His fortune restored, Cracker was beaming, enough that Storm was quite sure he had — at least momentarily — forgotten that he still had a sociopathic Russian on his tail.
But after he received assurances that he would get updates from Colston and left the building, it didn’t take long for him to remember. He and Storm had made a right turn out of the Poison Pill’s parking lot, pulling onto Route 17’s three lanes of southbound traffic.
They were no more than a half mile down the road when the bullets started flying.
Three slugs slammed into the back of the Jaguar, making three nickel-sized holes in the bumper.
Cracker promptly dove into the well of the passenger seat. “Someone’s shooting at us!” he yelped. “Why is someone shooting at us?”
Storm’s only reaction was to press the accelerator and look in the rearview mirror for the source of the gunfire. It was a white Lincoln Mark LT pickup truck. There was a driver and a passenger, neither of whom Storm could make out, thanks to afternoon sun glare. The man shooting at them was standing on the flatbed, braced against the top of the cab. He had an AR-15, the semiautomatic, civilian version of the military M-16.
Storm’s first thought was that it was a strange choice. The AR-15 had its uses, and there were reasons it had been the standard-issue rifle of the U.S. Army for more than four decades — it was light, accurate, easy to carry, simple in its design, and cheap to mass-produce. But it was more of a peashooter in a scenario where an elephant gun would have been a better choice. On the back of a pickup truck, Volkov could have mounted a .50-caliber M2 Browning that would have needed about thirty seconds to turn the Jaguar into a shredded heap of scrap. The AR-15’s .223-caliber round just didn’t pack the same punch.
Then Storm figured it out: the tires. They were trying to shoot the tires, disable the Jaguar, then kidnap Cracker. They couldn’t risk killing him. He was their key to unlocking the power of those MonEx codes.
That, Storm knew, was their vulnerability. He relished the idea of getting into a shoot-out with people who would be afraid to shoot back.
More gunshots rang out, but this time they missed low, ricocheting off the pavement. Cars began swerving off the road to get out of the Lincoln’s way. New Jersey drivers were a hardy breed, made tough by long exposure to aggressive driving, but gunfire was a bit much even for them.
Storm’s plan was simple: find a place to pull over where no one would get hit in the cross fire, take out Dirty Harry, and take his time picking off the three assailants. He reached into his jacket for his gun then swore loudly.
“What is it?” Cracker asked.
“I left my gun in the trunk,” he said.
There could be no stopping now. And that would soon be a problem. This section of Route 17 had lights. Lots of them. So far they had been green. But that wouldn’t last.
“Get your sorry ass in that seat and put your seat belt on,” Storm ordered.
“But they’re shooting.”
“Not at you.”
“What do you…”
“Seat belt. Now,” Storm said, jerking the wheel hard to the left to swerve around a Honda, sending Cracker sprawling into the passenger-side door. When he recovered, he complied with Storm’s command.
“What are you going to do?” Cracker asked, his voice cracking with panic. “Do you… do you have a plan?”
“Yes. My plan is for you to shut up.”
Storm began weaving through and around his fellow travelers, slaloming from one lane to the next, leaving a lot of rubber on the blacktop but making sure his tires were never exposed to a clear shot from the gunman. The Jaguar was faster than the Lincoln, but in this traffic, that advantage was mitigated. He needed a clearer, light-free stretch of roadway if he was going to have a chance of outrunning their pursuers.
Then his GPS showed that, as if sent by the gods, a large divided highway was approaching. It was labeled Route 3. Storm allowed himself half a smile. Route 3 led rather quickly to the New Jersey Turnpike. There was only one light between him and more than a hundred miles of uninterrupted highway.
Then the light turned red.
This being New Jersey, a few cars ran the light. But otherwise, the vehicles in front of Storm were dutifully coming to a halt. He tugged the wheel right, steering the Jaguar into the breakdown lane, laying off the accelerator but not daring to brake. He couldn’t give the thug in the flatbed of the Lincoln a closer shot.
The traffic from the cross street was now easing through the intersection in one continuous line, feeding in from both sides, leaving only a few scant feet between each car.
“Your secretary told me you have a classic video arcade,” Storm said as he measured the maneuver he was about to attempt. “You ever play Frogger?”
“No? Why?”
“You’re about to,” Storm said.
He tapped the brake for a half second as he eyed the westbound lane, then shifted his view to the eastbound lane. More shots were coming from the Lincoln, but they were wild. An Exxon sign beside them shattered. Some flower planters exploded. Storm only prayed the drivers milling about as their gas was pumped didn’t get hit by a bouncing bullet.
The Lincoln was closing in. And fast. If he stayed on the brake much longer, he was going to be rear-ended, probably pushing him into another car in the process. He’d be at a dead stop. If that happened, he might as well fasten Cracker into the Lincoln, then shoot himself — it would save everyone some time.
Then he saw an opening, albeit not much of one. Maybe it was enough. Maybe it wasn’t. But the moment for further deliberation had passed. Two bullets plowed into the Jaguar’s trunk. If the shooter adjusted his aim just a foot lower, Storm would lose any choice he had in the matter. It was time to act. He jammed the accelerator to the floor. The Jaguar leaped forward.
“Brace yourself,” Storm called out.
Horns blared. Cracker screwed his eyes shut. Storm gripped the steering wheel as if it were his hold on life itself. He had aimed for a clearing in the westbound lane — the first lane of cars they had to negotiate — but there was no such gap in the eastbound lane. He was heading straight for the passenger-side door of a Subaru. He could see the driver’s eyes grow wide and her mouth drop to unleash a scream as she realized she was about to be speared by what appeared to be a runaway car. But Storm couldn’t adjust course without clipping another eastbound car. A collision was imminent.
Then at the last second, he nudged the wheel to the right. He squeezed past with inches to spare. Storm let out a rebel yell as they charged toward Route 3, now totally unimpeded.
Behind him, he could hear the crunching of metal as the Lincoln T-boned the Subaru.
Storm only hoped that, because neither car was going too fast, the drivers would be okay. He was not a deeply religious man, but he uttered a quick prayer.
Storm kept the gas pedal to the floor until they reached the left-hand exit that led to the highway. As they wound around the ramp onto the highway, he eased up on the speed, relaxing his grip on the steering wheel.
Cracker looked like he was going to faint. He started doing some strange breathing exercise. Storm was about to tell him to stop — it was annoying — but then decided to let the man huff and puff. It was better than having to hear him talk.
Storm kept one eye on the road, one eye on his rearview mirror. As soon as they straightened out and reached the merge, he accelerated. A welcome sign told him the exit for the New Jersey Turnpike was a mere three-quarters of a mile on the right.
“So was that… was that Volkov?” Cracker asked.
“You got anyone else in your life who might have reason to shoot at you?”