Part 58 (1/2)

”s.h.i.+t. I don't know. Where the f.u.c.k is Martin?”

”I don't know. Where are we?”

”There's another... you gotta be f.u.c.king kidding me,” he blurts out. ”Follow me. I'm not leaving you here.”

”Where are we going?”

”There's another tunnel.”

Chapter Twenty-One.

Victor ”We're leaving,” I tell her, and take her into the Scary Tunnel.

Eve never says a word, she just follows me, clutching my hand with hers. Her skin is sticky, dried blood from her scalp. It's not as bad as she probably thinks it is. Any scalp wound bleeds like a stuck pig. It's matted in her hair, a dark clump of rust on the white gold.

She keeps her head down as we traverse the tunnel. My every step is sure. I know where I'm going. The first time I came through here, it felt five miles long. First thing I need to do is get Eve to safety, then I need to get my hands on Martin. The son of a b.i.t.c.h is not getting away with this. The end of the tunnel isn't far. Once we reach it I open the trap door and Eve hauls herself up the short staircase and out, and I'm right behind her, breathing free air on the other side of the wall.

”What is all this?”

”My family used to shelter runaway slaves,” I tell her, panting. ”Back during the Civil War. Before that, too, I guess.”

I can see the flames over the treeline. It's all burning, everything.

”The house,” she says.

”f.u.c.k the house. Pictures of my Mom and Dad. Pictures of you and me. My life was in that house...” I trail off.

”No,” I touch her shoulder and pull her to me. ”My life is right here. The rest of it can be replaced. Let's get out of here, I want you safe.”

”How?”

The Toyota is still parked under the trees. My neighbor the dairy farmer must not have noticed it. Please let the key still be in the ignition. Of course, it is. The door is still unlocked. I help Eve into the pa.s.senger's seat, rush around to the other side, and start her up. It's rough going back to the road.

Headlights flash in my rear view mirror. Oh s.h.i.+t.

I tromp the pedal and the little hatchback gives her all. I suddenly feel sorry for disparaging her before. I wish for the Firebird but the Firebird is sitting in a garage somewhere right when I need her. The Toyota tries her best, and I weave from one side of the road to the other, so they can't ram me, but there's headlights up ahead. I should have known. Martin wasn't going to just leave us to die without some kind of plan B. I don't think they figured on me, though. I weave around the oncoming truck, gripping the wheel so hard it creaks. The front tire hits soft shoulder but I wrestle the car back onto the road, a dazed Eve lurching this way and that in the seat behind me. Eve has the shotgun.

”You know how to load that?”

She shakes her head.

”Push the lever on the top. It opens in the middle. Stick the sh.e.l.ls in the holes. They can only go in the one way. Don't touch the triggers.”

As she fumbles with it, I drive. There's two packs of them hot on our tail, and they're catching up. The Toyota's little motor is screaming, but it's built light, to save weight for gas mileage. She holds her own, especially on these winding roads where the big lumbering trucks have to slow for turns. I don't. Eve snaps the gun closed.

There's a flash behind us. They say you never hear the one that gets you. That's because the bullet goes faster than the sound, and the crack comes after the back gla.s.s shatters. Something spins and bounces on my lap. They hit the rear view mirror, knocked it right off the mount and popped a hole in the winds.h.i.+eld, a spiderweb folding across my vision. I weave in the road as they fire again, more flashes, more pops. The mirror on Eve's side shatters into a million pieces, and falls away into the night. Another crack and her window blows out.

”Get down,” I bark at her, pus.h.i.+ng her down into the footwell.

It doesn't matter. For bullets a car like this might as well be made of tinfoil. There's no cover from a bullet in here. I see a flash. Headlamps, this time.

A Mercedes. It's f.u.c.king Martin, weaving around the two trucks.

I can't outrun them, but I can't outdrive them. I can't outdrive Martin, not in that. f.u.c.king German engineering.

I pull Eve back against the seat. She winces, clutching her hand.

”Seat belt!” I bellow, and she doesn't even blink before she yanks it on. I fumble at mine and take a sharp turn one-handed, the wheel straining against my wrist. I burned my hand somehow and I don't even realize it until now, when the wheel starts to slide in my palm and grinds against the burn, sending lancing agony up my arm.

Martin swings wide. He's trusting in the speed and handling of his machine. I can't slow down in a sharp turn, have to put more power to the drive wheel to keep from losing control. He might be overcorrecting, he might be doing it on purpose, but the end result is the same. The big Benz side-swipes the little Toyota and then we're bouncing and the cracked winds.h.i.+eld is full of sky, then dirt. For a single gut-twisting moment I think we might roll but she stays upright, jounces down the hill into a dead field, cras.h.i.+ng through more cut corn stalks. f.u.c.king corn. Martin's Mercedes grinds to a stop and he surges out, gun in hand.

I draw the shotgun out of Eve's hands smoothly, in a single motion, but the seat belt catches my leg as I kick the door open and I go down. I squeeze one trigger. Martin is already down, but his driver's side door window shatters along with the shocking report of the shotgun. I have another shot. I roll, free my leg, touch off the other trigger, punch a dozen holes in Martin's door but he's not there. He was moving around the other side. Eve is out of the car. Moving around the front, crawling. Good girl. The engine block will give her some cover, the bullets will go through the car but not the solid aluminum block of the engine. There are some sh.e.l.ls on the floor. The box I was carrying split open sometime, maybe during the crash, maybe before. I grab a handful, shove two down the shotgun's throat and get up.

At some point, I hurt my leg. Can't worry about that now. Martin is over there somewhere. I can't see him.

I guess if this was a movie, wind would blow, the soundtrack would come up, and we'd face off, staring each other down for a moment before firing the climactic shot of our duel. Instead, Martin looks startled when he sees me and starts shooting wildly, and so do I.

Just like they said, I don't hear the one that gets me. I never hear the sound, just feel as sledghammer in my thigh. A second too late I tug both triggers and the shotgun goes off. I lurch around and Martin spins. I see blood. I think I got him.

He turns back and clutches his face. Somehow I missed with a f.u.c.king shotgun. He strides over, clutching his face. There's blood between his fingers. I got his ear. Hah.

I clutch my leg. That's a lot of blood. It doesn't hurt.

I'm pretty sure that's bad. I'm sorry, Eve.

Martin kicks the shotgun away, not that I could have reloaded it. He raises the pistol and aims at my head.

”Boy, you are no end of trouble. It will be very difficult to explain this.”

”Yeah,” I manage to rasp, ”Sorry about that.”

He shrugs, and then Eve picks up the shotgun and swings it like Ol' Betsy in a cheap Western and bashes the b.u.t.tstock right into Martin's skull. His hands shock open and the pistol drops right out of his grip. He turns back, moves to grapple the gun away from Eve, but she recovers from the swing and puts her full weight into it, twisting it like she's swinging a baseball bat. The stock hits his upper arm and there's a solid meaty crack, and he howls, clutching at the limb. Her backswing catches him right on the kneecap.

Watching a man's leg fold up the wrong way is unpleasant, even if it's a simple f.u.c.k like Martin Ross.

He goes down to the ground, rolls. His hand slips behind his back.

Of course f.u.c.king Martin would have a backup. He slips the little black pistol from his back pocket. Eve doesn't see it. She raises the shotgun over her head, ready to bring the sharp bottom corner of the b.u.t.tstock right down on his f.u.c.king head, but I can already see it playing out, as in slow motion. He's going to shoot her right in the gut.

His pistol, the one he dropped, is slick with blood in my hand. Doesn't matter. I put the muzzle against the side of Martin's head. He stops as he feels it. Eve sees the pistol in his good hand.

Bang, bang. Once and then twice for sure. Eve screams. She's covered in blood.

Mostly not hers. That works for me.