Rapture's Edge

48

Eliana gazed around at the long lines of cars, their dark windshields like rows of blank eyes, reflecting back nothing. She muttered, “This is always the scene in a movie where someone dies.”

Gregor ignored her and yanked her forward over the cracked cement, heading directly for a sleek, two-tone gunmetal-and-black Ferrari parked two aisles down at the end of the row. It only took a few seconds to get there, get the doors unlocked, and start the engine.

But it was long enough.

Just as they tore out of the parking spot—engine roaring, tires squealing and sending up plumes of acrid white smoke, a deep, rumbling vibration rising up through the leather seat to set her teeth a-clatter—the door they’d entered the garage through flew open to reveal the tall, straight figure of a man in a tailored dark suit and white dress shirt, gripping an enormous silver gun in each raised hand. The guns were leveled directly at the Ferrari.

“Oh s**t,” said Gregor, stomping his foot on the gas pedal.

The only way out was toward the assassin, unfortunately, and they took four bullets to the windshield as they raced down the aisle. Swerving wildly, they ducked and screamed as the glass splintered into a spider’s web confusion of tiny cracks that surrounded four perfect holes, but didn’t shatter. Around a corner shots rang out again, but everything was a flying muddle of noise and motion in Eliana’s brain. All she could do was dig her heels into the floor mat, clutch the molded leather of the seat, and hang on.

With rubber laid on the cement in two long, black, wavering lines, they left that level of the parking garage—and the shooter—behind them. Inside Eliana flared a brilliant white hope, clear and crackling like a firework: They’d escaped!

Oh, so wrong. Laughably wrong. Hope, she quickly discovered, was not particularly helpful when there were over half a dozen trained killers gunning for one’s head.

Around two sharp turns they entered a double helix exit ramp collared by thick cement columns. Both sides of the ramp yawned open between parking levels, and like swiftly descending spiders, a trio of men scuttled with effortless leaps from level to level beside them, clinging briefly to the cement columns before pushing off, heading down.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” shouted Gregor, apoplectic. “Seriously! You’ve got to be kidding!”

“Watch out!” screamed Eliana as one of the suited spiders dropped to the ramp directly in front of them and raised his weapon. She sank down in the seat and threw her arms over her face, but then there was a bump and a sickening sort of crunch, and the gun-wielding assassin disappeared under the car.

“That’s right, asshole!” shouted Gregor gleefully, pounding his big fist on the steering wheel. “Suck on that!”

Eliana turned and through the rear window saw a crumpled figure tumbling lifelessly down the ramp behind them, arms and legs akimbo, limbs bent at awkward, unnatural angles.

They hit the bottom level of the garage in a sliding sideways spin, fishtailing as Gregor struggled to keep control of the wheel.

“There!” Eliana shouted over the squealing tires, pointing to a small neon exit sign that hung on the opposite side of the level.

Gregor tightened his hands on the wheel, the Ferrari leapt forward with a near-deafening roar, and Eliana was slammed back into her seat with the sudden propulsion. As they rounded the final corner, she was horrified to see not one but two assassins standing with spread legs and raised guns directly in front of the metal gate that led to the exit.

The closed metal gate.

“Glove compartment!” shouted Gregor. “Gun!”

“Now you tell me!”

With the press of a button, the compartment lid snicked open, and Eliana snatched up the gun. It was heavy and cold in her hand, sleek and utilitarian, and at that moment she thought it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen in her life.

Gregor rolled the window down, and Eliana leaned out, aimed, squeezed the trigger, and fired off four rounds…and the assassins didn’t even twitch.

“Where’d you learn to shoot a gun, the goddamn school for the blind?” Gregor screamed.

But then one of them sagged to one knee, lowered his weapon, and looked down, surprised, at the front of his white shirt, where a dark liquid stain had begun to spread.

The other one, luminous green gaze canny and unwavering, leveled his gun at Gregor in the driver’s seat and fired. Just from that single look—murderous, certain—Eliana knew even before Gregor jerked back and hollered that the bullet would hit its intended target.

A spray of blood misted the dashboard. The Ferrari barreled ahead. Gregor’s hands slid from the wheel.

They crashed into the metal access gate at full speed with Eliana twisted sideways, gripping the steering wheel, screaming at the top of her lungs. The assassin leapt clear at the last moment, still shooting, but everything had taken on a dreamlike unreality, color and lights flashing by at hyper-speed, sound warped slow and strange as if it traveled underwater.

The beating of her heart seemed like cannon on a battlefield. The coppery smell of blood hung penny bright and thick in the air.

The gate tore from its hinges with a violent, ear-splitting screech, and they blasted through it in a shower of orange sparks. It flew away overhead like a huge, warped bird, and jagged chunks of metal and plastic from the damaged hood and both shattered headlights followed it. Something heavy caught on the undercarriage and dragged beneath them, setting off an unearthly clamor as they hit the pavement again, breaking free of the garage, and careened down the deserted collector road that ran alongside the building.

“Gregor!” she shouted, frantic. “Gregor!”