“Yeah, I’m ready whenever you are.”
“What side?”
“The left-hand side.”
“My left or your left?”
“Your left, Nova! Now come on, I’ll cover you.”
With both strands of the rope in one hand, I grab my gun and fire at the BMW. Again I don’t try to hit the passenger or the driver but I want to slow them down, force them to swerve away, give Nova enough time to swing around them.
Which he does, the black Dodge Ram coming on strong, speeding directly at me, and as the truck comes right up to the trailer I hear Nova’s voice in my ear—“Do it now!”—and I fire off one more round and drop the gun and reach for the knife in my pocket.
I start running, sprinting as fast as I can, until I reach the doors and, gripping the rope as tight as ever, I jump out and swing toward the last BMW, the rope catching at the top and the momentum forcing me again like a pendulum toward the left-hand side of the tractor-trailer, where Nova is now, riding as close as possible, making sure I have enough space, and with one deft motion I flick my wrist and extend the switchblade and slice the rope until nothing more is keeping me up and I fall.
Sixty
The Dodge Ram has a nice open bed. Normally it’s empty, but just an hour ago Nova went to Walmart and stocked up on every single pillow and comforter they had. He loaded up the pillows in back of the pickup and placed the comforters on top of them, and while it’s not the most ideal thing to land on when just jumping out of a speeding tractor-trailer, it does the trick.
I lie staring at the empty sky for a couple seconds. My heart is pounding. My body is shaking. I’m half-aware that both of those things have been going on this entire time, but what matters is that I realize it now and that I’m happy to be alive.
The Dodge Ram has a partition on the cab’s rear window. Nova slides it open and shouts out at me, “You okay?”
I open my mouth to answer but can’t speak. I try again and realize that I’m holding my breath, that I’ve been holding my breath. I release the breath and take a few large gulps of air before telling Nova that yes, I’m okay.
“Good.” He slides an M4 through the partition. “Mind taking care of our company?”
At once I’m back on autopilot. I sit up and grab the rifle and turn just as the tractor-trailer’s driver lowers his window and sticks out a handgun. I can’t tell what kind of gun—it looks like a .38 or a .45—but that doesn’t matter; what matters is that he has a gun and is now firing at us, a few random shots in the pickup’s direction, Nova swerving to the farthest lane and then back to fake him out.
I lean forward and prop my weight on my knee and raise the rifle, holding it as steady as I can. I aim not for the driver but for the empty passenger seat and I let off a few rounds, the windshield cracking and then shattering, the driver leaning back so he can grab the wheel with both hands.
The BMW has swung around and is headed up our lane, directly behind us. The passenger is still hanging out his window. He’s not firing because he’s not at a good angle, and right now the driver is trying to do that for him, veering to the left.
I turn the rifle toward the car and let off a few more rounds, the bullets tearing up the grille and the hood, the BMW swerving back and forth, giving me enough time to swing the barrel back to the tractor-trailer and aim at the front tire. I open fire and don’t stop shooting until the bullets tear away at the rubber enough that it blows.
The tractor-trailer doesn’t explode or flip over like it would in the movies. Instead, the wheel goes flat. The tractor-trailer tilts with a jerk. It’s already going about eighty miles an hour, and now with the flat the driver slams on the brakes, which is something he shouldn’t do, not at that speed, because by jerking the wheel and slamming on the brakes it causes the momentum of the trailer to keep going, sliding toward the left, right at the BMW, the car unable to get out of the way in time that it veers straight into the median.
I’ve exhausted the magazine. I lean back toward the partition and ask Nova for another. He hands me one. I replace the mag and then just sit there, the wind howling around me, the destruction already a quarter mile behind us.
Despite the fact we’re hooked up by transmitter, Nova shouts out through the partition: “So you got it?”
I pat my pocket, nod at him.
“Good,” he says. “So now what?”
Before I can respond, I hear the approaching chuck-chuck-chuck-chuck of a helicopter. I look up and see it there, what looks like a modified Black Hawk heading towards us.
Nova increases the Ram’s speed. He shouts back at me to watch out and cover my face. Next thing I know he smashes the window with a hammer, shards of glass flying everywhere.
“Hurry! Get in!”
I climb in just as the Black Hawk’s door gunner opens fire on the bed of pillows and comforters.
Sixty-One
Nova hunches over the steering wheel, pressing his foot hard on the gas pedal. As I snap in my seat belt, I glance over and see the speedometer rising, going from ninety to ninety-five to one hundred. There are cars ahead of us and Nova starts swerving around them, the door gunner in the Black Hawk pausing in his gunfire so no civilians are harmed.
“Atticus,” I say, “we’re not going to be able to shake this Black Hawk.”
“Yes, I know. I’m thinking.”
Nova says, “Well, fucking think faster.”
We’re on the Capital Beltway now, heading east
