Page 23 of Wild Sentinel

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The Stillwater Grill was the premier steakhouse in the county. Forks clinked against plates, and the delightful aroma of grilled food filled the restaurant. Our waiter brought out two bacon-wrapped filets that sizzled on hot plates. JD and I both ordered the same thing with sides of mushrooms and grilled potatoes. Drenched in garlic butter and covered in lemon pepper, the steak looked mouthwatering.

“Please cut into your steaks to make sure they are cooked to your liking,” the waiter said.

I did, and mine was. We both gave him a nod of approval.

That first bite was divine. It was almost as good as the Five Fathoms in Coconut Key. And that was saying a lot.

We took the opportunity to kick around theories about the cases, and wash it all down with a few glasses of red wine.

In the hills, the Stillwater Grill overlooked the town, which lit up at night. A nice, old-school bar served fine spirits, and a talented gentleman in a tux tickled the ivories. The place was packed, and it was easy to see why.

After we filled our bellies, Marcus drove us back toward the motel.

It wasn’t far, just a short drive on a faded two-lane blacktop surrounded by pines and rocky terrain.

We hadn’t been on the highway long when a vehicle pulled up to our bumper. Its headlights blasted into the cabin.

Marcus squinted, looking in the rearview. It was a truck or SUV. Headlights high off the ground. Marcus rolled down the window, reached his hand out, and waved the vehicle around. He drifted to the shoulder to give them room. Common mountain courtesy.

The highway was empty.

Just the two of us.

The desert beige truck with dark-tinted windows and fat knobby tires pulled alongside, crossing the double yellow line. The passenger window rolled down, and a submachine gun emerged.

“Gun!” I shouted.

Muzzle flash lit up the night.

Bullets spewed, peppering the glass.

Marcus jammed the brakes.

JD and I ducked for cover and drew our weapons.

Shards of glass scattered.

Metal popped and pinged as bullets drilled into body panels.

Marcus swerved to avoid the fray and plowed through the guardrail. We careened down the slope, streaking past pines, narrowly missing them.

Until our luck ran out.

SMASH!

The town car crashed into a thick tree. The hood buckled, and steam billowed from the radiator.

Airbags deployed.

The seatbelt locked out, and I slammed into it.

That would leave a mark.

The engine hissed and popped. Steam billowed from a cracked radiator.

After an impact like that, it took a moment to recover my wits.