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Her stolen Celica is up on a sidewalk, the front end smashed by a utility pole, and the passenger’s side is caved in by a blue Chevrolet Tahoe. Steam is rising from under the Tahoe’s hood.
They’re here,she thinks, grabbing at her bag, unbuckling the seat belt, needing to get out of the X, the kill zone.Setting up a fake car accident to stop me from getting to Director Abrams’s home and safety. The ones who shot Kay Darcy and me, they’re here.
It takes one good shove before the door opens—her wincing hard from the burst of pain—and she steps out, 10mm Glock in her hand, and there’s a yell. She turns, saying, “Hold on, right there!,” pointing her weapon at the people closest to her.
She takes in the scene, best as she can, with her chest aching after the hard blow of the airbag deployment, her eyes burning from the dust coming out from the now deflated safety device.
A few people are on the sidewalk, gaping in awe at the accident. Other cars that don’t want to be held up slowly drive around the wrecked vehicles.
In front of her are two teen girls, weeping, one holding up her freshly manicured hands to her face, saying, “My parents are gonna kill me! My parents are gonna kill me!”
Her friend has an arm around her. “It was an accident, that’s all. Just an accident.”
The weeping girl says, “The cops are gonna call up my phone records, they’ll see I was texting when I hit this woman’s car.” She drops her hands and says, “You okay, lady, it was an accident, right? Are you okay?”
Noa is definitely not okay, but she’s feeling like karma has just bitten her, hard.
To survive that shootout back at Kay Darcy’s apartment then to be stopped by a high school girl looking at her phone? Stuck without transportation just two blocks away from safety?
“Lady,” the second girl says, voice quavering. “Put the gun away, will you? You’re scaring us.”
Noa ignores them both, goes back into the Celica, retrieves her bag, starts walking. No time to stay here, no time to make sense of this traffic accident.
“Lady, you gotta stay here,” the other driver says. “You just can’t walk away! The cops are coming and we’ll have to fill out paperwork.”
Noa keeps her mouth shut, limping down O Street. Other voices call out. “Hey, she’s leaving the scene of an accident. She can’t do that. Somebody stop her!”
She keeps on moving, bag over her arm, wrist, side, and most everything else hurting. The sidewalk is rough and cold against her right foot. She looks down, sees she’s lost a shoe along the way.
“Lady, you gotta stop. You just gotta!”
The driver’s passenger races up, grabs her arm, and Noa turns, displays her Glock.
“No, I don’t,” she says firmly. “Go away and leave me the hell alone.”
Noa takes a couple of deep breaths, keeps on moving.
Crosses a street.
Just one block to go.
Sirens are coming clearer.
Noa looks back.
A DC fire truck and ambulance have stopped at the accident scene.
Then a blue-and-white DC police cruiser. Three people are pointing in Noa’s direction.
Move it,she thinks,move.
Up ahead, her energy draining, she sees that brick wall and wrought-iron gate of the driveway belonging to Director Abrams.
Just a few yards away.
Just those several feet.
The roar of a car comes up behind her.
