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“How’s your arm?” Max asked, his tone conversational as if we were just taking a relaxed Sunday drive together instead of leading the D.C. police on a high-speed chase through the city.
“I’ll live,” I answered. My gaze flicked to the rearview and I hissed out a breath as I realized two more cop cars had joined the chase. “You still got that radio?”
“I dumped it,” he admitted. “We already know where the cops are. Speaking of which, do you have another plan?”
“Another plan?” I turned and glared at Max for a moment before returning my gaze to the road. “No, not as such. I got us a car. That was as far ahead as I was thinking.”
“You might want to get one,” he offered.
That was an excellent idea.
“It’s human nature to swerve, right?” I asked, slamming on the brakes before Max could answer and watching in the rearview as the cops behind me did indeed wrench their wheels in an attempt to avoid colliding with the rear end of the Civic.
I threw the car in reverse and slammed my foot to the floor, weaving backward through traffic as I desperately looked for a turn to take.
“Get me the address of the owner of the car,” I told Max, finding a hole in traffic and whipping a U-Turn before straightening out and punching the gas again.
Max rifled through the glove compartment and pulled out papers, flipping through them as I hung a left into a neighborhood, my gaze alternating in front of us and behind. I could still hear the sirens, but I was getting distance on them.
“Rosewood Court,” Max said.
“Find it,” I snapped. My arm was starting to throb, and I could feel blood running down the inside of my jacket. But I knew it was just a flesh wound and I had bigger issues to worry about at the moment than the gunshot wound in my bicep.
“My cell won’t load!” he shouted, one hand holding his phone and the other gripping onto the dashboard as I swerved wide to take a left.
“Well then use a map!’ I yelled. I thought I’d seen one when he emptied the glove box.
“God damnit,” Max mumbled, pulling an old school Rand McNally from the pile of papers he’d seized and spreading it open on his lap. His head came up for a moment, looking around as if trying to figure out where we were, then his gaze lowered again as he trailed a finger over the squiggly lines on the map. “We’re close, take a right up here.” He shoved the map back into the glove box and turned his phone on again. “Still no service, looks like the cell towers are down again.”
“Who the fuck is this guy?” I muttered as I hooked a hard right.
“One thing at a time,” Max answered.
He gave me directions until I finally spotted the sign for Rosewood Court, and I jumped the curb to take the right, then hit the button on the garage door opener clipped to the visor.
“Wait, you’re taking the car home?” Max said.
“Last place they’ll look,” I assured him, slamming on the brakes then backing up the driveway into the garage before pressing the button again. The door slid closed, and I let out a huff of breath as I leaned back in the seat.
“You’re a fucking menace,” Max told me.
“Probably,” I agreed, rolling my head against headrest to grin at him.
“How’s the arm?” he asked again, turning in his seat and pulling at my jacket collar until I shifted to allow him to pull my arm free. His finger gently pressed the skin around the wound as he rotated my arm and let out a soft sigh. “Through and through,” he assured me.
“I figured,” I told him, pulling my arm out of his grip and clumsily tugging my jacket back into place. The motion made my entire right-side flare up in pain, but I forced myself to control my features. I didn’t want to admit how much it was starting to hurt. “We need to get out of here.”
“I agree,” he said, leaning back and giving me a hard look. “But where the fuck are we going to go? Cells are clearly down again, and I’d rather not add breaking and entering to your list of war crimes.”
“Didn’t we pass a motel like a half-mile back?” I asked, pushing open the car door and stepping out into the cold garage. “We can get a room and call Zane. Get him to send an agent to come pick us up.”
“Great, and I can patch up your arm, since it’s obviously killing you right now,” Max said as he climbed out of the car and slammed the door behind himself. “Let’s try to watch out for cops though, or all of this was for nothing.”
“If you hadn’t dumped the radio we’d know where they were,” I reminded him, rolling my eyes as I pushed open the side door of the garage.
“Yeah, well,” he followed me outside. “I didn’t dump it so much as I dropped it and didn’t actually want to admit that to you.”
“Hey, I’m wanted as a suspect in a terrorism bombing, and I got shot today,” I reminded him. “Dropping a radio doesn’t seem like that big of a deal right now.”
