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Chuck was driving, with Buffy riding shotgun. The shots were very methodical, one following the other as fast as the skill of the shooter would allow. I’d have been impressed if they hadn’t been aimed so effectively at me and mine.

The first shot fired at my bike punched a hole in my front tire, sending me weaving out of control. I screamed and swore, fighting with the handlebars as I tried to steady my trajectory enough to keep me from becoming a stain on the side of the road. Even with my body armor, falling wrong would kill me. I was focusing so hard on not toppling over that my driving became impossible to predict, and the second shot went wide. Maybe that’s why I was able to believe I’d blown a tire as I let momentum carry me off the edge of the road, rolling onto the uneven ground beyond the shoulder.

I finished steadying myself, dumped speed, and wrenched the bike to a stop twenty yards after I left the road. Panting, I kicked the stand down and unsealed my helmet before turning to stare at the carnage that had overwhelmed the road.

Rick’s car was still at the front of the pack, but now it was lying stranded on its back, wheels spinning in the air. The tires on the right-hand side were nothing but shredded rubber stretched over bent steel. The equipment truck was on its side fifty or so yards behind him, smoke oozing from its shattered cabin.

There was no sign of the van.

Suddenly frantic, I fumbled my ear cuff from my pocket and shoved it onto my ear with enough force to leave a bruise that I wouldn’t feel until later. “Shaun? Shaun? Pick up your goddamn phone, Shaun!”

“Georgia?” The connection was poor enough that his voice crackled in and out, but the relief was unmistakable; it would have been unmistakable even if the connection had been worse. He never called me by my full name unless he was angry, scared, or both. “Georgia, are you okay? Where are you?”

“Twenty yards off the road on the left-hand side, near some big rocks. I’m between the car and the equipment truck. There’s smoke, Shaun, has anyone else tried to—”

“Don’t make any more calls. I don’t know if they can trace them. You stay right there, Georgia. Don’t you fucking dare move!” The connection cut with a sharp, final click. In the distance, I heard tires squealing against the road.

Shaun had sounded panicked. Rick and Buffy were out of communication, the truck was on fire, my bike was down, and Shaun was panicking. That could only mean one thing: It was time to take cover.

Slamming my helmet back over my head, I ducked behind my bike and started surveying the surrounding hills. Short of a rocket launcher, there wasn’t much that stood a viable chance of killing me in my body armor. Hurting me, yes, but killing me, not really.

There was nothing. No lights, no signs of motion; nothing.

“—ia? Come in, Georgia?”

“Rick?” I nodded to the right, confirming the connection. “Rick, is that you? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. Air bag stopped me from hitting the roof.” He coughed. “Chest’s a little banged up, and Lois is pissed as hell, but otherwise, we’re okay. You?”

“Didn’t dump the bike. I’m fine. Any word from Buffy?”

There was a pause. Finally, he said, “No. I was hoping she’d called you.”

“Did you try to call her?”

“No word.”

“Damn. Rick, what happened?”

“You mean you don’t know?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “Georgia, somebody shot out my damn tires.”

“Shot? What do you mean, sh—” Shaun came blasting around the curve of the road and off the pavement, moving so fast that our hydraulically balanced and weighted van nearly rocked onto two tires. “Shaun’s here. We’ll be right there to get you. Georgia out.”

“Clear.” The connection clicked off.

I pulled my helmet back off and climbed to my feet, waving my hands in the air. Shaun spotted the motion and turned the van toward my location, screeching to a stop beside me. The doors unlocked, and Shaun was throwing himself out of the driver’s-side door, his heels slipping on the gravel-covered ground as he ran over to throw his arms around me. I let him crush me against his chest, taking a deep breath.

“You okay?” he asked, not letting go.

“You didn’t get a blood test before coming over here.”

“Don’t need one. If you were infected, I’d know,” Shaun said, and let me go. “I repeat, you okay?”

“I’m okay.” I climbed in the open van door, sliding over to settle in the passenger seat. Shaun got in behind me. “You okay?”

“Better now,” Shaun said, turning the engine back on and slamming his foot down on the gas. The van leapt forward into a wide curve, rocketing toward Rick’s car. “You hear the shots?”

“Bike was too loud. How many?”

“Eight. Two for each of us.” He glanced at me. For a brief moment, I saw the raw worry in his eyes. “If they’d nailed both your tires…”

“I’d be dead.” I leaned forward to open the glove compartment and pull out the .45 I keep there. Suddenly, being outside without a gun in my hand didn’t seem like a good idea. “If whoever did this had done their damn homework, you’d be dead, too, so let’s not dwell. Word from Buffy?”

“None.”

“Great.” I pulled back the slide, checking the chamber. Satisfied by my bullet count, I let the slide rack back into place. “So, is this enough excitement for you?”

“Maybe a bit much,” he said. For once in his life, he sounded like he meant it.

It was true, though. If our attackers had done their homework, Shaun wouldn’t have been driving; he’d have been dying. Normal tires blow when they take a bullet. Even armor plating won’t prevent that. But some vehicles are too damn valuable to lose just because you lose a tire, and most vehicles in that class are the sort likely to draw heavy gunfire. So scientists developed a type of tire that doesn’t give a damn about gunshots. They’re called run flats: You put a bullet in them, and they keep on rolling. I might have skipped them—I did skip them on my bike, where they made the ride unbearably choppy—but Shaun insisted. He bought a new set every year.

For the first time since we got the van, it didn’t seem like a waste of money.

Shaun focused on driving, and I focused on trying to page Buffy and Chuck, using every band and communications device we had. We knew communications weren’t being jammed; at least some of my messages should have made it through. There were no replies on any channel. I’d been terrified. That’s when I started to get numb.

Shaun pulled up next to Rick’s car. “Think there’s still a shooter out there?”

“Doubtful.” I slid the gun into my pocket. “This was a targeted operation. They only took out our cars. If they’d been sticking around to make sure they killed us, you’d have kept taking bullets. And I made a damn good target when I first stopped my bike.”

“Hope you’re right,” said Shaun, and opened his door.

Rick watched our approach through the car window, waving his arms to show that he was still alive. He was half-pinned by the air bag and blood was dripping into his hair from a small cut on his forehead, but other than that he looked fine. Lois and her carrier were strapped into the seat next to his. I didn’t want to be the one to let that cat out of the box.

I knocked on the glass, calling, “Rick? Can you open the door?” Despite the urgency of the situation, I couldn’t help but be impressed by the structural integrity of his little car. It had to have rolled at least once before coming to a stop on its roof, and yet it wasn’t showing any dents: just scratches and a crack in the passenger-side window. The folks at VW really knew what they were doing.

“I think so!” he called back. “Can you get me out?”

Mirthlessly, I echoed, “I think so!”

“Not the most encouraging answer,” he said, and twisted in the seat, movements constrained by seat belt and air bag, until he could kick the door. On his second kick, I grabbed the handle and pulled. I didn’t have to pull that hard; despite the car’s inverted position and the beating it had taken, the door swung open easily, leaving