Drummond said.
Charlie clocked the steering wheel and tightened his sweaty grip on the gearshift knob.
A block to the left, on Utica Avenue, a green light loosed a herd of traffic led by an eighteen-wheel tractor trailer.
The Dodge, meanwhile, glided to a stop five or six car lengths behind the Hippo, close enough that Charlie could see the face of the man in the passenger seat—so mild mannered in appearance that hope flickered in Charlie that this was all some sort of misunderstanding about to be resolved.
With a grin, the man stuck his pistol out of his window and fired. Now that the vehicles were in idle, the report was earsplitting.
The round blew another hole in the cab’s rear wall, buzzed past Charlie’s right ear, and, on its way out of the cab, created a small cavity in the ceiling. Heart bouncing around inside his rib cage, he shoved the gearshift into first.
“Not until I say so,” Drummond barked.
“But—”
“Just hold on.”
The Dodge’s driver rolled down his window. He was a fair-complexioned young man with hard eyes and thin bloodless lips set too tight to smile. He balanced his pistol atop the lowered glass. His shot pinged the doorframe by Drummond’s head, creating a starburst. Drummond eyed it with an almost mocking indifference.
“Okay, we’ve held on long enough,” Charlie couldn’t help shouting.
“Just a few more seconds.” Drummond pointed to the dense traffic rumbling along Utica from the left, led by the eighteen-wheeler.
The Dodge rolled closer, and another booming shot punched into the rear wall of the cab, creating a hole just inches left of Drummond’s chest. The air filled with grainy orange haze that smelled of salt, the remains of a bag of corn chips on top of the dash.
The eighteen-wheeler rumbled to within a half block of the intersection. Any more time and the traffic would be in front of the Hippo, effectively turning Fillmore into a dead end.
“How about now?” Charlie meant the question to be rhetorical.
“Almost,” said Drummond, fixating on the eighteen-wheeler.
Bullets rained against the Hippo. The smoke and the ear-wrecking reports and echoes made it feel like being inside a thunderhead.
“Go!” Drummond shouted through it all.
Charlie released the clutch and crushed the gas. With tires screaming, the Hippo bombed onto Utica. Its back end barely missed the eighteen-wheeler’s front fender.
The truck driver reflexively slammed on his brakes, sending his gargantuan vehicle into an abrupt, sliding deceleration. All sound was lost beneath the howl of his eighteen tires.
To avoid rear-ending him, the young woman driving the Honda Accord darted to the right, into a lane that was parking spaces by day.
The trailer jackknifed right, filling that lane too. The Accord came to a shrieking stop a foot short of a collision.
The teal Dodge, flying onto Utica, needed to pass the Accord. To the left was the jackknifed trailer. To the right, the sidewalk. The Dodge leaped onto the sidewalk, a viable byway, if not for the streetlamp the driver had no way of seeing. With a deafening thunk, it stopped the Dodge dead.
In the remains of Drummond’s side mirror, Charlie saw the streetlamp protruding from the teal hood like a stake. Much of the car was accordioned. Inside, the gunmen angrily swatted aside swollen air bags.
Exultant, Charlie said, “I hope that streetlamp is okay.”
Gunning the Hippo away, he watched until the gunmen were specks. Left behind with them was his last shred of doubt about Drummond’s claim. In place of it came awe and a thousand questions he was dying to ask.
“So now what?” he said for starters.
“This may have something to do with work,” Drummond said.
Against a new tide of panic, Charlie said, “I know, I know—you work for the government. Clandestine operations.” He rushed his words to make use of Drummond’s last bits of light. “I need to know where exactly?”
Drummond sat up again. He eyed the bullet
Charlie clocked the steering wheel and tightened his sweaty grip on the gearshift knob.
A block to the left, on Utica Avenue, a green light loosed a herd of traffic led by an eighteen-wheel tractor trailer.
The Dodge, meanwhile, glided to a stop five or six car lengths behind the Hippo, close enough that Charlie could see the face of the man in the passenger seat—so mild mannered in appearance that hope flickered in Charlie that this was all some sort of misunderstanding about to be resolved.
With a grin, the man stuck his pistol out of his window and fired. Now that the vehicles were in idle, the report was earsplitting.
The round blew another hole in the cab’s rear wall, buzzed past Charlie’s right ear, and, on its way out of the cab, created a small cavity in the ceiling. Heart bouncing around inside his rib cage, he shoved the gearshift into first.
“Not until I say so,” Drummond barked.
“But—”
“Just hold on.”
The Dodge’s driver rolled down his window. He was a fair-complexioned young man with hard eyes and thin bloodless lips set too tight to smile. He balanced his pistol atop the lowered glass. His shot pinged the doorframe by Drummond’s head, creating a starburst. Drummond eyed it with an almost mocking indifference.
“Okay, we’ve held on long enough,” Charlie couldn’t help shouting.
“Just a few more seconds.” Drummond pointed to the dense traffic rumbling along Utica from the left, led by the eighteen-wheeler.
The Dodge rolled closer, and another booming shot punched into the rear wall of the cab, creating a hole just inches left of Drummond’s chest. The air filled with grainy orange haze that smelled of salt, the remains of a bag of corn chips on top of the dash.
The eighteen-wheeler rumbled to within a half block of the intersection. Any more time and the traffic would be in front of the Hippo, effectively turning Fillmore into a dead end.
“How about now?” Charlie meant the question to be rhetorical.
“Almost,” said Drummond, fixating on the eighteen-wheeler.
Bullets rained against the Hippo. The smoke and the ear-wrecking reports and echoes made it feel like being inside a thunderhead.
“Go!” Drummond shouted through it all.
Charlie released the clutch and crushed the gas. With tires screaming, the Hippo bombed onto Utica. Its back end barely missed the eighteen-wheeler’s front fender.
The truck driver reflexively slammed on his brakes, sending his gargantuan vehicle into an abrupt, sliding deceleration. All sound was lost beneath the howl of his eighteen tires.
To avoid rear-ending him, the young woman driving the Honda Accord darted to the right, into a lane that was parking spaces by day.
The trailer jackknifed right, filling that lane too. The Accord came to a shrieking stop a foot short of a collision.
The teal Dodge, flying onto Utica, needed to pass the Accord. To the left was the jackknifed trailer. To the right, the sidewalk. The Dodge leaped onto the sidewalk, a viable byway, if not for the streetlamp the driver had no way of seeing. With a deafening thunk, it stopped the Dodge dead.
In the remains of Drummond’s side mirror, Charlie saw the streetlamp protruding from the teal hood like a stake. Much of the car was accordioned. Inside, the gunmen angrily swatted aside swollen air bags.
Exultant, Charlie said, “I hope that streetlamp is okay.”
Gunning the Hippo away, he watched until the gunmen were specks. Left behind with them was his last shred of doubt about Drummond’s claim. In place of it came awe and a thousand questions he was dying to ask.
“So now what?” he said for starters.
“This may have something to do with work,” Drummond said.
Against a new tide of panic, Charlie said, “I know, I know—you work for the government. Clandestine operations.” He rushed his words to make use of Drummond’s last bits of light. “I need to know where exactly?”
Drummond sat up again. He eyed the bullet
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