The Wrong Goodbye

We grabbed the shotgun. We grabbed the chips. We grabbed some cash from Theresa’s register, and as many Red Bulls from the fridge as we could carry.

We were in such a goddamn hurry to get the hell out of Las Vegas, we blew a stop light at the corner of Twain and Dean Martin. Then we hauled ass onto I-15 south toward Los Angeles, oblivious to the traffic camera that snapped picture after picture of our departure.

30.

We were a mile north of Chino on 60 when I spotted the tail. The 60, I supposed they’d say out here on the left coast, but I was born back east, so no the for me. Just one black-and-white, a Statie I suppose, pulling out of one of those spots they don’t like you swinging U-turns through and sliding into traffic two cars and maybe fifty yards behind us.

“Dude,” said Gio, who was riding shotgun, “we’ve got company.”

“Be cool,” I replied. “He’ll leave us be.” And at the time, I actually believed it. I’d been speeding pretty seriously until I spotted him, but when I did, I’d eased off the gas, and coasted by at barely seventy. I figured if his lights weren’t on yet, he’d just hang behind us a while by way of warning, and then leave us alone. I didn’t realize at the time the traffic cam in Vegas slapped a big, fat arrow at the end of the dotted line of mayhem half a country long that indicated where we were heading —one that resulted in the Feds putting out a BOLO for us that stretched from Sacramento to the Rio Grande.

Five minutes after we picked up our first Statie, two more slid in behind him, all quiet-like, so as to not spook us. It spooked us.

“Uh, Sam? Our company’s got company.”

“Yeah, I see ’em, Gio —I’m not blind,” I snapped.

“Hey!” This from Theresa, in the back.

“Sorry,” I said through gritted teeth, my hands at ten and two on the wheel.

Three minutes later, we picked up a few more —two sliding into traffic from the Nogales Street entrance in Rowland Heights, and a third swinging through a turnaround at damn near sixty miles an hour.

I kept the needle right at sixty-five, and my eyes on the road before me, trying my damnedest to come up with some kind of workable plan. I was running out of time, and not just with the cops. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, and the sky ran the spectrum from goldenrod above to the deepest crimson as it met the western horizon. I’d heard tales of the smog in LA being responsible for some beautiful sunsets. I had no idea if it was the cause of this one. What I do know is it was the most gorgeous one I’d ever seen —which seemed fitting, since I had a little under four hours to get the Varela soul back and stop Danny from unleashing an apocalyptic flood; chances were, it was the last I’d ever see. For all its beauty, that sunset proved unsettling, if only because the amber hues above reflected dully off the white side-panels of the cop cars behind me, and the ensuing gold- and-black put me in mind of a swarm of angry bees. These past three days, I’d had enough run-ins with angry insects to last a lifetime.

As I drove, I watched the cop cars in my rearview multiply. They were still hanging back a bit, and they’d yet to fire up their lights —but they were creeping up behind us. If I had to guess, I’d say they were hoping to take us by surprise, end this chase before it started.

Funny; I kinda hoped to do the same.

I ran through the angles in my head. The way I figured it, they couldn’t use a spike mat to pop the Caddy’s tires, because there were other motorists aplenty on the road. Not as many as I’d expected though, this close to LA, which meant they’d likely closed the onramps once they spotted us. They were biding their time… but to what end? Not to get an unimpeded crack at us; they didn’t seem to be shunting any of the traffic already on the freeway aside. So why?

A low whump-whump-whump from somewhere in the distance gave me my answer.

A helicopter.

I fucking hated helicopters.

No, really: I hijacked one once —long story —and it was nothing but a grade-A ass-pain, up to and including when I had to ditch it in the middle of Central Park. But at least I now knew what was holding the boys in blue at bay: they were waiting for their air coverage. Waiting to have eyes on us. Once that hap pened, there was little we’d be able to do to shake them. Which meant the time to move was now.

I put the pedal to the metal —or, in this case, to Roscoe’s custom shag floor mat —and the Caddy’s engine sprang to life. Seventy-five. Eighty. The cop cars dropped back a ways, caught by surprise after ten plus miles of traffic law observance. Eighty-five. Ninety. By the time the lot of them found their accelerator pedals, I’d put a hundred yards between us —and at least a half a dozen cars.

Suburb after suburb blurred by, nothing but green foliage and rooftops half seen over the highway’s noise barriers. Places with names like Hillgrove, La Puente, Hacienda Heights. Exits on a highway, nothing more. The skyline of Los Angeles glinted in the distance like some dark gemstone against the bloodred velvet of the sky.

One hundred miles an hour. One-ten.

Cops behind us. Danny, with luck, ahead. And night falling fast. Three days whittled down to three hours.

One way or another, our exit was coming up.

“Gio?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re a car guy, right?”

“Sure —why?”

I took a long look in my rearview. “Behind us, we got a mid-nineties Ford pickup; a minivan —Dodge, I think; a Corolla; a Hummer; an Impala. Which one’s got the best side airbags?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

Not the most helpful answer ever, so I took a different tack. “If it were you, and you had to roll one, which would you rather be in?”

“I dunno —the Hummer?”

Good enough for me. Only douches drive Hummers anyways.

“Cool. Grab the wheel. On my signal, be prepared to put your foot on the gas. And no matter what, don’t slow down, you hear me?”

Gio wrapped one sausage-fingered hand around the wheel. “I hear you,” he said. “What’s the signal?”

“Me dying,” I said. His eyes widened. “Don’t worry, though —I’m coming back.”

I twisted in my seat, locked eyes with the Bluetoothed asshat in the Hummer. He was wearing a powder-blue polo shirt with a popped collar and a pair of oversized aviators, and he was chattering away at whoever was on the other end of that phone call like his life depended on it. I focused on him with every ounce of attention I could muster. And then I hurled my consciousness at him with all the strength I had, like he was the nerdy kid in a game of dodgeball.

For a moment, all went black, and the cacophony of the freeway melted away. In that moment, my world was just a sickly nothing, a morbid amusebouche to whet my appetite for what Charon had in store for me if this idiot plan of mine didn’t pan out. And then all the sudden, BAM, I’m puking all over Asshat’s center console —the reflex action of any newly possessed meat-suit —while some jaded phone-sex worker asks me through my Bluetooth headset if I’ve been a bad boy.

Not yet, I thought —but I’m about to be.

I tugged Asshat’s seatbelt. On and locked. Rolled down the driver’s side window, and chucked his aviators and the piping hot macchiato in the center console out of it. I eased off the accelerator, and watched the cops expand in my rearview until they were a car-length or two behind. Up ahead, the Caddy swerved wildly as Gio tried to drive it riding shotgun, while the lifeless Jonathan Gray meat-suit lolled to one side in the driver’s seat.

One shot, Sam, I told myself. You only get one shot at this. You’d better make it count.

Right before I made my move, Asshat got wise to what I had in mind for him and his precious Hummer, and