Chapter 4
996 Words
4
Countless tiny splinters shatter through the air. Lou still clenches the cello’s scroll, the curvy bit right above the tuning keys, in one hand. By the time the cello hits the ground, he’s already flung himself to the side, arms outstretched to protect his face from slamming into that baked concrete.
Across the intersection, Stabbity Joe’s already hit the ground and is rolling beneath the van. His face could go in the dictionary next to “Surprised.”
Bet he wishes he carried a gun right about now.
I’m moving too, running back towards the car’s dubious shelter.
This gig had gone wrong the moment Lou and I got the Duke.
More violence means everything has gone wrong again.
But this time, it’s gone wrong in our favor.
Colin Baywater’s goons had been chasing us since we grabbed the Grand Duke. The first gunfight was unavoidable. When we evaded the second, I searched for and deactivated the tracking beacon they’d stuffed into the cello.
That button I’d hit, right as Stabbity Joe pulled up? It turned the beacon back on.
Hey, Baywater’s goons would have tracked me down anyway. This way, I get to control when and where they attack. If I absolutely must fight I choose my ground, hide a spotter in the desert, and put the rising sun at my back.
I dash back to my rental sedan. The sun-heated metal of the door burns my hand as I lean into the driver’s space.
A distant gunshot splits the morning.
I snatch my .38 semi-auto off the driver’s seat. It’s a little clunky, because I’ve jammed a 20-round extended magazine into it.
Four more range-softened gunshots follow in quick succession.
“North car down,” Deke whispers in my earpiece.
Deke’s not just my spotter.
He’s my sniper.
He’s not Marine-grade, but against a target coming straight at him, he’s good enough.
“Thanks.” He doesn’t have to spell out that he can’t possibly get the car coming from the west—it’s moving perpendicular to him, and each shot that misses will angle into that line of homes on the horizon.
I glance back west, raising the .38.
A distant red dot races right at us, maybe half a mile away.
Lou has dropped the cello’s carcass and rolled to the side of the road, scrabbling for his feet, hands clawing at the concrete to get distance as he tries to run and rise simultaneously.
But Candy—
She’s curled up like a pillbug, hands over her head, right where she was when the shooting started.
Straight in the middle of the crossroads.
“Candy!” I scream. “Move!”
That car’s roaring in like they’ll plow through her, through me, and straight on into the sun.
Or they’ll pull up short and fill the obvious target full of bullets.
I need to put my car between the intruders and myself. It won’t stop them, but it’s cover.
But my feet freeze for a beat.
More than once, I’d seen Mom cowering like Candy.
My brain knows the smart thing to do.
But my feet are already running towards her.
Besides, I tell myself, she’s right next to the box of bearer bonds.
My bearer bonds.
Hey, I brought the cello to the exchange, right?
That’s my goddamn money.
But no amount of money is worth a head-on collision with an oncoming car.
The car is getting closer. It’s a minivan or a little SUV, bright red.
“Candy!” I scream. “Run!”
Damn Stabbity Joe for bringing an amateur.
Lou’s bent over at the waist, running for our car.
I taste bright adrenaline and hot dust.
The car’s getting closer.
Candy can’t even look at me.
The minivan’s racing in. I can make out the windshield as a discrete rectangle and the curve of the grill.
Someone’s leaning out of the passenger window.
The gunshot sounds quiet, the bang smothered by the minivan’s racing engine—but it won’t be for long.
I ignore the shot. Shooting while hanging out the passenger window of a moving car is a great way to waste ammo.
Candy’s facing the ground. Her hands are clamped over her head.
I’m almost close enough to touch her.
That minivan is going to flatten us both in seconds.
The scream of its engine rushes closer.
“Move you stupid b***h!” I shriek.
The minivan’s grill has the Chevy bent-cross logo in pristine gold.
Candy flinches.
Looks towards the minivan’s noise.
I’m reaching for her when she spasms and throws herself backwards, hands and feet kicking at the pavement in a panicked crabwalk, her mouth flapping open and shut like a storm door caught in a hurricane. Her feet throw up little clouds of silvery sand.
The minivan’s charging right at me.
I’m sidestepping, bringing up the .38, dancing across the pavement as I pull off a single shot.
It misses.
But it gets their attention.
Yards from the intersection, the minivan’s brakes squeal.
It sluices sideways—yes, it’s a mom-mobile, complete with a Baby on Board plaque and a cute little rainbow sticker on the passenger side window, meant for rolling to and from school and the Kroger, but now there’s a goon with a gun sticking his head out the passenger window, the car’s motion bringing him around to face me even as the driver fights to straighten the spin.
I take another step sideways, barely avoiding my cardboard box of bearer bonds.
The minivan’s skidding to a halt.
I have the .38’s sight lined up with the passenger window and pull the trigger, not really expecting to hit anything but wanting to keep their attention.
The minivan sluices to a stop, the sliding passenger door flying open.
The sun behind me illuminates the minivan’s interior.
The guy in the back seat sure looks like he knows how to use that automatic rifle. The deft way he swings it up against his shoulder tells me that he’s practiced.
I’m in the middle of the intersection. My car is yards behind me.
The only cover around?
A beheaded cello lying in the dust.
An open cello case right next to it.
I dive for the cello case as the gunbunny opens fire.
Bullets split the air behind me.
My feet scrabble on sandy pavement as I snatch the cello case, yank it upright, and crouch down tight to squeeze my six-feet-plus into its shadow, balancing my weight on the balls of my feet.
The automatic rifle thunders.
Bullets slam the case.
- Writer
