My Big Fat Accidental Superheroine Wedding (Team Quantum Book 2) by J.R. Rain & Kris Carey

Author:J.R. Rain & Kris Carey [Rain, J.R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rain Press
Published: 2018-07-21T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Dad hitched up the two horses, then huddled with Reuben Yoder over an old Texaco fold-out map of the state of Ohio, while the rest of us got ready and then snuck into the buggy. When we left after dark, instead of following the farm driveway and turning onto Route 7, Dad took an old cart trail through the woods that emptied into some fallow meadows between a much bigger neighboring farm and the J & R Lumber pond, then crossed the road and the storm drain over Black Creek. Needless to say, this caused a lot of jostling and bouncing inside the buggy where six of us were crammed like sardines into a cab built for four. Twice we had to all get out and push. All except me, who was cradling my wedding cake forlornly.

It felt like I was fated to stay an old maid forever.

Or until we got caught by the Feds, whichever came first.

Everyone piled in again, and we cut through some more fields before picking up a dirt service road to a chorus of barking dogs. The Yoders were going to have some very pissed-off neighbors in the morning, but that’s pretty much par for the course if you’re Amish, anyway.

Dad was up front driving the buggy, with the Human Flashlight riding shotgun in the box beside him. Inside the cab were Mom, me, and Giancarlo on one wooden seat, and Sliderwoman, Jabberwacky, and Minute Maid facing us in the other. Everybody got out a third time to push the buggy down and over a ditch, then up onto Gibbs Road, County Route 270, where we turned left. A helicopter hovered not far away, and more dogs started barking from neighboring farms. Who needs sophisticated aerial surveillance systems when you’ve got kennels full of half-starved future shelter puppies behind every third farmhouse? Hey, when the government puts you on a dole not to plant crops, you’ve got to figure some kind of way to raise enough cash to pay off the inheritance taxes, right?

Terrible as it may be, I guess puppies are a cash crop, too. At least for some people.

About a hundred yards along, we spotted a DHS staging area, with about eight gleaming black vehicles, some of them paramilitary, lining both sides of the narrow road and acting as a kind of checkpoint. There was a twin of the same “fire-truck”-type APC that had spewed blue dye at us in Bowling Green, maybe even the same one.

“Tell your dad to speed up right before we get to them, then go past them as fast as he can, okay?” said Minute Maid in an urgent tone, and Giancarlo relayed her instructions up to Dad through the open window.

Dad cracked his whip―literally, the Amish don’t worry about political correctness―and the two big geldings picked up speed, breaking first into a sort of trot, then an actual slow gallop. We must have been going at a dizzying fifteen or twenty miles an hour, the clip-clop of their iron-shod hooves echoing loudly on the asphalt road, along with the harness bells.

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