Split Second
Page 87
A bullet whizzed by her head and spiderwebbed the windshield. She ducked automatically.
She looked down at the butt of her SIG tucked under her leg, but she knew it was no good to try for a shot at the driver of the van behind her. She had only seconds.
She jerked the steering wheel sharp left, stomped her foot on the gas. Her passenger-side fender hit the rear of the van in front of her, bounced off as she kept turning hard left, tires screaming, and spun the car into the sharpest U-turn of her life. The van behind her chickened out from hitting her head-on and swerved to the right. The metal screamed as he clipped her front fender, but she was free.
She hit the gas, quickly took the Range Rover to its limit more or less down the center of the road, going the opposite direction.
There was blessed silence.
She looked back and saw that both vans were racing after her, one in each lane, both drivers’ arms out the windows, firing wildly. She prayed they were too far away, but still the bullets flew all around her, hitting the pavement and the metal frame of her car. She knew she couldn’t be lucky forever. How many more bullets would miss her? She heard her own wild breathing, tasted fear dry in her mouth.
Where was Coop? She grabbed her phone and dialed 911—“Officer in trouble”—and gave all the information to the operator.
The operator, bless her heart, didn’t ask for more, said only, “Godspeed, Agent Carlyle. Help’s on the way.”
She couldn’t wait for Coop or the cops; she had to fight back. Lucy grabbed her SIG, reached her arm around herself, and fired back through the shattered rear window first at one van, then the other. One of the vans swerved, then straightened again. At least she’d gotten their attention.
One guy went nuts firing at her, emptying his magazine. It would take him a moment to shove in a new magazine, but the man in the other van kept firing, and she heard pings and smashing glass, then felt a slap of cold against her head that knocked her sideways. She straightened as a bullet struck her windshield, shattering the glass. Shards struck her face, her arms, but without much force. She was thankful she was wearing a jacket.
Her beautiful Range Rover was a wreck, but if any car could save her, it was this one. She was still going more than eighty miles per hour down this country road.
She would die this way, or some innocent driver ahead of her would. She had to act.
Lucy stood on the brakes. Her tires screeched. As she skidded, she leaned out the driver’s window, took careful aim at the closer van, and fired. She saw the gunman’s arm jerk, saw his gun go flying. The van began weaving all over the road, out of control. She thought he’d smash into her, but the van behind rear-ended him first, sending him flying off the road toward a wide ditch. The van twisted and rolled over and over until it flipped and finally came to a stop on its back at the bottom of the ditch.
There was dead silence for a moment; then the other van backed up, screeched into a U-turn, and roared away. She stopped the Ranger Rover, shoved open the driver’s-side door, and jumped out.
The van in the ditch exploded.
A ball of fire shot into the air, hurling her backward, the blast concussion pushing the air from her lungs. She saw black smoke billowing up, smelled the stink of burning rubber, saw pieces of the white van blasting into the air. A part of a metal door slammed down six feet away, skipping over the asphalt with a loud grinding noise. She staggered to her feet and lunged beneath her car. She sucked in air, but there wasn’t enough. She knew the shooter was dead inside the van, and there was nothing she could do for him.
Coop screeched to a halt behind Lucy’s Range Rover, saw her car was a mess, all the windows shot out, dented beyond redemption.
“Lucy!” He was out of the car in an instant, running to her. He saw her struggling out from beneath the car, grasped her beneath her arms, and pulled her the rest of the way out, then helped her to her feet. “Good God, woman, what happened?”
A siren blasted in the distance.
Two police cruisers pulled up alongside Coop’s Corvette.
They both held up their creds, Lucy shouting, “There’s a shooter in the other white van, headed south!”
But there was no sign of the white van on the road now, nothing except an ancient pickup truck lumbering slowly toward them, strapped-down furniture filling the bed.
Two cops got out of the lead car, guns drawn, while the other headed south, siren blasting. Lucy was still holding up her creds. “I’m a federal agent! The man in that van tried to kill me!” She pointed to the burning van in the ditch. “I guess there’s not going to be anything left of him.”
She looked down at the butt of her SIG tucked under her leg, but she knew it was no good to try for a shot at the driver of the van behind her. She had only seconds.
She jerked the steering wheel sharp left, stomped her foot on the gas. Her passenger-side fender hit the rear of the van in front of her, bounced off as she kept turning hard left, tires screaming, and spun the car into the sharpest U-turn of her life. The van behind her chickened out from hitting her head-on and swerved to the right. The metal screamed as he clipped her front fender, but she was free.
She hit the gas, quickly took the Range Rover to its limit more or less down the center of the road, going the opposite direction.
There was blessed silence.
She looked back and saw that both vans were racing after her, one in each lane, both drivers’ arms out the windows, firing wildly. She prayed they were too far away, but still the bullets flew all around her, hitting the pavement and the metal frame of her car. She knew she couldn’t be lucky forever. How many more bullets would miss her? She heard her own wild breathing, tasted fear dry in her mouth.
Where was Coop? She grabbed her phone and dialed 911—“Officer in trouble”—and gave all the information to the operator.
The operator, bless her heart, didn’t ask for more, said only, “Godspeed, Agent Carlyle. Help’s on the way.”
She couldn’t wait for Coop or the cops; she had to fight back. Lucy grabbed her SIG, reached her arm around herself, and fired back through the shattered rear window first at one van, then the other. One of the vans swerved, then straightened again. At least she’d gotten their attention.
One guy went nuts firing at her, emptying his magazine. It would take him a moment to shove in a new magazine, but the man in the other van kept firing, and she heard pings and smashing glass, then felt a slap of cold against her head that knocked her sideways. She straightened as a bullet struck her windshield, shattering the glass. Shards struck her face, her arms, but without much force. She was thankful she was wearing a jacket.
Her beautiful Range Rover was a wreck, but if any car could save her, it was this one. She was still going more than eighty miles per hour down this country road.
She would die this way, or some innocent driver ahead of her would. She had to act.
Lucy stood on the brakes. Her tires screeched. As she skidded, she leaned out the driver’s window, took careful aim at the closer van, and fired. She saw the gunman’s arm jerk, saw his gun go flying. The van began weaving all over the road, out of control. She thought he’d smash into her, but the van behind rear-ended him first, sending him flying off the road toward a wide ditch. The van twisted and rolled over and over until it flipped and finally came to a stop on its back at the bottom of the ditch.
There was dead silence for a moment; then the other van backed up, screeched into a U-turn, and roared away. She stopped the Ranger Rover, shoved open the driver’s-side door, and jumped out.
The van in the ditch exploded.
A ball of fire shot into the air, hurling her backward, the blast concussion pushing the air from her lungs. She saw black smoke billowing up, smelled the stink of burning rubber, saw pieces of the white van blasting into the air. A part of a metal door slammed down six feet away, skipping over the asphalt with a loud grinding noise. She staggered to her feet and lunged beneath her car. She sucked in air, but there wasn’t enough. She knew the shooter was dead inside the van, and there was nothing she could do for him.
Coop screeched to a halt behind Lucy’s Range Rover, saw her car was a mess, all the windows shot out, dented beyond redemption.
“Lucy!” He was out of the car in an instant, running to her. He saw her struggling out from beneath the car, grasped her beneath her arms, and pulled her the rest of the way out, then helped her to her feet. “Good God, woman, what happened?”
A siren blasted in the distance.
Two police cruisers pulled up alongside Coop’s Corvette.
They both held up their creds, Lucy shouting, “There’s a shooter in the other white van, headed south!”
But there was no sign of the white van on the road now, nothing except an ancient pickup truck lumbering slowly toward them, strapped-down furniture filling the bed.
Two cops got out of the lead car, guns drawn, while the other headed south, siren blasting. Lucy was still holding up her creds. “I’m a federal agent! The man in that van tried to kill me!” She pointed to the burning van in the ditch. “I guess there’s not going to be anything left of him.”
