by S L Shelton
Ahead, I could see the traffic light coming up at West Ox. The motorcycle was still accelerating and had pulled to within twenty feet of me, trying to get into the other lane as he dropped his hand to his sidearm. From the other direction, an SUV was just starting to pull to the side to let the motorcycle pass, so I took the opportunity to slam on my brakes and swerve into the oncoming lane, abruptly cutting off my pursuer.
The motorcycle smashed into my trunk, sending the rider flying over the handlebars and then sideways to the pavement on the side of the road. The driver of the SUV had not yet stopped moving and didn’t get to the brake fast enough—he hit the fake cop with his front tire, dragging the attacker’s body as he folded up and rolled underneath.
“The motorcycle is down,” I said calmly, once again astounding myself with the glass-like quality of my voice despite the adrenaline pumping through me. “The van is still coming.”
“Help is on the way, but it’ll be a while,” he said. “Where are you?”
“Turning onto West Ox,” I replied as I prepared to turn left at the light. “Which way is the help coming from?”
“He’ll be coming down 66,” John replied.
In the middle of my turn, I changed directions, turning right instead of the planned left. The sudden change of direction sent the rear of my Toyota sliding sideways, clipping a delivery van that was in the intersection waiting to make a turn. The impact actually allowed me to resume more quickly.
“Sorry,” I yelled toward the driver as I sped away.
Note to self: Use other vehicles to avoid spinning out and losing momentum.
I fishtailed a bit as I dodged around a slow moving car, and then had to drift to the shoulder to keep from slowing down again. A wobble had developed in my front tires, and it was getting worse with each passing second.
“I’m assuming this is job-related,” I said sarcastically to my phone. “Will the company pay for a new bumper and realignment?”
“Focus!” John yelled.
“Yes, sir,” I replied as I swerved around a slow moving sedan, only to have to weave back again as soon as I blew past it.
I was whipping past slow-moving vehicles at a frightening rate of speed and garnering startled stares and angry horn blasts.
I checked the rearview and saw the van having difficulty making the turn onto West Ox, but it was still in pursuit. As soon as he was on the straightaway, though, he began making up lost ground. Big engine, I thought.
Swerving through the red light at Bennett Road, I barely missed a minivan that was crossing on a turn—that slowed me down as well. By the time the pursuing van got to the light, it had turned green, allowing him to close even more distance, slipping through the intersection unimpeded.
“I’m out matched on engine size, here, John,” I muttered.
“Hang on,” he said. “Help’s on the way.”
The next light would be Ox Trail. I scanned ahead, straining to see if there was stopped traffic—there was, so I had no choice but to slow down to weave my way through the crossing vehicles. The van had closed nearly the entire distance by the time I was through and other drivers were pulling over to the side, not wanting to get tangled up in the chase. That was giving the van free passage as it honked its horn through the intersection.
“Cut me some slack, people,” I muttered to myself. “Don’t help him.”
“Nick says he can be there in ten minutes,” John said. “That’s closer than the response team.”
“I’ll have to do something before then, John,” I said. “He’s almost got me now.”
“Evade!” John yelled.
The van was within ten feet of my bumper by the time I reached the cloverleaf at Route 50. I made the rash decision to try to break across the median. My idea was to cut through northbound traffic and take the exit ramp on the opposite side.
Plans often crash and die in the face of reality—I hit the concrete curb going too fast and temporarily lost control, allowing the driver of the van to close the remaining distance, nosing into my sideways-skidding car.
The scream of metal on metal grated against my ears as he pushed my car, slamming me into the guard rail and water barrels in front of the jersey wall. Water and metal went flying as if I had just been dropped into the middle of tornado. My car jerked me roughly to the side as it bounced into the other lane, making me very thankful I had buckled up.
I grunted from the impact and frustration as my body whipped sideways against my seatbelt, and the driver’s side door folded in several inches to touch my elbow. I slammed the gas down and pulled the limping vehicle the rest of the way across toward the exit ramp before the engine cut out, but the van still had full mobility—it backed up and straightened out as I coaxed my stalled vehicle to start again.
“Shit,” I muttered.
“What’s going on?” John asked anxiously just as the van lurched forward again, t-boning my poor Toyota.
SLAM!
“Son of a b—,” I muttered through gritted teeth as I tried to straighten my wheel to pull forward.
“What’s happening?” John asked as the van backed up to ram me again.
“Jesus, John,” I yelled, my body bracing for the hit. “He’s pushing me over the—”
SLAM!
He pounded the side of my car again, but didn’t stop this time—instead he continued to push forward, plowing my car toward the embankment. I was looking up into the cab of the van as they pushed me toward the edge of the ramp and over the side.
“Shoot him!” John yelled.