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Locked.
I press and pull, climbing onto the bumper to jiggle or work the door open by brute force.
The engine screams to life. Shit! Whoever’s in the driver’s seat must have realized he’s got company. The van lurches forward. My feet slip on the bumper. I tighten my grip on the door handle.
The van rocks up over the curb, bouncing onto the grass, sending workers scattering to get out of the way. It knocks me loose.
Legs and arms pumping hard, I trail behind the van, trying to grab on again. I can’t let him get to the road. Can’t let him out of my sight or Shelby’s gone.
I throw my arm forward, reaching for the handle. My hand slaps against the door with a painful sting. Fingers slip against the metal. Once, twice.
Got it.
I curl my fingers around the slick metal.
The engine roars louder. Gravel pings off my shins.
Next step is to get my feet back on that bumper and go along for the ride.
The van picks up speed.
My grip on the handle is tenuous at best. The sharp sting of the metal from my rings pinches my flesh. I ignore it. Focus. Relentlessly, I pound over the uneven ground, trying to get the momentum to leap onto the back of the van. My brain knows it’s a losing battle, but I refuse to accept reality.
Muscles straining, I swing onto the bumper and hang on tight. The van fishtails, knocking my feet to the ground again. This time, the toes of my boots drag through the grass, but still I hold on. I stare down at the bumper. Too much of a risk to let go and hope I catch it with my hands instead of my face.
The van careens wildly over the grass.
I shove my hand in my pocket and yank out my cell phone, snapping a few sure-to-be-shaky photos of the visible portion of the license plate in case Jigsaw can’t get a clear shot with my big ass in the way.
Finally, the driver slows the van enough for me to pull myself upright. I shove my phone back in my pocket and pump my burning legs faster. The van brakes hard and I smack into the metal door with my forehead.
“Fuck.” I shake it off and attempt to climb onto the bumper again. The van bounces wildly over the edge of the gravel road, knocking me loose for good.
My right foot rolls on the uneven stones. Pain crackles through my ankle and leg. My knee slams into the unforgiving rocks.
“Fuck!” I roll to the side and jump to my feet, then limp a few steps before continuing my chase.
The van’s moving too fast.
That stumble cost me.
Jigsaw whizzes by, boots crunching over the gravel.
But it’s too late.
There’s no catching the guy now.
Jigsaw must realize it too. He stops, rests his hands on his thighs, and watches the van for a few beats. Breathing hard, he turns my way, points back toward the parking lot, and shouts, “Go, go, go!”
I wobble and hop on my uninjured foot until I can push through the pain and put weight on the other one. Together, we run for the truck.
People stare.
A few shout questions at us but I’m not stopping for anyone.
I slam into the side of the truck with both hands. A fire engine’s parked behind me, boxing me in. “Son of a bitch.”
“I got it.” Jigsaw throws himself on his bike. Fuck, I’m pissed I don’t have mine. It would make it a hell of a lot easier to move through this mess. His bike thunders to life as I rip open the driver’s side door and fling myself into the truck.
Fuck the fire engines and everyone else in my way. I don’t even hesitate to slam the truck into drive. Just like the van did earlier, I hop the curb and tear over the grass, avoiding the clogged parking lot.
The back end of the truck slides as I hit the gravel but I keep my foot on the gas. From what I remember, there’s only one exit from this side of the arena. If the traffic’s bad, I might be able to catch the guy at the stoplight.
Jigsaw’s ahead of me and once my wheels touch the pavement, I catch up to him quickly. He weaves around cars while I jerk the steering wheel to the right and tear over more grass, careful to keep the tires on the safe side of the steep embankment running along the road.
Traffic thins out as we reach the connecting road that leads to the highway. Everyone’s trying to get into the place. The road leading out is clearer.
No white van at the stoplight.
I slam my fists against the steering wheel.
Something thumps against my window. I click the button to slide the glass down.
Jigsaw’s studying the road ahead of us and I follow his line of sight. “He had to go right.” He points to the stoplight. There’s a leader light to turn left and a small line of cars already backed up. “He wouldn’t risk getting stuck here.”
