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“Good move.”
“Right,” Brad shouts, sending James across the lane. The car jars, and James fights with the steering wheel to get us back under control. I look back to see the police car slow, smoke coming up from beneath the hood.
Fuck. We have five of the fuckers chasing us. I crane my neck to look up to the sky out of the sunroof, highly expecting to see the choppers out in force. It won’t be long. “You need to lose them, James,” I shout over the music, reaching forward and slapping his shoulder but flying back when he hits the gas. “Looks like we have a jet pack after all.”
Brad cheeks blow out, like, fuck, this is close. I couldn’t agree more.
A sharp left.
We lose one.
A right.
One more down.
Three remain, keeping up.
“Fuck it.” I undo my belt and hit the button to let the window down, turning around so my back is against the front seat.
“Don’t let them see your face, Danny,” Brad yells.
“No, just the end of my fucking gun.” I put my arm out of the window and fire randomly.
“One more down,” Brad says, joining me, both of us firing with little to no aiming out of the window.
“I’m turning,” James warns, and we both wedge our hands into the seats as he slams on the brakes and sends the car into a side glide, which would be the equivalent to a good old-fashioned handbrake turn if cars still had good old-fashioned handbrakes. “Done.”
I put my arm back out and look out the rear window, firing just as the cop car skids into the street. It crashes into a trash can, the hood flipping up. “Boom,” I whisper, waiting for the next car. We make it to the end of the street. No cop cars appear. We lost them?
James turns off the music, and we all listen. No sirens.
“Fucking hell.” Brad turns and slumps back down into his seat, head dropped back.
James doesn’t slow down.
Not until we make it onto a deserted track past the marina.
He pulls in past some overgrowth and turns off the engine, bracing his arms against the wheel.
“Good driving, bud,” I breathe, looking over my shoulder when I hear tires across stones, seeing Otto pulling up in James’s Range Rover. “Oh look, here’s Otto with two dead Russians.” He gets out and rounds the front of the car, reaching under the offside wheel arch on the X5 and nodding. A tracker.
I slip out the back, stretching my muscles, and rub at my head. It’s beginning to pound. “And now for a workout after the shoot-out,” I muse, opening the trunk of James’s car and sighing at the sight of the two massive Russians. We all drag the bodies to the X5, putting one behind the wheel and one in the passenger seat. “What if the police find them before Sandy?”
“Then the police find them first,” James says.
My phone rings, and I look at the screen, laughing loudly. “Higham, your timing is impeccable.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“Don’t ask.” I sigh, walking away from the others. Just another mess for him to pretend he doesn’t know we caused. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Don’t ask.”
“What’s the situation with the body?”
“Still not officially identified.”
I grit my teeth. “And the unofficially unidentified body’s cause of death?”
