The driver checked his rearview mirror. I saw his worried eyes reflected there. “Nothing,” he said into the mike. “The road winds around too much. I don’t have much of a view.”
A pause. The siren grew louder. It was unmistakable now.
Then static-and Waylon’s voice: “We’re going to go on ahead. Stay behind until you have a visual, then call.”
“Great,” muttered the blond guy.
“Shut up,” said Handlebar, his all-purpose response.
I looked ahead through the windshield. For a moment I saw the rear fender of the green car ahead of us-Waylon’s car. Then the green car started speeding up, pulling away. Another second or two and it was gone around the next bend in the road, out of sight.
Good old Waylon. He was running for it. He was leaving his henchmen behind to deal with whatever was coming up in back of us. Nice guy.
So we were alone in the sedan now. Everything was tension and silence-silence and listening. The siren grew louder and louder behind us. I squirmed around, looking back over my shoulder through the rear window. But the driver was right: the road was so twisty, there wasn’t much of it visible.
The driver must have been thinking the same thing. He let out a curse. “It’ll be right on top of us before we can see it.”
“Just keep driving,” Handlebar ordered. “It may be nothing. An ambulance, a fire truck. Even if it’s the cops, they may not be after us. How would they even know we were here?”
It was a good question. Would Waterman have called the police? I didn’t think so. His organization was so secret even the cops didn’t know it existed. The hope fluttering in my chest began to fall off a little. Maybe Handlebar was right. Maybe it was just an ambulance or something, something that had nothing to do with us.
But all the while, the siren grew louder.
The sedan pulled around another bend in the road. I strained to look behind me, but nothing was there.
And then, with startling quickness, there it was: a police car pulled into view, its sirens wailing, its red and blue lights whirling, flashing.
The sedan exploded with noise. The siren. The cursing of the guards on either side of me. The driver shouting into his microphone, his voice high with panic.
“It’s a cop!”
And Waylon’s guttural shout coming back over the speaker at once:
“Lose him!”
At that, the driver hit the gas.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Car Chase Helpless, my hands bound behind me, I was hurled hard to the right as the car sped up into the sharp turn. I slammed against Handlebar’s body as he reached down to lift his machine gun from the floor. To my left, Blond Guy was lifting his gun too from where it was wedged in beside the seat. As I straightened, they each pressed the button to lower their windows. My mouth went dry as I realized: they were going to open fire on the police.
The sedan went into a straightaway, its engine straining as it climbed the steep slope. I took the opportunity to twist in my seat again, to look behind me again. There was the cop car-a state highway patrol cruiser- just coming out of the turn ahead, keeping pace with us.
An amplified voice came booming out of the cruiser’s speakers: “Pull over! Police!”
That was all the Homelanders needed to hear. Handlebar leaned out the window with his machine gun and let out a rattling blast. The smell of gunpowder drifted back into the car to me.
Behind us, the cruiser swerved as the police realized they were being fired on. It careened wildly toward the side of the road, its tires kicking up dirt as they neared the edge. Another inch or two and the cruiser would go over the side, tumbling off the mountain.
I turned to look through the windshield. Another switchback was coming at us up ahead. That would get us out of firing range of the police anyway.
Then a thought flashed into my mind. I glanced over at Handlebar.
He was still leaning out the window to shoot at the police. His body was turned awkwardly, his side exposed. The holster with the dagger in it was exposed. Out of my reach for now, but I started to think…
Maybe, in all the panic and confusion, I could get my hands on it.
And then we hit the turn, fast, and once again my body was flung against Handlebar’s. And as we straightened out, he lost his position in the window and toppled back into the car, the two of us scrunched up together.
On a chance, my bound hands strained, my fingers wriggled, trying to find the knife handle. But it was no good. I was all out of position. I had no chance to get hold of it.
The car straightened out. Handlebar shoved me off him roughly. I bumped into Blond Guy, who also pushed me away.
I looked out the windshield. We sped on, trees to the left of us, a fall into nothingness to the right. Another curve coming up in the distance.
I would have to prepare myself better this time if I was going to get hold of that knife.
For the next second or two, the sedan shot forward over the straightaway. My heart was pounding hard, waiting for what I knew would come next.
“There he is,” said Handlebar.
Sure enough, the cruiser came speeding around the bend behind us. Once again, Handlebar leaned out his window, Blond Guy leaned out his. They both brought their machine guns to bear on the cruiser. And they both opened fire.
I didn’t look back to see what happened. I just looked down at Handlebar’s belt, trying to figure out how I could position myself to be within reach of that knife when the next curve threw us together. It was going to be tough- but with a little thought, a little intention, it wouldn’t be impossible.
Through the windshield, I saw the next sharp switchback in the road approaching. I knew it would throw me over toward Handlebar and that he’d tumble back into the car as we came out of the bend, just like before.
I was ready for it.
Then there was an enormous hollow roar. I looked back. One of the troopers was leaning out the window of the cruiser with a shotgun leveled at us. He had taken a shot and I could hear the slugs riddling the sedan’s trunk.
Now it was the sedan’s turn to swerve-the driver’s natural reaction to being shot at. He let out another panicky curse as we skidded to one side. Emptiness pressed up close to the window as we neared the edge of the road. Then we skidded back until we were right up against the forest.
Handlebar and Blond Guy both pulled inside, both dodging out of the way of the shotgun fire.
Then the trooper fired again. The rear window blew out. Handlebar, Blond Guy, and I all ducked down, the glass raining down on us.
And then we hit the next curve.
We were all thrown hard to the side-me into Handlebar-Blond Guy into me-the three of us jumbled together. I twisted my body to get my hands on that knife. I felt my fingertips scrape the handle of it. I caught hold of it.
There was a loud blam! and a spattering impact and the windshield cracked and the siren roared and the police lights flared behind us as the police car came back into sight.
Both Handlebar and Blond Guy lunged toward their windows, leaned out, opened fire. I heard the screech of brakes as the police car dropped back. I heard the two Homelander thugs screaming curses as they unleashed another round of gunfire.
But I forced myself to stay focused. Because I had the knife. I had lifted the knife out of Handlebar’s holster, and I was now working it around in my fingers until the blade came up and lay against the duct tape binding my wrists.
Up ahead, I saw a straightaway come into view in the windshield. I glimpsed the flashing lights of the police car in the rearview mirror. I saw the trooper leaning out the window with his shotgun. Handlebar and Blond Guy were leaning out their windows with their machine guns.
I began to use the knife to saw through the tape. The blade was sharp. Instantly I felt the stiff material giving way, my wrists beginning to loosen, beginning to come free.
Then-another blast from the shotgun. Handlebar screamed. He dropped back into the car. He’d been winged by a shot and was clutching his face, blood pouring out between his fingers. At the same moment, the sedan went into a terrifying skid, turning full around in the middle of the road.