That bothered Jack a little. He thought he remembered seeing a red pickup in his rearview a couple of times since leaving the Castleman house, but couldn't be sure—he'd been concentrating on the black sedan. Who was it…backup for the jokers in the sedan, or just another late night traveler?
If it were a black pickup he'd definitely be worried but since it wasn't, he turned his attention back to the sedan.
"What's the story, guys?" he said, crouching slightly to look into the open window. "Who the hell are you and why're you following me? Is my life that much more interesting than yours?"
The driver merely stared up at him through his shades, saying nothing, his lips a straight line, his pale face expressionless, as if he were deciding whether this man was worthy of reply.
That expression plus the memory of Olive's mutilated body stoked Jack's already topped-off anger.
"Didn't your mothers ever teach you to take off your hats in a car? And what's with the shades at night? Don't you know that's dangerous?"
Jack shot his left hand into the car, aiming to knock off the jerk's hat and grab his sunglasses, but before his fingers were through the opening, the driver's black-gloved hand grabbed Jack's wrist and stopped him.
Jack tried to push farther in, but could not. And when he tried to pull free, he found his wrist imprisoned in a steely grip. Alarmed, he struggled but couldn't break free.
The light had changed to green. A horn sounded, not from the pickup truck, but from some car behind it. The black-gloved grip on his left wrist remained tight as a manacle. The fourth car, a battered old Toyota hatchback, chirped its tires and squeezed through the narrow, barely passable space on the far side of the pickup, the sedan, and Jack's rental, honking angrily all the way. The pickup didn't honk, didn't budge. Maybe the driver didn't think it could fit.
As soon as the Toyota was gone, Jack heard the door open on the other side of the sedan. He looked up and saw the passenger emerge. A carbon copy of the driver. He stared at Jack across the black roof of the car.
"Where is Melanie Rubin Ehler?" the second one said in a hoarse, whispery voice.
"You're asking me?" Jack said. "Don't you know?"
The passenger held up a small cylinder in his black-gloved hand. His thumb pressed some sort of button, Jack heard a snikt! and an ice-pick-like needle suddenly jutted from the upper end. The green glow from the traffic light gleamed evilly along its narrow polished surface.
"Where is Melanie Rubin Ehler?" he repeated, and slammed the door.
As the passenger started to move toward the front of the car, Jack grabbed the little finger on the driver's hand; with no little difficulty he worked it free and pried it up until he got a firm grip on it. Then he bent it sharply back.
He heard the bone snap. But that was all he heard—no cry from the driver, and not the slightest lessening of the lock grip on his wrist. The driver was still looking up at him—no change of expression. Hadn't even flinched.
A quick cold thrust of shock stabbed Jack's gut. He knew he'd broken that bone—he'd felt it give way. Didn't this guy have any nerves?
Jack punched the driver's face as the passenger passed the right headlight. The sunglasses flew off as his hat slid down over his face; Jack punched the fedora, but the iron grip never slackened. A quick glance showed the passenger rounding the left headlight and coming Jack's way, his big needle held high.
Time to bring out the artillery, Jack thought as he flexed his right knee to bring his ankle holster with the Semmerling within reach. But before he touched it, someone began firing.
Jack looked around. The shots had come from the pickup. The driver door was open and a man was standing behind it, aiming a pistol in a two-handed grip through the window opening. Jack couldn't see his face, but that wasn't important right now. What mattered was he wasn't firing at Jack—he was aiming for the passenger.
With an almost snakelike hiss, the passenger ducked into a crouch and jumped back into the car. The next bullet from the pickup went through the sedan's rear window.
"Whoa!" Jack shouted. "Easy back there!"
The driver still hadn't released Jack's arm, but that didn't stop him from throwing the car into gear and spinning the steering wheel.
"Hey!" Jack shouted, pounding on the roof as the car started to roll. "Hey, what the hell are you doing?"
"Where is Melanie Rubin Ehler?" said that same voice from inside the car.
"I don't know!" Jack said as he began to be pulled along by the car.
The sedan picked up speed, moving past the rear bumper of Jack's car, clearing it by a couple of inches—maybe. If Jack didn't free himself right now, his legs would be pinned between the cars. He tried to take another poke at the driver but, because of his position, couldn't reach him with his right fist.
To save his legs, Jack stepped on his own car's bumper, jumped up onto the trunk, and then the driver gunned the sedan, pulling Jack along.
Frantic now, Jack saw he had a choice between being dragged along the street or riding on the sedan's roof. Hell of a choice. He did a belly flop onto the roof as the car picked up speed.
Jack knew he wasn't going to last long up here. He stretched, reached down, pulled the Semmerling. The chamber was empty so he clamped his teeth on the slide, drew it back, then let it spring forward. Turning his head away, he fired a .45 caliber slug through the roof into the general area of the front seat below him. The angle of his wrist made for a wild recoil. The Semmerling was not an autoloader so he had to work the slide with his teeth for every shot. Only rarely did he load full-jacket slugs, and unfortunately this was not one of those times. But the frangibles must have done some damage down below because the sedan suddenly swerved and the grip on his wrist loosened a bit—just enough for Jack to twist free.
The car careened into a turn, its tires screeching as they slipped sideways on the pavement. It lost speed and Jack knew this might be his only chance. He pushed back, avoiding the shattered glass of the rear window as he slid off the roof onto the trunk, then slipped off onto the street. He hit the pavement running just before the car picked up speed again.
His forward momentum was still too fast for his sneakered feet. He went down, landed on his shoulder and rolled halfway back to his feet, then slammed against the side of a car, denting its rear fender. He felt a quick wave of nausea but shook it off.
At least he'd stopped moving. He stood and rubbed his sore shoulder as the black sedan continued down the street. Other cars passed. He saw curious faces looking his way, but no one stopped.
At least not until the red pickup pulled up. Jack recognized the Jiffy-something guy with the gray crewcut behind the wheeclass="underline" Miles Kenway.
"You all right?" Kenway called through the open passenger window.
What the hell was he doing here? "I've been better."
"Get in. I'll take you back to your car." Jack looked back. He'd barely traveled a block. "I can walk."
"Get in. We need to talk."
Jack hesitated, then figured, what the hell, the guy had probably saved his life—or at least his lips and eyes. Jack got in. The first things he noticed were Kenway's camouflage pants and jacket. Camo? In the city?
"Damn good thing I followed you tonight," Kenway said as he shoved the truck into gear.
"And why were you doing that?"
"Thought you might be working for them."
"Who? The men in black?"
"Don't call them that. That's what the UFO nuts call them. They're NWO operatives."
"NW—?"
"I'll explain later. Obviously you're not with them."
"Obviously."
"But then again, maybe that little scene was all a charade for my benefit, to suck me in, get me thinking of you as an ally."
"Could be," Jack said, nodding, and thinking, Hey, I can be paranoid too. "Or…your rescuing me from that little scene could have been a charade for my benefit, to suck me in, get me thinking of you as an ally."