Part 45 (1/2)

Jo kept Murdock in her peripheral vision. He stood next to the Tahoe, signaling to Calder.

The pickup's high beams drilled the street. Behind the wall of white light she thought she saw a shadow stretch from the sunroof of the pickup.

”Oh, h.e.l.l-”

Murdock pitched backward as though he'd been slammed in the chest with a wrecking ball. The report came as a crack in the air. Murdock fell and lay splayed on the ground with a dark wet stain spreading across his chest.

Aorta, or straight into a ventricle.

”Jesus.” Jo ducked.

The next noise sounded like a marble hitting the winds.h.i.+eld at the speed of sound. A small clean hole punched through the gla.s.s.

”h.e.l.l's happening?” Vance tried to open the back door but the childproof lock stopped him. ”Murdock, what's-”

Crack, another bullet pierced the winds.h.i.+eld. It hit the empty pa.s.senger seat. Gla.s.s dust and upholstery fragments blew around the interior.

”They're shooting at us. Vance, put the car in gear,” Jo yelled.

His face stretched with panic. ”What?”

”Shooting. Put it in gear. Do it.”

The pickup roared toward them, eating up the distance down the wide avenue. Another report pinged off the Tahoe's frame. Vance cringed. His face bleached white in the glare of the onrus.h.i.+ng headlights.

”Vance!”

Whimpering, he fumbled for the gears.h.i.+ft. Jo yelled, ”Come on.”

He yanked the gears.h.i.+ft into reverse and cringed to the floor in the back seat.

Jo floored it.

Crack. A hole powdered the winds.h.i.+eld. Vance whimpered. In the mirror, Jo saw Misty work her hands under her b.u.t.t and pull the gag from her mouth.

”Riva's shooting at us?” Misty shouted.

No, your husband is. Jo hunkered down. She needed speed, needed to put distance between her and the shooter, and would never do that in reverse.

She slammed on the brakes. ”Put it in drive.”

They squealed to a stop. Vance's arm flailed for the gears.h.i.+ft. Got it. The SUV jerked into drive.

Jo aimed straight at the headlights. Pedal to the firewall. She ducked low and heard a plea in the base of her throat that was mostly terror and some freakish kind of prayer. Outta my way, motherf.u.c.ker.

”What are you doing?” Misty said.

Two hundred yards. One fifty. A hundred.

Above her head, the Tahoe's sunroof shattered. Gla.s.s sprayed across the inside of the vehicle. She held the wheel straight.

Airbag wasn't going to protect her below the chest. Her donor card was current.

”Run away!” Vance shrieked.

Fifty yards. She was committed. The high beams were right in her face.

The pickup swerved.

Bam, a hard noise reverberated through the Tahoe. The pickup had clipped the Tahoe's wing mirror clean off. In the rearview mirror, Jo saw the pickup veer, overcorrect, and bounce over the curb onto the lawn of an office building. In the far back of the Tahoe she saw Misty bent over Seth, working somehow to free him from the plastic handcuffs.

The pickup's brake lights came on. It fishtailed, kicked up clods of gra.s.s, and turned a doughnut on the lawn. Jo saw the dark shape of a man standing on the truck's pa.s.senger seat and bracing himself against the sunroof, and he had to have a h.e.l.l of a big gun. She kept her foot to the floor.

”What's going on?” Misty cried.

”f.u.c.k, oh, f.u.c.k oh f.u.c.k it f.u.c.k it...,” Vance moaned. ”What's happening?”

”Riva's trying to G.o.dd.a.m.ned kill us. Cut me loose from the cuffs.”

Misty cried, ”Seth, stay down.”

Jo sped south along Coleman. She needed to get to a populated place. She needed a police station. She needed a battle tank and a Stinger missile.

”Call Riva,” Vance cried from the floor. ”Tell her to stop.”

”She won't. We have to get away. Cut me loose.”

In the mirror the pickup's high beams swung around and centered on her again.

Kanan stood on the seat and braced himself against the frame of the sunroof. Riva swerved back into the road and headed south after the fleeing Tahoe. The rifle was steady in his arms.

One down.

One to go. A woman was at the wheel. He couldn't see her from this angle, but he was sure he'd spotted long dark hair, a pale face. Somebody determined to kill them, playing chicken, racing straight at them. No question about it.

The wind raked his face. He squinted at the Tahoe. The pickup's headlights reflected off the tinted gla.s.s in its tailgate. He saw movement inside. A person?

”Riva,” he yelled, ”you sure it's just two?”

”Ian, take your shot.”

He bent down and shouted into the pickup. ”Is somebody in the back of the Tahoe?”

”No.”