No Exit by Taylor Adams 2

6:15 a.m.
Ashley Garver whistled Bing Crosby’s White Christmas as he
scavenged Corporal Hill’s Glock 17, a bright yellow Taser, and
a badass friction-lock baton. He flipped through the cop’s
billfold as well, pocketing two twenties and a ten, while noting
that the guy’s wife looked like a total wildebeest.
The highway patrolman had squeezed off a reflexive
string of gunshots as he went down, shattering the passenger
window behind Ashley, punching a hole through the Astro’s
ceiling, and blasting a final few into the sky. One bullet
might’ve grazed his face; he felt a stinging gash had opened up
on his cheek. Or it could just be his scorched skin cracking in
the alpine air.
Either way, what marvelous luck. Jelly-side up, indeed.
Ashley decided he’d kill the snowplow driver next. That
tall diesel rig was like a stopper plugging the rest area’s
parking lot shut. Then he’d finesse the Astro around and get
the hell out of Colorado before Corporal Hill’s backup arrived.
Although — hell, bring ’em on.
Ashley could take them all.
He paced down the long parking lot as the Wanapani
visitor center burned and collapsed behind him, approaching
the headlights of the idling truck. The sky was turning pewter,
a brightening gray as the sun readied to break over the
horizon, and he checked the remaining ammo in the cop’s
Glock. These magazines were notched in the back with little
numbers, so you can easily eyeball how many rounds you have
left. He saw at least nine. Plus a second full mag he’d plucked
from Corporal Hill’s belt. He loaded that one, just in case.
Now he stood in the blinding wash of the truck’s
headlights, shielding his face. He concealed the Glock in his
jacket pocket, where it fit comfortably. He couldn’t see