Hailey's War

kick your ass and take Mr. Skouras’s unborn grandkid away from you. You think there’s a Christmas bonus in your future?”

He snarled, “You’ll be dead by Christmas. You have no idea how badly you’ve fucked yourself up here.”

I let him have the last word.

thirty-seven

Skouras’s SUV was the last thing we wanted to be driving with his men looking for us, so we only took it to the end of the driveway. I was silent on the drive down, thinking about my own vanity. I’d given Skouras’s machine another clue to my identity, telling them my father’s name and that I was a bike messenger. It probably didn’t matter. It wasn’t like they couldn’t find out where I came from, not if they wanted to know. Which now I was sure they would.

As we got into the Bronco, Serena hailed me: “Insula, do you read? Over.”

“This is Insula. Mission accomplished.”

“I’m looking at the three of you right now, man,” she said. “I don’t fucking believe it.”

“See you on the main road. Over.”

Even then, I’d probably known I was speaking too soon.

Serena was in Payaso’s GTO. She’d driven it carefully off road and over field land to the surveillance spot because we hadn’t had time to mount a sophisticated operation that would have entailed Serena hiking in from the distance that I had.

I turned the wheel and the Bronco trundled in a U-turn, and I headed back the way we’d come.

I told Payaso, “When we get down to where we left the guy driving the SUV, keep an eye out. He’s unarmed, but if he got free… I don’t know what he might try, just be looking.”

“He didn’t get free,” Payaso said. “I did him up good.”

But the danger rarely lies where you think.

There was about ten miles of long, lonely back road ahead before we’d get to Highway One south, along which we’d probably fall in behind Serena, or she behind us, depending on how fast we each were traveling. The single- lane road, shrouded on each side by pines and underbrush, was very lightly traveled. That was the reason I’d been able to lie by the side of the road in our ambush plan without first drawing the attention of some poor horrified local.

It was also why, when a sleek silver Mercedes carrying two people shot up the road toward us, I tensed. But that was all. It happened too fast. I was going about sixty, so was the other guy, and we were on top of each other right away.

The passenger was a man I didn’t see clearly. The driver, whom I did, was Babyface. In that split second, I knew that he had time to see me, Payaso, and worst of all, Nidia.

“Oh, fuck,” I said.

“Who was that?” Payaso said.

“Enemigo,” I said.

Maybe he didn’t see. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he didn’t. Eyes glued to the rearview, I willed the Mercedes to keep going.

Its brake lights flashed red, and I knew it was going to turn around. I pushed the accelerator to the floor. With my right hand, I grabbed the radio. “Warchild,” I said, “we’re being pursued. It’s a silver Mercedes, California plates.”

“Insula, I’m two miles to Highway One. What’s your twenty?”

“About five miles out,” I said. “Just stay clear of us, okay? I’ll catch up with you when I can.”

He was gaining fast. I had less than a quarter mile on him when I gained Highway One, braked hard, and swung the Bronco into the southbound lane at about thirty miles an hour. That might not sound like a lot of speed, but it is for a right-angle turn, when you’re carrying a pregnant woman. In the rearview, I saw Payaso wrap his arms protectively around Nidia.

I jammed the accelerator down again, picking up speed.

I should have listened to Serena. I should have gotten the fastest goddamned car CJ’s money would buy. I was an idiot.

If I stopped, could we win in a shoot-out? Who was the other guy in the car? Was that guy armed? That Babyface was strapped was a given.

We were both doing 110 miles an hour, and I was glad that we were passing through a quiet stretch of Highway One. Peace, privacy, and not a lot of cross-traffic: convenient for those rare times when a white homegirl needs to blast through at a high rate of speed, pursued by a mobster’s henchman in a Mercedes.

I wondered if I could lose Babyface just long enough to dump Nidia out somewhere. Not only would this mean she and her baby would be safe, but I’d also kind of decided that she was my bad-luck charm, because every time I was in a car with her, shit like this happened.

Then I was distracted by a blur of motion in the bushes off the road, a flash of red lights. It was a highway patrol car, all lights and siren, coming out of his speed trap.

Payaso cursed in Spanish, then apologized to Nidia.

The highway patrolman fell in behind Babyface, who at this point was right behind me. Neither of us was showing any sign of stopping.

After the first initial flash of anxiety, I was wondering if this couldn’t work to our advantage. If I pulled over, Babyface almost certainly wouldn’t. It wasn’t like he could explain to the cops why he was chasing us. And if I complied and Babyface kept going, surely the patrolman would chase Babyface, wouldn’t he? Maybe the cop had even decided that I was simply trying to outrun a nut job who was chasing me.

That was it, then. I would pull over like a nice white college girl, Babyface would keep going at a hundred miles per hour, the cop would chase the Mercedes, and I’d bang a U-turn and haul ass. Perfect.

I took my foot off the gas and hit my turn signal, showing my intent to pull over.

“What are you doing?” Payaso said.

“Trust me,” I said as the Bronco bumped onto the rough shoulder of the road.

Babyface raced around me and kept going. The patrol car did not pursue him. It was slowing, pulling over behind me.

Shit. This was not going according to plan.

We’d both stopped, but the patrolman was still in his car. He had his hand to his mouth, and I thought he was talking on the radio, calling his buddies to chase Babyface. This would give me a moment to think.

I looked down at my hands. Unless I was very charming and very convincing right off the bat, this was going to go sour fast. We were carrying two guns, a switchblade, pepper spray, a ski mask, and duct tape. We couldn’t afford a search.

A pickup truck rambled past, heading north, and I had time to notice the dog, a Dalmatian, that pressed its face against the glass as if curious about our situation. The cop was still inside his cruiser.

“Payaso,” I said, “whatever happens, we’re not shooting a cop, okay? Worse comes to worst, if Nidia’s in custody, she’s safe, right?”

“Bullshit,” Payaso said. “La jura isn’t going to protect her. The old man will send his lawyer to bail her out and that’ll be that, he’ll have her all over again. We’ll never find her this time.”

“Payaso,” I interrupted, meaning, Stop scaring her. “I’m going to talk our way out of this. Make sure your gun’s not showing, okay?”

The patrolman was at my window. Young and blond and starched and ironed, nothing out of place. I smiled at him and rolled down the window.

“Thank God you came along,” I said, making my voice breathless and relieved. “That man was chasing us.”

“Yeah, the Mercedes, I noticed that,” he said. “Why?”