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I couldn't speak. I stared openmouthed and glassy-eyed at the guy with the diamond dental chip. Somewhere deep in my brain the word carjack was struggling to rise to the surface.
Diamond dental chip turned the key in the Porsche's ignition and revved the engine. “Out of the car,” he yelled, pushing the gun barrel against my head.
“I'm giving you one second and then I'm gonna blow your brains all over this motherfucker. Now get your fat ass out of the car.”
The mind works in weird ways, and it's strange how something dumb can push a button. I was willing to overlook the use of the MF word, but getting called a fat ass really pissed me off.
“Fat ass?” I said, feeling my eyes narrow. “Excuse me? Fat ass?”
“I haven't got time for this shit,” he said. And he rammed the car into gear, mashed the gas to the floor, and the Porsche jumped away from the curb.
He was driving with his left hand and holding the gun and shifting with his right. There was light traffic on Stark, and he was weaving around cars and running lights. He came up fast behind a Lincoln Navigator and hit the brake hard. He moved to shift, and I knocked the gun out of his hand. The gun hit the console and fell to the floor on the drivers side.
“Fuck,” he said. “Fucking fuck. Fucking bitch.”
He leaned forward and reached for the gun, and I punched him in the ear as hard as I could. His head bounced off the wheel, the wheel jerked hard to the left, and we cut across oncoming traffic. The Porsche jumped the curb, plowed through a stack of black plastic garbage bags, and crashed through the plate glass window of a small delicatessen that was closed for the night.
The front airbags inflated with a bang, and I was momentarily stunned. I fought my way through the bag, somehow got the door open, and rolled out onto the deli floor. I was on my hands and knees in the dark, and it was wet under my hand. Blood, I thought. Get outside and get help.
A leg came into my field of vision. Black cargo pants, black boots. Hands under my armpits, lifting me to my feet. And then I was face-to-face with Ranger.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I must be bleeding. The floor was wet and sticky.”
He looked at my hand. “I don't see any blood on you.” He put my hand to his mouth and touched his tongue to my palm, giving me a rush that went from my toes to the roots of my hair. “Dill,” he said. He looked beyond me, to the crumpled hood of the Porsche.
“You crashed into the counter and smashed the pickle barrel.”
“I'm sorry about your Porsche.”
“I can replace the Porsche. I can't replace you. You need to be more careful.”
“I was just sitting in your car!”
“Babe, you're a magnet for disaster.”
Tank had the carjacker in cuffs. He shoved him across the floor to the door, the carjacker slid in the pickle juice and went down to one knee, and I heard Tank's boot connect with solid body. “Accident,” Tank said. “Didn't see you down there in the dark.” And then he yanked the carjacker to his feet and threw him into a wall. “Another accident,” Tank said, grabbing the carjacker, jerking him to his feet again.
Ranger cut his eyes to Tank. “Stop playing with him.”
Tank grinned at Ranger and dragged the carjacker out to the SUV.
We followed Tank out, and Ranger looked at me under the streetlight. “You're a mess,” he said, picking noodles and wilted lettuce out of my hair. “You're covered in garbage again.”
“We hit the bags on the curb on the way into the store. And I guess we dragged some of it with us. I probably rolled in it when I fell out of the car.”
A smile hung at the corners of Rangers mouth. “I can always count on you to brighten my day.”
A shiny black Ford truck angled to a stop in front of us, and one of Ranger's men got out and handed Ranger the keys. I could see a police car turn onto Stark, two blocks away.
“Tank and Hal and Woody can take care of this,” Ranger said. “We can leave.”
“You have a guy named Woody?”
Ranger opened the passenger-side door to the truck for me. “Do you want me to explain it?”
“Not necessary.”
