The Glock was on the seat beside me, wedged beneath the go-bag, and I reached over for it, moved it into my lap. The Civic was an automatic, and I took both hands off the wheel long enough to rack the slide, to make the pistol ready. Then I slid the barrel beneath my right thigh, on the outside, so my weight would keep it from bouncing around should I do anything to anger the Laws of Physics, but so I could grab it in a hurry if the need arose.

I had a very strong feeling that the need would arise very shortly.

The lights behind me were steady, still keeping their distance. The sky was playing in shades of black and blue, and I couldn't tell the make of the vehicle. From the height of the headlights, I guessed it was a pickup of some sort, or maybe an SUV.

That damn reserve light was still on, still warning me that I was low on fuel.

I felt my pulse begin to race.

If the tank had been tapped, punctured, or drained just enough to get me going but not enough to get me where I wanted to go, there was no telling what else had been done to the vehicle. No telling if a bug had been planted, if an explosive had been placed. That the car hadn't blown up when I'd started it was small consolation; it's easy enough to rig a charge in two phases, to prime when the engine starts, to detonate when it stops.

I didn't much like thinking that, because it meant that when the car died, I would, too.

There was a turn coming up, onto County Route 10, and I made the right, and when I did the lights behind me seemed to move closer, just a bit, as if whoever was handling the vehicle behind me wanted to keep me in sight.

We'd passed a Citgo station on the way to the safe house, in the direction I was currently heading. It couldn't be more than half a mile from where I was now. I'd noted it because there'd been nothing else around, just the pumps and a garage and a lot and the encroaching woods.