by Rob Horner
Gasping, almost blind with pain and panic, Ortega wasn’t sure when the agent holstered his pistol, but the man’s hands were empty now. The police had arrived, cars parked nose to nose across the driveway, sirens off but flashers a blurry mass of confusing colors. He tried to speak, but he had no air. He gasped in a breath and the action of moving his diaphragm sent a new spasm of pain through his gut. All he wanted to do was curl around the agony in his middle, but the strong agent kept him on his feet.
“Help him, he’s been shot!” Travers shouted at the police, even as he shoved Ortega forward. Manuel staggered one step, then two, seeing blurs of motion as the police got out of their vehicles. Why was the sun so bright?
Strong hands rolled him over, though he didn’t remember falling.
Then there was more pain as two sets of hands dragged him aside.
A sudden rush of noise, a crash of metal on metal, and then, mercifully, he passed out.
2
Agent Travers turned away from the staggering naval officer, reached into his pocket, and grabbed the keys to the Mustang he’d taken from Agent Black. Moving fast, he knelt and retrieved his silencer, slipping it into a jacket pocket. Looking up, he saw Black behind the wheel of the Durango, engine already running.
“Kirkson, you’re with me. Black, open us a hole and turn left.”
Though his face was ghastly, his broken arm obviously painful, Agent Black managed a grim smile, backing the Durango out of its parking spot.
Who would the police follow? Travers dropped behind the wheel of the Mustang as Kirkson climbed into the passenger seat. The Durango gunned its big engine as the two hapless policemen worked desperately to pull the captain out of the way. The big SUV plowed into the police cars, bulling open a space between them. Shooting the Mustang backward out of its parking space as the Durango surged forward, Travers followed in its wake, easing into the roundabout and then accelerating down Hornet Drive.
“We’re going to have to talk about what you did back there,” Kirkson said from the passenger seat.
“I got us out of there,” Travers growled, looking for the blue Focus that couldn’t be too far ahead.
“I mean,” Kirkson said patiently, “we need to have our stories straight as to why you did it.”
Travers raced forward, passing several large hangars on the right, flight lines and runways beyond the hangars visible in the brief spaces between buildings.
“The police showed up, Kirkson. Digest that while you work on our stories. Who called them?”
From behind came the sound of a police siren. The squad car didn’t appear too badly damaged, despite being pushed aside by the Dodge; it was gaining on them.
And there! Maybe a hundred yards ahead, in front of a Volvo, was the Focus. The girl was accelerating away from the intervening car, breaking the posted speed limit. But as soon as she managed to open some space, her brake lights came on.
“There’s someone in front of her,” Kirkson announced gleefully.
“And oncoming traffic,” Travers added. The road leading to and from the back gate of NAS Oceana was only two lanes; Sherry couldn’t pass the car in front of her now, not without killing herself. Smiling grimly, Travers pressed his accelerator to the floor, counting on the police behind him to keep up. The Volvo braked, the driver responding to the police siren, coasting to the side of the road. Not slowing, Travers whipped the Mustang around the smaller car.
“Shit!” Travers exclaimed a moment later, rapidly shifting his right foot from the accelerator to the brake, as a large Bronco tore out in front of him, no doubt driven by some asshole Airman who thought any opening was a good one.
3
Sherry cursed as the big, red sports car drew closer, whipping around a sedan, eating up the distance and filling her rearview mirror. She was stuck behind a red Toyota Camry, and even from behind she could see the frizzy white hair of someone’s grandmother driving the car like it would fall apart if she dared to go over thirty. Who knows? Maybe the grandmother would fall apart.
Desperate, Sherry eased to the left, only to pull back rapidly as an oncoming Jeep nearly took out her side-view. The glimpse she’d gotten of the oncoming traffic wasn’t encouraging; there were at least another ten cars coming, all pretty evenly spaced out. There wasn’t going to be a chance for her to pass Granny Gumpshit before she reached the gate.
“Damn damn damn!” she hissed, watching the Mustang draw even closer. The road was clear in front of the Toyota. If only she could get ahead to make use of it. The speedometer hovered between twenty-eight and thirty miles per hour. Maybe she could force the old woman to go a little faster. Tight-lipped, Sherry pushed harder on the accelerator, pulling closer to Camry.
In the next instant she exclaimed again, jerking her foot away from the pedal as the old woman tapped her brakes in warning. “Damn all old people over fifty!” Sherry shouted.
Travis moaned in the seat beside her, his body rocking with the motion of the car. Even unconscious he sounded in pain. Damn it, she had to get away, had to get him some attention. But where? How?
Another glance in her rear-view brought a sigh of relief. A big truck had pulled out between her and the Mustang. Now if only he’d stay there.
The wail of a police siren drew her eyes back to the mirror. The Bronco started to slow, easing to the shoulder of the road. The powerful Mustang roared around it, gobbling up the road between them.
“Shit!”
And the car in front of her, the old bitch, responded to the siren. Her brake lights came on as she eased to the gravelly surface on the side of the road.
She couldn’t be stopped, not here!
Those people wanted to kill her, wanted to take away everything. Again!
She wouldn’t let that happen, not now, not ever.
A gray Plymouth Duster zipped by, some young buck’s restoration project, and Sherry seized her chance.
4
“Come on, boys, be useful,” Agent Travers mumbled as the police car came up behind him, lights flashing, siren wailing. It had the desired effect; the Bronco’s brake lights came on and it began pulling to the side. Taking a quick glimpse at the oncoming traffic, Travers jammed his foot on the accelerator, feeling all eight cylinders kick the rear-wheel drive like a slap on a horse’s ass. Hands clenched, he made two tight adjustments and swerved around the SUV. The Focus was slowing as well, forced to stop by the Toyota in front of it.
And then Sherry swerved into the left lane, accelerating faster than Travers would have thought possible in a Focus, shooting around the Camry so fast it looked as though she’d never been forced to slow at all.
“She’s not gonna make it,” Kirkson said calmly. In the oncoming lane was a full-sized pick-up truck, bearing down on Sherry, barely twenty yards away. Its horn blared, but it showed no signs of stopping.
Travers slowed as he approached the Camry, eyes squinting in anticipation of the collision.
5
Even though she was going thirty, Sherry jammed the Focus back into second gear and slammed her foot down on the gas as she backed off the clutch. The car responded, tachometer needle bouncing to the right.
Sherry had only driven the Focus the one time and had no reason to push it. From everything she’d heard about the line of cars, they were short on power, preferring gas economy over speed. Travis had tried to tell her some of the differences between a regular Focus and his RS, but the details had gotten lost amid more important topics. She prayed those differences extended, in some part, to power output.
The car shot forward like it was goosed, a shove emanating from all four tires, pressing her back into her seat. Wrenching the wheel to the left, she raced around the back of the Camry, only then seeing the pick-up bearing down on her.
She screamed, forcing the accelerator all the way to the floor. The truck blared its horn at her, and she had a brief instant where the other driver’s eyes were visible, wide open and horrified, no doubt mirroring her own expression.
Desperate, Sherry yanked the wheel back to the right as the driver of the pick-up performed the same motion. The truck veered to the side of the road, tearing up chunks of gravel as Sherry lurched back into her lane, the rear end of the Focus missing the front corner of the Camry by an inch.
6
“Stay there,” Travers whispered at the driver of the pick-up, who had stopped his vehicle and seemed content to stay on the side of the road.
“Jesus!” Kirkson whispered in reaction to Sherry’s narrow escape.
Travers smiled at her ability. He didn’t know if he would’ve had to balls to pull off a stunt like that, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit it. Following in her wake was simple now—especially with the siren and flashing lights behind him, almost like his own personal escort. Using tight, controlled jerks on the wheel, he weaved between the stopped cars, quickly putting himself back behind the racing Ford.
“Now let’s see you get away,” Travers said, pressing his gas pedal to the floor, feeling the easy power of the big car responding to his demand. Yet still the Focus pulled farther ahead, though the Mustang’s engine growled like a chained beast.
“Her car’s smaller, it can accelerate faster,” Kirkson said. “But it won’t be able to stay ahead once you hit top speed.”
“That’s not gonna matter as long as we’re not on a highway. If she can accelerate faster and maneuver better, she’ll eventually be able to break away.”
Ahead of them the Focus slowed in order to navigate the narrow gate lane. Travers accelerated, hoping the guards would see the lights coming behind them, hear the sirens, and move to block the way. But the guards didn’t appear, and the small car shot out of the confines of the base.
“We’ll catch them on the open road,” Travers said grimly, racing through the narrow gap between the right-side curb and the small concrete median. “Agent Kirkson, why don’t you see if you can take out a tire?”
“You know, Agent Travers, I’ve always wanted to try that. Looks like so much fun on the movies.”
“Try not to hit any civilians,” Travers said with a smile. Kirkson produced a Walther PPK chambered for .380 rounds from his shoulder holster.
A crash from behind signaled the end of the police chase. The squad car, with its messed up front end, snagged either the curb or the median. The fender ripped away, catching under a front tire, and the car ground to a stop.
The siren faded behind them.
7
Sherry let go an explosive sigh as she cleared the back gate. A final stretch of straightaway led to London Bridge Road, no more than a quarter mile away. At the end of that stretch would be a red light, triggered by weight. It never turned green unless there was someone waiting to turn onto the larger road. Her options were limited. She could turn left onto London Bridge Road, retracing the path Travis had taken in bringing them from the beach; or she could turn right, into an area of the city she wasn’t that familiar with. Racking her brain, Sherry fought for a decision, trying to think of something that might help them escape.
God, but she wished for Travis’s advice right then. If he was awake to help her, he could tell her which way to turn, which path to take.
But he could help her, couldn’t he? She should be able to get the answers she needed even though he wasn’t conscious to give them. It was the same principle he’d employed when learning how to make the cup of coffee for her.
Hesitantly, running out of time, Sherry reached for Travis’s thoughts.
…burning in fire, arm on fire, rolling flames, incapable of escape, fire of hell burning through, lighting up my arm, all of fire, the world is flames…
Stifling a gasp, Sherry hastily withdrew. Even then, she fancied a ghost of his agony lingered, like a remembered injury, making her shoulder throb.
She had to force through his suffering.
Steeling herself, she delved back into his mind, using her desperate need to override the immediate sensation of pain, drawing on his years of working at Oceana, of driving the roads of Virginia Beach, to find the path that would give her the best chance to get away.
She smiled grimly as the answer came to her.
The red light was directly in front of her now. A left towards the beach, towards General Booth Boulevard, a right that led deeper into the city. The right turn had a feeder lane, to allow merging without waiting. Craning her neck as far as she could, Sherry scanned both directions. There was traffic coming from the right, which made a left turn impossible without waiting. The Mustang loomed in her rear-view, drawing closer. She didn’t have any time to waste.
Barely slowing, Sherry pushed the gear shift back into third, letting the drag guide her into the turn. The car threatened to slide to the left, but the tires held to the asphalt and she shot onto London Bridge Road, quickly pushing the car back up to forty, then to forty-five, where she shifted into fourth gear, still accelerating. She loved the feel of the powerful little engine, which showed no signs of balking at her demands. With a tight grin, Sherry told herself she should listen the next time her man wanted to talk about his car.
The Mustang took the curve behind her, then it shot forward like a rocket, already closing the gap she’d made.
Biting her lip, Sherry despaired of escaping the other car. No matter what kind of upgrades the Focus had, there was no way it had the power to outrun that awesome machine. Though she had the accelerator pressed to the floor and could feel the little car gaining speed like a stock racer, the Mustang seemed to have no trouble matching her, coming ever closer.
Ahead of her was another stop light, showing green, which would let her continue through onto Shipps’ Corner Road or turn left onto the smaller Drakesmile Road. The Mustang would catch her within seconds if she remained on the straight-away, but she might be able to gain some ground if she took the smaller street. It was worth a try.
Glancing again at her rear-view, Sherry almost screamed at the sight of the lighter-skinned black man, Agent Kirkson, leaning bodily out the passenger window, a small black object gripped in his hand. Jesus Christ, they were going to shoot at her!
Sherry swerved the car marginally to the left even as the first blast sounded. She told herself the car hadn’t been hit because she hadn’t heard anything break.
There was some traffic approaching, making a left turn risky, but she might be able to make it work for her. If her timing was right.
She down shifted at speed; a deep shudder shook her bones as the gears caught, slowing the car more effectively than the brake alone. Waiting until a black convertible cleared the light, she yanked the wheel to the left, scared almost witless by the sudden squealing of tires as they fought within their narrow wheelbase to stay on the road. Sliding marginally, Sherry shot through the narrow gap, almost eating another pick-up in her right side, before straightening out and rocketing down Drakesmile. Her heart refused to settle back in her chest and she hoped there wouldn’t be too many more turns like that.
The Mustang slowed to allow the truck to pass, but then it shot through the next opening, rolling down the slight dip, already starting to close again. Ahead, the road took a sharp curve to the left, and it was marked, for safety, at twenty-five miles per hour. Sherry ignored the sign, entering the turn at better than forty-five, still accelerating. The tires shuddered under her again, but she held tight to the steering wheel, letting the car slide to the right, running dangerously close to the outer curb. The curve ended abruptly, and there was another street opening onto hers.
A Cadillac started to pull out onto Drakesmile Road in front of her.
Sherry screamed, slammed her right hand on the horn, and swerved the wheel desperately to the left, barely missing the out-thrust front end of the Cadillac. She raced by the startled driver in the big car, swerving back into her lane.
The red sports car copied her maneuver, making it look simple, passing the big black car and jumping back into the lane behind her.
Drakesmile Road ended at Dam Neck Road, where she would again
have to choose, right or left. There would be no feeder lane this time, and the traffic at the light would force her to wait if she wanted to turn. She could shoot straight across the intersection, but that was only a driveway for a Seven-Eleven, no place for her to run. The agents would be able to shoot her before Sherry could even get out of the car.
On the corner to her right was an Exxon station with driveways opening to both Drakesmile and Dam Neck Roads. They were positioned almost directly across from one another and could be used as a feeder lane if they remained clear for the few seconds she needed, and if there was no traffic heading along Dam Neck.
She didn’t kid herself into thinking that she could make a turn like that and remain in the right lane. She would need both lanes clear, or she wouldn’t make it.
Looking ahead, she cried out when another gunshot sounded, this time followed by a hollow ping as the slug struck somewhere on the Focus.
“Damn!” she shouted, gripping the steering wheel even more fiercely, placing her right hand over the gear shift, ready to make the attempt.
The Mustang was right on her ass.
Without using the brakes or a turn signal, Sherry down-shifted to third again and swerved to the side, striking the first driveway and gritting her teeth at the terrifying scrape of the front spoiler along the slight dip-and-rise. Then she was zipping past cars lined up at the Self-Serve pumps, angled for the next driveway, her head craned to the left, watching the traffic, which seemed clear enough to allow her to make the turn.
Not that she could have stopped even if she wanted to.
She struck the second ramp at just under forty miles per hour.
The car dipped sickeningly; the spoiler scraped again, sounding as though it might have been ripped off completely. She was already turning as her front wheels hit Dam Neck Road. The rear end of the Focus fish-tailed to the left and Sherry fought the swerve, knowing that to give in to it was to allow the car to be turned completely around. The car rocked back on its springs as the back tires bounced off the median separating the two directions of traffic.