He could hardly believe what he was hearing. Turning right would take them away from the freeway. He ignored her instruction and drove straight through the intersection.
“Dal!”
He ignored her.
“Dal, what the hell? We could have gotten them. Three less Russians on the loose.”
“I’m not risking your life so you can gun down Russians,” he snapped.
“But it’s our duty,” she argued. “They’re on American soil.”
“It’s not your duty,” he replied. “And my duty is to get you home to your dad.” If she wanted to fight Russians, she could clear it with Mr. Cecchino.
“Chauvinist,” she muttered.
Dal let the comment slide. He was all for equal rights, but not at the risk of getting Lena killed. She could take up the equal rights debate with Mr. Cecchino after Dal got her home in one piece.
The freeway onramp finally appeared. They were no more than a hundred yards away when a blue Mustang shot out from an adjoining street. Dal slammed on the breaks to keep from crashing into the side of the car, halting in the middle of the road. He had just enough time to register the military fatigues.
“Out!” Lena screamed. She threw open her door and rolled out of the car.
Dal followed suit, punching his seat belt buckle. He hit the asphalt just as machine gun fire ripped into the Beetle.
He heard Lena screaming from the other side of the car as she returned fire. Was the girl completely out of her mind?
Bullets sprayed his beloved car. Steam hissed out of the back, telling him the engine had been hit.
He rolled to a stop, only to find Lena squaring off against the Russians, machine gun on her shoulder. He grabbed her around the waist.
The Beetle had rolled to a stop in the middle of the road, spewing stream. It wasn’t much in the way of cover, but it was the best to be found. He dragged a protesting Lena behind the back fender.
“Dal, what the hell?”
He yanked the gun out of her hands. “Stay down,” he snapped. He made a mental note to make her drive—if they were lucky enough to get a chance to drive out of here. No more guns for Lena.
He checked the magazine. Two bullets left. “Where are the other magazines?”
“Here.” Lena passed him one. The remaining one was in the waistline of her stretch pants. He wished she was dressed head to toe in Kevlar. The Russians remained inside their Mustang in the middle of the intersection, guns aimed in at them.
A car appeared, roaring toward the intersection. It was on a direct intersect course with the Mustang fender.
Dal recognized it instantly. He would know the beat-up front end of that brown Chevy pickup anywhere.
It was his father’s car.
Richard Granger sat behind the wheel, his favorite black hat pulled over shaggy hair. He looked just like he had a year ago when Dal had seen him at the cider mill.
Mr. Granger drove the truck like an avenging demon. Even though they were separated by more than a hundred yards, Dal felt the moment when his father saw him. The sensation was like a spear going through his body.
And just like last year at the cider mill, there was a brief moment when father and son looked at each other. It lasted no more than a second, but it felt like centuries.
Then Mr. Granger jerked the steering wheel. His truck made a hard right. He zoomed past the Mustang and onto the freeway onramp, leaving Dal and Lena in the crosshairs of the Russians.
Dal felt his breath leave his body.
His father had left him to fend for himself.
Just like he always had.
It hurt. Even after all these years, it still hurt.
Dal’s mouth tightened. Peering around the side of the Beetle, he spotted one of the Russians. That ’69 Mustang fastback was too fine of a vehicle for Russian scum.
The one in the back had his gun propped in the open window. Dal took aim, pretending the Russian was nothing more than a big buck.
He fired. The bullets tore through their attacker. The invader slumped, gun clattering to the pavement just outside the Mustang.
Dal felt Lena tense beside him. “Don’t even think about it.”
“That’s a perfectly good weapon.”
“And that’s a perfectly good Russian in the driver’s seat.” Dal slapped in a new magazine as the Russian in the front seat opened fire. He sprayed bullets all around the Beetle.
Dal threw himself over Lena, covering her body with his. For once, she didn’t fight him. She was too busy screaming as gunfire rained down on them.
Dal felt a sting across his shoulder blade. He sucked in a breath at the hot pain that ripped across his back.
“Dal? Dal, are you okay?”
He didn’t respond, instead gritting his teeth. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a tiny trickle of blood. A graze, not a gunshot wound.
“Dal!”
“I’m okay.”
The gunfire ceased. He heard the door of the Mustang swing open. Boots crunched on broken glass.
Dal rolled off Lena and peered beneath the Beetle. The boots of the Russian continued on a trajectory straight for them. Dal fired at the attacker’s feet.
The invader went down. More gun fire spewed through the air. Dal crawled sideways, poked the gun around the front bumper of the Beetle, and fired in the general direction of the Russian. The machine gun vibrated into his shoulder socket.
Silence.
He glanced over his shoulder to check on Lena. She was still flat on the pavement, watching him with wide eyes. Drawing a breath, he peeked over the top of the car.
The Russian lay dead before him, sprawled in a puddle of his own blood in the middle of the road.
Their immediate surroundings were eerily quiet. In the distance was the wail of sirens and machine gun chatter.
Lena was the first to move. She darted to the Mustang, snatched up a second machine gun, and slung
