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The Impala was going to mow me down. I jumped onto the oncoming car, rolled up on the hood. The driver hit the brakes. I slammed off the windshield and whipsawed back the other way.
The bat hit me hard in the midback and I was flung off the hood and onto the pavement. The wind was knocked out of me. The headlights blinded me.
But I still held the crowbar, and some deep instinct told me to look away from the headlights and down at the pavement.
“Fucker,” a man grunted. I caught a flash of shadow on the road a second before the boot caught me in the ribs.
I felt a cracking and gasped in pain.
“Cave his frickin’ skull in and be done with it,” snarled a second male voice behind the headlights.
I kept my head down, forcing myself beyond the pain, looking at the street surface. The second I caught a flicker in the shadows, I backhand-slashed out and up with the crowbar.
I felt it connect before I saw the knee buckling in silhouette. I felt the bat glance off the side of my head. It wasn’t a direct hit, but it was enough to make me dizzy and uncertain of what was up and what was down.
The guy I hit was yelling and clutching at his knee. He stumbled and fell against the hood of the car, screamin
g and clawing at his knee now.
Grunting in pain, still fighting for air, I thought: Two left. Other one with the crowbar. And the driver.
“Shoot him!”
I twisted my head, saw the driver climbing from the car, saw him holding a scoped hunting rifle. As he turned the gun my way, I flung the crowbar at him. It whipped sideways, end over end, and shattered the driver-side window, spraying the gunman with glass.
The rifle went off; the bullet ricocheted off bridge steel.
I heard tires squealing in the distance. Beneath the Impala, I saw headlights coming onto the bridge.
“We’re out of here!” the driver shouted, and he dove into the car.
Fearing he’d run me down as he escaped, I scrambled back toward the sidewalk. The one with the blown knee hopped around the car, jumped into the front seat. The guy with the other crowbar pulled the man I’d dropped into the backseat. I reached the sidewalk, swallowed the pain, and bent my body to get the Ruger from my ankle holster.
Doors slammed. Tires smoked. A pistol came out the window.
I drew mine and fired wildly at the Impala, spiderwebbing the rear passenger window as the car began to accelerate. The guy with the blown knee shot as they passed me. The bullet pinged off steel right by my head.
“Get the fuck out of our town, Cross!” one of them yelled as they sped away. “Or you’ll end up just like your cretin cousin.”
Chapter
45
A blue Dodge Ram pickup with Florida plates skidded to a stop beside me.
“Alex!” Pinkie yelled as he jumped from the cab.
“Help me up,” I said, gasping. “Get me out of here.”
“There were shots!” he said.
“Which is why you need to get me out of here,” I said, fighting to get to my feet. “I do not want to talk to the Starksville police.”
Powerful hands caught me under the arms. I gritted my teeth at the pain in my ribs and hobbled to the passenger door. Pinkie lifted me into the truck and had us off the bridge before I heard the police sirens.
My cousin flipped off his headlights and turned down a road that paralleled the gorge. We were a quarter of a mile away before I saw distant blue lights go whizzing by, heading toward the bridge.
“Where to?” Pinkie asked.
