Jack kilborn SErial blakE crouch

Jack kilborn SErial blakE crouch
brett’s chuckle sounded forced this time, and Donald-
son didn’t join in. brett put his hand in his pocket. Going
for a weapon, or holding one for reassurance, Donaldson
figured. not many hitchers traveled without some form of
reassurance.
but Donaldson had something better than a knife, or a
gun. his weapon weighed thirty-six hundred pounds and was
barreling down the road at eighty miles per hour.
checking once more for traffic, Donaldson gripped the
wheel, braced himself, and stood on the brake.
The car screeched toward a skidding halt, brett’s
seatbelt popping open exactly the way Donaldson had rigged
it to, and the kid launched headfirst into the dashboard.
The spongy plastic had, beneath the veneer, been reinforced
with unforgiving steel.
The car shuddered to a stop, the stench of scorched
rubber in the air. brett was in bad shape. With no seatbelt
and one hand in his pocket, he’d banged his nose up pretty
good. Donaldson grasped his hair, rammed his face into
the dashboard two more times, then opened the glove
compartment. he grabbed a plastic zip tie, checked again for
oncoming traffic, and quickly secured the kid’s hands behind
his back. in brett’s coat pocket, he found a tiny Swiss army
knife. Donaldson barked out a laugh.
if memory served, and it usually did, there was an off
ramp less than a mile ahead, and then a remote stretch of
10