“All so you could be the ones who ran surveillance on Delano. Philippe doesn’t know. He might suspect, but he doesn’t know. And taking him out of the equation is too risky. Raises too many questions.”
One wrist, almost free.
“So you keep him around. You keep him around because you don’t want to kill him. Or because by killing him you would bring in more people. And right now you guys like it the way it is. You like it just being the three of you and Philippe.”
One wrist, moving back and forth, almost free.
“But one of these days Philippe is going figure it out. And if he doesn’t, someone else will. Because dumb fucks like you always mess up. And while Delano may have liked you, who says Xerxes will feel the same way? Who says he won’t get tired of your bullshit and decide to take you all out instead?”
The zip tie bites into my skin, drawing blood.
I turn to Boris, lean in close.
“What do you think? What do you and your chinny-chin-chins think of that?”
His face scrunches up. He grits his teeth. He grunts as he raises his cane, swings it awkwardly at my head.
But my hands are now free and I grab the cane, twist it out of Boris’s grip. I turn the cane around, so the tip’s pointed at his face, and I jam it right into his eye.
Boylan is already in motion. He has his seat belt flung off, is reaching into his jacket for the Glock.
I pull the cane back out of Boris’s eye, swing it toward Boylan.
That’s when the car behind us speeds forward and smacks us in the rear.
Forty-One
Boylan drops the Glock. I drop the cane. Before either of us can try to reach for our respective weapons, the car behind us bumps us again.
Boylan’s gun is knocked forward to the footwell. He turns and bends down, scrambles for the gun, but by the time he comes back up with it I have the cane in my hands again, the bloody tip pointed at his face.
Like I did with Boris, I aim for one of Boylan’s eyes. But Reed swerves the car, trying to outpace the car behind us, and the tip of the cane grazes Boylan’s ear.
He fires wildly, shooting into the roof. Reed swerves the car again. The car behind us comes on faster, tries to bump us a third time. I lean forward and smack the gun out of Boylan’s hand, then I elbow Boylan in the face, one two three times right in the nose.
One hand on the wheel, Reed uses his other hand to reach for his gun. He pulls it out, raises it upside down and starts firing over his shoulder.
I duck down as the rear windshield shatters. A hand reaches for me. At first I think it’s Boylan, but it’s Boris. The Russian is alive despite losing one eye and he’s trying to grab me, strangle me, break my neck, but the car behind us rams us again and our car jerks forward and Reed keeps shooting despite the sudden rocking and his aim gets thrown off, a couple bullets ripping into Boris’s chest.
Up ahead is an intersection and a pileup of cars. Reed drops the gun in his lap, grabs at the wheel with both hands. He veers us into the opposite lane where a truck barrels toward us, flashing its high beams and blaring its horn, and then we’re up over the curb onto the sidewalk, riding it to the end of the block while the few people out in the rain run or dive out of the way.
Boylan regains his composure, regains the Glock. He turns to shoot at me again, but I grab for the gun, grip onto his wrist, try to push it away while he tries to push it toward my face.
The car bounces again as we make it back onto the main street. Only it’s a one-way street and we’re headed in the wrong direction.
Reed doesn’t seem dissuaded by this, though; he grips the steering wheel tight and takes us forward, playing chicken with the oncoming cars that quickly realize they’re dealing with a psychopath and swerve out of the way.
Boylan grits his teeth, says something underneath his breath. He’s still trying to fight me with the gun and decides to let off a couple more rounds. They shatter the rear door window—my window—and the shots are deafening and the stench of cordite is bitter and I swear that it felt like one of those bullets took out the tips of my hair, just a couple, and I grit my own teeth and push his arm again, push it hard, and he fires again just as I push it down and a bullet tears into Reed’s face.
Despite his seat belt, Reed’s body leans forward over the wheel. His foot hasn’t lifted from the gas pedal, has in fact been pushed down harder, and the car begins to accelerate.
The street curves up ahead, cars parked along both sides. I see what’s going to happen next and jump back, grab my seat belt, snap it in.
Boylan doesn’t have a chance.
Three seconds later we smash into a car parked along the street. Boylan, not wearing his seat belt, flies through the windshield. An explosion of glass. I quickly smell smoke, gasoline.
The seat belt kept me secure, but it hurts like a motherfucker. I move slowly at first, making sure nothing’s broken or strained. I unclip the seat belt, glance first at Boris to make sure he’s dead, then try to open my door.
But I can’t, no matter how hard I try. The edges of the door have been crumbled from the crash and I can’t get it open far enough for me to get out.
I decide to escape through the rear windshield. I have to be careful not to cut myself on the shards of glass still sticking up.
The rain
