The truck slipped and slid and skidded in the Tahoe’s impacted
ruts. He bounced over hidden rocks. He touched the brake. The
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truck lurched and drifted sideways and stopped with the front
wheels down in a snow-filled trench. Neagley fought her way
through the drifts and pulled the door. Icy air followed her
inside.
‘Hit it,’ she said. She was panting again. ‘They must be at
least five minutes ahead of us by now.’
He touched the gas. All four wheels spun uselessly. The
truck stayed motionless and all four tyres whined in the snow
and the front end dug in deeper.
‘Shit,’ he said.
He tried again. Same result. The truck shuddered and rocked
and didn’t go anywhere. He switched the transmission out of
locked-low-range and tried again. Same result. He let the engine
idle and put the transmission in reverse, then drive, then
reverse, then drive. The truck rocked urgently back and forth,
back and forth, six inches, a foot. But it didn’t climb out of the
trench.
Neagley glanced at her watch. Fhey’re out there ahead of us.
They could get back there in time.’
Reacher nodded and touched the gas and kept on banging
the transmission lever into reverse, into drive, into reverse. The
truck bucked and bounced. But it didn’t climb out of the trench.
The tyre treads howled on the glassy snow. The front end
dodged left and right with the engine torque and the rear
end squirmed with it.
‘Armstrong’s in the air now,’ Neagley said. ‘And our car isn’t
parked next to the church any more. So he’s going to go ahead
and land.’
Reacher looked at his own watch. Fought his rising panic.
‘You do it,’ he said. ‘Keep it rocking back and forward.’
He twisted round and grabbed his gloves. Unclipped his belt
and opened his door and slid out into the snow.
‘And if it goes, don’t stop for anything,’ he said.
He floundered round to the rear of .the truck. Stamped and
kicked at the snow until he got his feet braced against rock.
Neagley slid across into the driver’s seat. She built up a rhythm,
drive and reverse, drive and reverse, little taps on the gas as the
gears slid home. The truck rocked on its springs and began to
roll back and forth along a foot and a half of impacted ice.
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Reacher put his back against the tailgate and hooked his hands
under the rear bumper. Moved with the truck as it pushed back
at him. Straightened his legs and heaved as it moved away. The
tyre treads were full of snow. They flung little white hieroglyphs
into the air as they spun. The exhaust fumes burbled out near
his knees and hung in the air. He stumbled forward and pushed
backward, again, and again. Now the truck was moving two feet
at a time. He clamped his hands harder. Snow was blowing
straight out of the west into his face. He started counting. One,
two.., three. One, two.., three. He started walking the truck
backward and heaving it forward. Now it was moving three feet with each change of direction. He stamped a chain of footholds. One, two . . . three. On the last three he shoved with all his
strength. He felt the truck climb up out of the trench. Felt it fall
back in again. The tailgate butted him hard in the back. He
stumbled forward and floundered for grip. Rebuilt his rhythm.
He was sweating in the cold. He was out of breath. One, two…
three. He heaved again and the truck disappeared out from
behind him and he fell backward into the snow.
He rolled up through the stink of gasoline exhaust. The truck
was twenty yards ahead. Neagley was driving it as slow as she
dared. He slipped and slid and chased after it. He swerved right
to get in its wheel track. The ground rose: Neagley gunned it to
maintain her momentum. He was running hard but she was
driving away from him. He sprinted. He smashed the toes of his
boots into the snow to keep from slipping. She slowed at the top
of the rise. The truck went up and over. He saw the whole