Page 40 of Monster Queen Rising

Thaw pulls the truck in across the street. Flame in the first-floor windows, the second-floor glass blowing out. No fire trucks yet. The street is empty except for one man in a dark jacket two buildings down, watching the fire and watching the street, not on his phone.

Thaw sees him the same moment I do.

"They took her."

The man sees us see him. He doesn't run. He turns and walks south at the pace of a man who is not in a hurry.

Thaw is on the radio. "Dean."

Static, then: "Here."

"She's gone. They have her. We're an hour behind, maybe less. What do you have?"

"Two transports. White panel vans. Southbound I-5. On-ramp camera caught them. Running quiet, under the limit."

"Direction."

"Still south. No lane changes, no pace changes. Heading down toward the valley."

"Closest take-point."

"Marker 249. Long stretch, no exits, the road bends east, wide shoulder. Sixty miles ahead of you. They hit it in an hour if they hold."

"We’ll make it there."

Thaw puts the truck in gear.

The interstate at dawn. The sky going pink at the eastern edge. The road mostly empty. Thaw at ninety-five and not slowing for anything. I have my palm flat over the Fen-mark. I reach for him down the bond. Warm. With me.

"You're going to use the voice on the driver," Thaw says.

"Yes."

"Think it will work?"

"It has to."

His gold eyes hold steady.

We come up on them at 6:04. Two white vans running together in the right lane at sixty. Thaw passes the second, goes around the first, pulls in ahead of the lead and drops his speed. They'll pass at the next gap.

I roll my window down. Thaw drops to fifty. The lead van pulls left to pass.

It comes alongside. The driver is a man in his forties, dark uniform shirt, no markings. He sees me looking.

Thaw puts one round through the driver's window. Safety glass explodes inward.

"Pull over."

It carries across the space between two moving vehicles and lands in his ear. His jaw locks. His hands fight the wheel. His foot lifts anyway, and the wheel comes with it, the right tires catching the soft edge at fifty — and the van pitches.

It rolls. One roll. Then another. Glass and folding metal, the driver's door gone into the grass. It comes to rest on its passenger side. Smoke.

The second van pulls past at speed and does not slow. Thaw is already braking, sliding us onto the shoulder. We stop fifty feet ahead.

Mary.

I'm out of the truck. The back doors have come open in the roll. A stretcher strapped to the floor, a woman strapped to the stretcher. And a second man in the cargo space — the guard, thrown loose, up on one knee.