CHAPTER 175

Rack

The firepower I have in the Jeep forces me to abide by speed laws. I push it when I can, long desolate roads where I can see car lights in the distance. I pull over twice and doze for thirty minutes having learned the art of catnapping in the military. It keeps me alert. About fifteen hours into the trip, the weather takes a drastic turn. I hate the fucking cold and my thin Arizona blood isn’t happy. I’m in jeans and a light cotton T-shirt. My flak jacket is in the trunk. It has no sleeves but the Kevlar will help keep me warm when I put it on. For now, the Jeep’s heater does the trick.

I try to mentally block the pain from my wound. The stitches pull and even with the shitload of antibiotics shot into me, it feels like my side is on fire. I’ve survived worse injuries and continued fighting—this is no different. It’s better to dwell on the chill in the air. I’m a complete pussy when it comes to the cold.

Rain hits at the Montana state line. Camp Springs is two hours northeast of