“You must’ve made quite an impression on them. Don’t worry.” Listing forward, his right foot pressing the accelerator closer to the floor, he patted the dashboard. “This baby can outrun anything.”
A mile later, the Dodge Charger took a bend in the road.
Randall eased off the gas. “Oh, come on.”
Faith peered through the windshield. “Can this baby outrun road construction?”
Up ahead, cars were stopped, waiting their turn to pass through a one-lane road.
After spotting a man in an orange vest holding a ‘STOP’ sign and speaking into a walkie-talkie, Randall looked up at the sky, and pumped open hands. “Seriously? I even said a prayer.”
She faced him. “You did?” Faith threw up an arm and turned away. “Now it makes sense. I said a prayer back there, too.” She came back to him. “Yours probably cancelled out mine.”
Spying the trees on either side of the road and no turnoffs between him and the line of cars a quarter mile away, Randall let out a short snigger. “Hang on.” He swerved right, made a left-hand U-turn, and straightened the steering wheel. Still chuckling, he peeped at Faith. “When this is all over, Miss Mahoney, you’re going to have to let me buy you a drink.”
The corners of her mouth sloping upward, she faced him. “It’s a deal. Now tell me why you’re racing toward the bad guys?”
“Like knights on white steeds,” he rolled down his window before grasping his gun with his left hand, “it’s time for some modern-day jousting.”
“Are you freaking kidding me?” Wide-eyed, she gaped at the oncoming truck. “You plan to play chicken...with guns?”
He looked at the wilderness around him. “I’m open to better ideas.”
After seeing what he was seeing, she yanked her seatbelt across her chest and made a connection. “I hope you know what you’re doing. Or we’re going to be having that drink together from the hospital...through clear tubes.”
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
.
Chapter 17
We’re Screwed
His right hand on the wheel, his head, and left arm, hanging out the window, his Walther PPQ45 in hand, he got off three shots.
The first pinged off the truck’s stainless-steel roll bar. The second shattered the GMC’s left headlight. The third missed the 3500 completely.
“Wow,” Faith mumbled to herself. “We’re screwed.”
“Give me a break. I’m right-handed. And contrary to how easy they make it look on TV, shooting while driving...”
She undid her safety belt.
“...is actually quite...”
“Hand it over.”
“...difficult.” He curled back inside the Dodge. “I’m not done yet.”
“Yes,” she thrust out her arm and wiggled her fingers, “you are. You keep the car straight, and,” she seized the weapon from him, “I’ll do the shooting.”
“Well, hurry up. They’re closing fast.”
She assumed a two-handed hold on the Walther and steadied the back of her left hand, her support hand, against the doorframe.
A man’s upper body emerged from the truck’s passenger window.
Randall stared at the AR-15 in the man’s hands. “You got this. Nice and slow.”
The rifleman wrapped the gun’s sling around his left arm.
Randall glimpsed Faith and squinted at Rifleman. On most days, rifle beats pistol. “That’s a forty-five you got there. Remember that on your follow-up shots.”
Rifleman lowered his left elbow onto the pickup’s windshield and brought the stock into his shoulder.
Randall peeked at the speedometer, 76, before focusing on the approaching shiny grille. A few more seconds, and I’ll have to, “Anytime now, Miss Mahon—”
Faith fired.
The bullet destroyed the AR-15’s optics, entered Rifleman’s right eye, blew out the back of his skull, and continued into the faraway forest.
The dead man slumped over the door with the AR still entwined in his arms.
Randall arched eyebrows. Nice...
She fired two more times.
...shot.
Both bullets struck the windshield in front of where the driver’s head would be on the other side of the glass.
The GMC swerved to its right and left before veering toward its three o’clock, doing a complete three-sixty, and coming to rest on the side of the road facing Randall and Faith.
She snaked her way back inside the car.
He hit the brakes.
She stiff armed the dashboard to keep from flying out of her seat.
He ran the gearshift to ‘Park,’ gave her his phone, and retrieved his pistol. “Stay here and call the police.” Randall shoved open his door.
“No need.” Faith lifted a finger toward oncoming flashing lights. “They’re already here.”
He climbed out and crept toward the still running 3500, his gun aimed at the driver whose chin rested on his chest.
Its siren blaring, the police cruiser skidded to a stop to form a triangle with the GMC truck and the Dodge Charger, Randall in the middle of all three.
Two officers exited their car and took cover between their open doors and the rest of the vehicle.
Cop #1: “Seattle PD. Drop the weapon now!”
Randall pumped a hand their way. “It’s okay, officers. I’m...”
Cop #2: “Drop the gun!”
“...with the U.S. Marshals Service.”
Cop #1: “Show me some ID.”
Remembering Devlin had not issued him his credentials yet, he froze. Oh, this day just gets better and... “I’d love to, gentlemen, but,” he offered a feeble smile, “funny story.”
“Drop the gun and get down on your knees.”
Cop #2: “This is your last warning,” he tacked on a vulgar name before lowering his stance and lining up his sights. “Drop it now.”
“If you’ll just let me explain, I can clear this—”
“It’s okay, guys.”
Keeping their weapons trained on Randall, both law enforcement officials turned their heads toward the Charger, toward a female voice.
Sliding her left hand along the car’s right fender for support, Faith limped toward the right-front corner of the muscle car. “I’m a detective with,” she hobbled, “with the Seattle PD.”
Cop #1, the nearest LEO, cocked his head at her. “Detective Mahoney?”
She squinted at him. “Tim? Is that you?”
Tim faced Randall. “Is this the,” he swore, “who kidnapped you?”
“No. No. He’s a good guy.” She motioned toward the truck. “They’re the ones you need to arrest.” She pointed at Randall, “He,” while struggling to walk in front of the Dodge and get closer to her savior, hoping
