I reached under my thigh and found, in spite of the crash, that the SIG was still wedged there. I hauled it out and tried to open the door. It was jammed and I had to hit it twice with my shoulder before it gave way with a sharp crack. Because of the cockeyed angle we’d come to rest I had to wedge it open with my feet so I could struggle out on the uphill side.
I dropped straight onto my hands and knees on the sandy bank of the ditch, just as the other car squealed to a halt at a slant on the road above us. It was a light-coloured Buick. Either the bikers I’d set on the two men who’d tailed me from the Pelzners’ place had failed to catch their prey, or they hadn’t inflicted any lasting damage when they had. More’s the pity.
I held the SIG in both hands with my elbows resting on the ground, keeping low as I waited for my chance. The guy in the passenger seat was closest. He was big and still wearing the suit that had made him look like a salesman when I’d seen him outside the house. He got out first, so I shot him first. Two rounds high in the chest. He let go of his gun and fell backwards into the car with a kind of heavy grunt.
The driver came out with a hell of a lot more caution, using his door for cover and firing through the open window so that only an inch or so of his head was visible. The bullets thunked into the Mercury’s bodywork, much too close for comfort. The noise alone was terrifying.
I carefully lowered my aim and planted two rounds through the door panel itself, right in the centre. I knew I should have kept firing until I saw the driver go down but I didn’t have the ammunition to spare to go by the book. As it was, hit or not, he stopped shooting at me and that was enough for now.
And then, in the distance to the south of us, came the unmistakable sound of police sirens. Lots of them. I glanced back at the dead cop and knew that staying here was just about to get a lot more dangerous.
The driver of the Buick must have made that decision, too. I saw the nose of his car bounce as he put it into gear and wheelspun for the first thirty metres. The force of the takeoff slammed both doors shut, carrying both him and his fallen colleague away from the scene.
I jumped up, reached back into the Mercury and grabbed hold of Trey by the front of his shirt, yelling at him to move. This time he responded, scrambling out after me.
I ran, dragging Trey behind me with my hand fisted into his collar, uncaring of his cries of protest as we went. I fled like an animal, looking for darkness, looking for somewhere to hide. Across the highway, through a narrow alleyway that formed an access road between the industrial units and into cover on the other side. The sodium lights didn’t reach this far back and it was all the darker for being just outside the scope of their glare.
The sirens were growing louder all the time. I just prayed that when the cavalry arrived they didn’t have dogs with them, otherwise this was going to be over very quickly. I’d deliberately chosen not to head onto the waste land because our footsteps would be too easy to track across the soft sandy surface. Asphalt would make it just as easy for a dog.
The first of the reinforcements slid to a messy stop alongside the cruiser. I stopped, struggling to make out the sounds of pursuit over the drumming of the blood in my ears. My breath was coming harsh and loud, so I had to hold it in when I was trying to listen. I wasn’t a sprinter any more than I was a long distance runner but I’d given our short flight everything I’d got and it had shattered me.
Gradually, as I stood there in the darkness, I felt my body begin to put aside the shock of the assault I’d just inflicted on it. My heart no longer seemed about to rupture with every beat. The balmy night air dried the sweat on my skin without chilling it and my eyes were sharpening.
We were hidden for the moment but vulnerable to anyone with methodical determination and a powerful torch. I remembered the way the cop had fallen. Whoever came looking for us would bring both, backed by shotguns and anger. It would be best if we weren’t here for them to find.
I lifted the tails of my shirt and slipped the SIG back into my belt. Having it in my hand would only encourage the law to shoot me and, anyway, I wasn’t planning on killing anyone else tonight if I could help it.
Behind me, Trey was snivelling quietly into his hands but I daren’t soften towards him. Survival was all that mattered now. Compassion could come later. Roughly, I urged him on.
We picked our way through the debris that littered the backs of the units until we came to an area where the chain link fencing was sagging enough to climb over. Beyond it was the car park behind the bar I’d seen earlier.
It was a single-storey building with wooden siding and neon signs for Bud Light and Coors beer that flickered intermittently. I spent a moment watching the bar entrance but it wasn’t exactly bustling. The kind of place where the regular clientele arrive as the doors open and have to be persuaded to vacate at closing time, usually with each arm across someone else’s shoulders.
There was an array of vehicles parked up outside, mainly pickups. I worked my way along them, trying all the handles, but nobody had been in such a hurry to get a drink that they’d overlooked locking the doors when they’d arrived. I could have simply smashed a window but even if I did I’d no idea how to hot-wire a car.
And then, just when I’d almost given in to despair, I caught sight of the line of motorbikes against the far fence. Now bikes, on the other hand, I was much more familiar with . . .
I hustled Trey behind the bar itself, keeping him out of sight of the highway. I could still see the flashing lights reflected from the industrial buildings.
“Stay here,” I hissed, then made my way over to the bikes. There were a dozen or so of them, parked up neatly, noses towards the fence like cowboys’ horses outside the saloon. I ducked down into the shadows as I checked over each one.
“What are you looking for?”
I turned. Trey had followed me out and was standing a few feet behind one of the bikes. In plain view.
“A way out of here,” I bit back in a savage whisper. “Either stay out of sight or find me one that isn’t chained up. No mechanical locks and no alarm.”
He looked at me for a moment as though he was going to ask questions, then he shrugged and moved away with a lack of urgency that almost made me want to scream at him.
As I went through the bikes it seemed that most of them had additional security of some form or another. I couldn’t blame them for that. I carried a roller-chain wherever I went with my bike and I always used it to hobble the rear wheel. The end one of the machines here was tied with something very similar, except it was also threaded through the side bull bars of the nearest pickup truck. I hoped the respective owners knew each other, or things were going to get rough at chucking-out time.
When I reached the other end of the line I found Trey hovering, hands shoved into his pockets and shivering like he was cold.
“Will this one do?” he asked. I gritted my teeth but said nothing as I quickly checked it over.
The bike was a Kawasaki GPz 900 Ninja, not in the first flush of youth and much abused if the dirt-engrained scars in the fairing were anything to go by. The counterweight on the end of the clutch lever was missing and one indicator dangled by its wiring. Not exactly somebody’s pride and joy, then. Well, that was good.
Better still, there were no extra locks or chains and no warning stickers for an alarm system. Just the steering lock, which held the handlebars cocked hard over to the left.
“Yes, it will,” I said at last, trying to force my lips into an encouraging smile towards the boy. “Well done.”
I straightened up, put one hand on the pillion seat, reared back and kicked the scuffed bar end with as much force as I could put into it, given the angle. The bike lurched on its side stand like it was shying away from the blow. As soon as I could be sure it wasn’t going to go down, I hit it again.
This time the whole of the front end bucked as the steering lock sheared. The bars rebounded off the far side of the fairing as they broke free. I had to grab the body of the bike to stop it diving forward off the stand. My muscles cramped as I took the full weight of it, straining to keep it upright. It was like slapping a particularly nervous racehorse round the muzzle and then having to stop it bolting afterwards.
Trey stood mute, looking puzzled, not making any attempt to help as I wheeled the Kawasaki out of the line. I cast him a single vicious glance as I set the bike back onto its stand, then flipped the fuel tap on and fumbled in my pocket for my Swiss Army knife. I folded out the slot-head screwdriver bit and rammed it into the ignition, using the leverage of the handle to break up the inside of the lock and twist it to the run position.
“OK,” I said to Trey, “get on the back. If this works we might have to get out of here fast.”
He climbed onto the pillion seat without a word. I closed my eyes briefly, then hit the starter.
The Kwak, good reliable old hack that it was, fluttered and caught. The neglected engine was rattling like a
