hood.
With blood trickling down her forehead and dripping from her right
eyebrow, Julie jabbed at the brakes and sat up at the same time. She
was confronted by a man’s wide-eyed corpse jammed in the frame of the
empty windshield. His face in front of the steering wheel-teeth
chipped, lips torn, chin slashed, cheek battered, left eye missing-and
one of his broken legs was inside the car, hooked down over the
dashboard. Julie found the brake pedal and pumped it. With the sudden
drop in speed, the dead man was dislodged. His limp body rolled across
the hood, and when the car slid to a shaky halt he vanished over the
front end.
Heart racing, blinking to keep the stinging blood from blue ring the
vision in her right eye, Julie snatched the Uzi from the seat beside
her, shoved open the door, and rolled out, moving fast and staying low.
The other gunman was already in the blue Ford van. He gave it gas
before remembering to shift out of park, so the tires screamed and
smoked.
Julie squeezed off two short bursts from the Uzi, blowing out both tires
on her side of the van. But the gunman didn’t stop. He shifted gears
at last and tried to drive past her on two ruined tires.
The guy might have killed Bobby; now he was getting away. He would
probably never be found if Julie didn’t stop him. Reluctantly she swung
the Uzi higher and emptied the magazine into the side window of the van.
The Ford accelerated, then suddenly slowed and swung to the right, at
steadily diminishing speed, in a long arc that carried it to the far
curb, where it came to a halt with a jolt.
No one got out.
Keeping an eye on the Ford, Julie leaned into her car, plucked a spare
magazine from the seat, and reloaded the Uzi. She approached the idling
van cautiously and pulled open the door, but caution was not required
because the man behind the wheel was dead. Feeling a little sick, she
reached in and switched off the engine.
Briefly, as she turned from the Ford and hurried toward the
bullet-riddled Dodge, the only sounds she could hear were the sounds of
a faint breeze in the lush corporate landscaping that flanked the
street, punctuated by the gentle hiss and rattle of palm fronds. Then
she also heard the idling engine of the Dodge, simultaneously smelled
gasoline, and shouted, “Bobby!”
Before she reached the white van, the back doors creaked open, and Bobby
came out, shedding twists of metal, chunks of plastic, bits of glass,
wood chips, and scraps of paper. He was gasping, no doubt because the
gasoline fumes had driven most of the breathable air out of the Dodge’s
rear quarters.
Sirens rose in the distance.
Together they quickly walked away from the van. They had gone only a
few steps when orange light flared and flames rose in a wooooosh from
the gasoline pooled on the pavement, enveloping the vehicle in bright
shrouds. They hurried beyond the corner of intense heat that surrounded
the Dodge and stared for a moment, blinking at the wreckage, then at
each other.
The sirens were drawing nearer.
He said, “You’re bleeding.”
“Just skinned my forehead a little.”
“You sure?”
“It’s nothing. What about you?”
He sucked in a deep breath. “I’m okay.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“You weren’t hit?”
“Unmarked. It’s a miracle.”
“Bobby?”
“What?”
“I couldn’t handle it if you’d turned up dead in there.
“I’m not dead. I’m fine.”
“Thank God,” she said.
Then she kicked his right shin.
“Ow! What the hell?”
She kicked his left shin.
“Julie, dammit!”
“Don’t you ever tell me to cut and run.”
“What?”
“I’m a full half of this partnership in every way.”
“But-”
“I’m as smart as you, as fast as you-”
He glanced at the dead man on the street, the other on the Ford van,
half visible through the open door, and he said, “That’s for sure,
babe.”
“-as tough as you-”
“I know, I know. Don’t kick me again.”
She said, “What about Rasmussen?”
Bobby looked up at the Decodyne building. “You think he’s still in