistol to the tank bag in front of her. Call it added insurance.

  “Jesus, Lauren! How many pistols do you have?”

  She gave him a flat look. “How many people have tried to wave us down today? Not to mention the guys stopping us last night? Now a cop just shook us down.”

  “What else is in Tyrell’s bag?”

  “A broken down M4. Night vision goggles. Survival equipment. Ration packs, signaling devices. Entrenching tool. Hand grenades. Just about all the shit a Ranger-patched lieutenant in Delta Force would need.”

  Randy stared out at the mountains on either side of the shallow valley. Through a shaken exhale, he said, “Son of a bitch.”

  She slapped a hand on the side of the KTM’s tank. “If Governor Agar really has closed the borders, it means the situation along the Wyoming-Colorado border—”

  “Has turned medieval?”

  “Good description. The governor has pulled up the drawbridges around the castle and plans to defend the walls at all costs.”

  “But what could possibly have happened that would—”

  “Maybe Wyoming was attacked.”

  “Attacked?” he said in disbelief. “That’s nuts. Who’d attack the state of Wyoming?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Damn.” His gaze seemed to have gone hollow. “Nothing’s going to be the same, is it?”

  “Doubt it.”

  In the golden light of the high-country sun, Randy’s face took on the pale translucence of a Renaissance angel. But it was his eyes that riveted her attention. They were enormous, owl-like, and glittering with fear. The police shakedown had scared him more than thieves with guns.

  “Lauren, seriously. How bad do you think it is?”

  “Governor Agar is nobody’s fool. I suspect the situation along the Front Range is going to shit. Come on, we have to get out of Jackson County, and I don’t think it’s going to be easy.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Apparently the convenience station in the center of Walden hadn’t heard that travelers couldn’t buy gas. Lauren and Randy topped up their tanks, paying only ten bucks a gallon. Then they wheeled the bikes to the side and stopped to eat a sandwich. The bald heavy-set city cop at the table across from them said, “Headed to Wyoming, huh? You know the border is closed?”