As I revved the big block and prepared to test just how Super the Swampers actually were, pistols cracked behind us. Apparently our trail blazing wasn't any faster than a doughnut eater could run through the woods. The bastard had caught up to us, and brought his pals.
“Go!” Blondie yelled, ducking, covering her face. The back window shattered in a spray of glass shards that rained down on our heads.
I needed no urging. I launched us down the hill, racing toward the soggy bottom, frantically searching the terrain for the path of least resistance. And not finding it. “Straight into it, then,” I muttered, shifting into second, gaining momentum I hoped would carry us across the wide mud pit.
The speedometer hovered around 40 mph, an insane speed for this terrain, when Broncostein plowed in
