He must have taken one of the rounds aimed at Armani as I spun around. His hand, however, was red and dripping from where blood was coursing down his arm. The .45 round is big and heavy and doesn't fuck about. The massive exit wound would have blown away most of the underside of his arm. I would be having no problems from this guy.
As I drove off I screamed at him, "Where are they going?
Where are they going?"
His answer was half a cry, half a shout.
"Fuck you! Fuck you!" His dark-gray suit was turning brown with blood.
I jabbed his leg hard with the pistol.
"Where are they going?"
We were on a narrow residential road. I tore off both side mirrors in the process of turning to question him. He told me to fuck off again, so I fired. I could feel the air pressure change as the gases left the barrel, and then the smell of cordite filled the air. There was an explosion of material and flesh as the round plowed a twelve-inch furrow along and down into his leg. He howled like a stuck pig.
I didn't know where I was heading. The driver's screams quickly subsided, but he kept thrashing about. His convulsions left him on his knees in the foot well with his head on the seat. He was starting to go into shock. He was probably wishing he did sell hot dogs in New York.
"Where are they going?" I demanded again. I didn't want him to pass out before I got the information.
"They're heading south," he moaned.
"Route ninety-five south."
We were speeding on the elevated section of the highway that led to the interstate.
I looked across.
"Who are you?"
His face screwed up in pain as he fought for breath. He didn't reply. I hit him on the temple with the pistol. He gave a low moan and moved his fingers sluggishly from his leg to his head. We passed the Pentagon, then I saw the sign for the Calypso Hotel. It seemed like a bad dream.
"Who are you? Tell me why you're after me!"
I could barely hear his reply. His mouth was dribbling blood, and he was finding it hard to breathe.
"Let me go, man. Just leave me here and I'll tell you."
No way was I falling for that one.
"You're going to die soon. Tell me and I'll help you. Why are you trying to kill us? Who are you?"
His head lolled. He didn't reply because he couldn't.
I found them just short of the Beltway, in the middle of the three lanes. It was easy to pick them out in my headlights. I could see they were still three up; one in the front, two in the back. No sign of Kelly but there was enough space between the two in the back to have another body between them. She was only a little fucker; her head wouldn't be showing.
I couldn't do anything on the freeway, so now was the time to calm down and get my head around the next plan. What was I going to do? Whatever it was, it had to be soon, because I didn't know their destination, and 1-95 goes all the way to Florida. Much nearer, however, about thirty minutes away, was Quantico, the FBI and DEA academy. It was starting to make sense. Luther and the other guy coming to the house, both knowing Kev; they were all the same group. But why would they kill Kev? And if they were the killers, what connection then did "bad DEA" have with my "friends over the water"? Was there something happening here between these two groups that Kev had discovered and got fucked over for?
I thought again of Florida and it gave me an idea. I tucked it away for later.
I looked down at the driver. He was in shitty shape, still losing blood. He was sitting in a pool of it because the rubber mat in the foot well stopped the carpet from soaking it up. I could see his face as the lights from the opposite side of the freeway hit us now and again; all the agitation had drained from it and he looked ashen, like an old fish; life was slowly going out of his eyes, which were staring into space. He was going to die soon. Tough shit.
I reached over, flipped open his jacket, and took the two magazines that were in a holder on his shoulder holster. He was oblivious to what I was doing; he was in his own place now, perhaps reflecting on his life before he died.
I had surveillance on the target car. My wipers were on high-speed as the trucks and cars splashed more water onto the windshield than the rain itself. I put the defroster on full blast. The driver's leaking blood and my own sweating body were misting the car up big-time.
A freeway was perfect for my purposes; I could just drive along and even allow a bit of distance to develop to the point of letting another car get in between me and the target. As an exit came up I'd just get a little bit closer; if he was going to turn off, I could then fall in naturally and come up behind him.
After about another five minutes I saw a sign saying lorton 1 mile. They started to indicate that they were getting into the right lane to make the exit. They weren't going to Quantico after all. This would be the time to hit them. I glanced down, changed mags, and checked chamber. As I came across to get into the right lane, I realized for the first time that we were driving through heavily wooded terrain.
The tires throbbed rhythmically as they hit the joints in the concrete freeway.
By now the driver had slumped completely into the foot well with his back against the door. It was only the body armor under his shirt that gave him posture. He was dead.
I was now in the exit lane, just twenty yards behind them, close enough to be on top of them, but far enough away so that if they looked behind, they'd just see headlights. Nobody turned their head; they didn't seem to be aware of me. I started to take deep breaths and spark myself up.
The Lorton exit ramp went slightly uphill with a gentle curve to the right. The tall trees on each side gave the impression of a tunnel. I planned to do it at the first intersection. My brain was in overdrive, getting me into a mind-set, trying to take the fear away.
I could see traffic lights in the middle distance and put my foot on the gas to close up even more. Their brake lights came on, then their right turn signal. A truck thundered past from left to right. It looked like it was a wide major road ahead.
The car started its right turn. Pushing myself back into the seat, I put my foot down hard on the accelerator and braced my arms on the steering wheel.
I must have been doing about forty-five and still accelerating as I drew level and yanked the wheel hard to the right.
My right fender hit the front of theirs. There was a massive jolt. My air bag exploded as the car slewed around into the main drag. The other car spun sideways. I heard glass shattering and the screech of tortured rubber.
The moment the vehicle came to a halt I jabbed at the seatbelt release and opened the door. The air felt freezing. At first all I could hear was the hiss of the radiator and the ping ping ping warning that the door was open and the lights on; then came the sound of muffled shouts from inside the other vehicle.
The first priority was the driver. The car had to be immobilized.
He was still fighting his seat belt. I fired through the windshield. I didn't know where I hit him, but he was down.
As I looked into the back I could see Kelly, or at least her shape. She was low down in the foot well hands over her ears.
Luther was getting his first rounds off at me. His door was half open, and he was starting to roll out. I'd have been doing the same because a car draws fire--so you need to get out of the way. As he rolled I kept on firing, just below the level of the door. He screamed. I'd got him. I couldn't tell whether it was a direct hit or the splash of the round off the asphalt, but it didn't matter, the effect was the same.
I moved from behind the hood of my car to take on the third guy. He was out now but had had a change of heart. He put his hands up and yelled, "Don't do it, don't do it!" His eyes were like saucers. I double-tapped him in the head.