“Can I help you folks?” he asks, in a thick, southern accent.
“I hope so,” I say, stepping forward. “I’m looking for Marcus, if he’s around?”
“Jonesy? He’s out on a job at the moment. Due back soon though. Can I ask why you want to see him? Bit irregular for folks to come in and ask for a specific driver.”
“Oh, we’re old friends. We’re passing through town and wanted to say hello is all.”
“Well now, ain’t that somethin’?” He gestures to the chairs behind us. “You folks take a seat,” he says. “Let me get you a drink while you wait. You know, Jones is a quiet sort-a fella — keeps himself to himself. He’ll be glad to see some old acquaintances, I’m sure.”
I look at Clara and smile. She rolls her eyes at me and walks over to the chairs.
“We’re alright for drinks, thanks,” I say. “But we appreciate being allowed to wait. I promise we won’t take up much of his time.”
He laughs again. “No problem. You’re nice folks, you know that?”
“That’s kind of you to say, thank you,” says Clara behind me.
I smile and sit down next to her.
“You make things look really easy,” she says quietly.
“I know,” I say. “Thanks.”
“It’s really annoying.”
“I know that, too. But you love it.”
We both smile.
Ten minutes pass before we get lucky. The door opens and a man walks in. Clara taps my leg with her foot.
Marcus Jones.
He’s average height with dark, olive skin and a shaved head. He has a few days’ growth on his face, but I wouldn’t call it a beard. He’s wearing a short sleeve navy blue shirt with a yellow logo over the breast pocket that says ECS, with jeans and boots.
As he walks in, he sees the guy behind the desk smiling at him and pointing over to us. Confused, he turns and looks at me, frowning when he doesn’t immediately recognize me. Then he sees Clara and his eyes go wide. I don’t get chance to work out whether it’s fear or surprise, because he bolts for the door.
Without thinking, I rush after him, throwing the door open and stepping out to see him climbing into the cab of his van, parked a short distance away. His tires squeal as he flies out of the yard and turns right, nearly hitting another car as he does.
Clara appears next to me and we both run over to the car.
“Well, that went well,” she says as we get in and she starts the engine. “Did he tell you everything you wanted to know?”
We speed off in pursuit, narrowly avoiding a car coming from behind us.
“Now isn’t the time for sarcasm and I-told-you-so’s,” I say. “Can you please just focus on catching this guy without killing us in the process?”
13
I see the van up ahead, speeding down the six-lane freeway and weaving in and out of the traffic erratically. Thankfully, there isn’t much traffic around us.
“Try and get next him,” I say to Clara.
We’re in a far superior car, so getting close to Jones isn’t the problem. The problem is staying close to him, because he keeps swerving left and right whenever we try to move alongside him. We don’t want to risk a crash so we have to keep dropping back.
Clara’s focused on the road. I’m trying to figure out how to stop him without killing him. There aren’t too many options when you’re both pushing eighty on the freeway.
“Any idea where he’s likely to go?” I ask.
“Could be anywhere,” she replies. “I doubt he’s going to run straight to their main base of operations knowing we’re following him. There are a couple of other locations Dark Rain use — weapons drops and safe houses, so it could be one of them maybe…”
I frown with mild frustration. “We need to get him before he reaches somewhere we can’t follow.”
I open my window and lean out, reaching behind me for a Beretta.
“What are you hell are you doing?” yells Clara.
“Good question!” I shout back.
If I’m being honest, right now I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. It’s extremely difficult to hit a tire in this situation — not that I want to, because it’ll cause him to lose control and at this speed that could be fatal.
Ah, screw it. I’ll just fire a few rounds in his general direction and see if it distracts him or something.
I squeeze off three rounds. I’ve no idea where the first two went, but the third one hits the back door of the van, causing a high-pitched ping. Jones must’ve heard it or felt it, because he suddenly swerves left, then right, fighting for control.
We drop back while he straightens up.
“Oh, shit…” Clara says, seeing him take a sharp left, narrowly missing the oncoming traffic as he cuts across the adjacent lanes and down another street. There’s no way we can follow — we’d never make it across the junction without hitting something.
“Take the next left, we’ll catch up to him,” I say.
She does, and we see the van go across the end of the street. We speed up and turn right, getting behind him again in no time. Clara steps on the gas some more and gets us almost level with him on the inside, but he sees the move and edges to the left, closing us down and forcing us to drop back.
“We’re never going to get level with him,” she says, slamming her hand against the wheel in frustration.
“Be patient,” I say. “We’ll get him, don’t worry.”
A heartbeat later, he tries to take another sharp turn, to the right this time. The guy’s a maniac… he’s going too fast — he’ll never get round the corner…
His passenger side back wheel lifts as he skids round the corner. I see him through the windshield fighting to control the van, but he’s got no chance. The momentum carries him, and he tips over, crashing down on his side and skidding across the street. The screeching sound of metal on blacktop is deafening, but it’s quickly replaced by a lower, much louder bang, as he collides with a parked car on the opposite side and stops.
“Jesus…” she says.
“Told you we’ll get him,” I say.
We pull up just before the right turn and I step out of the car, looking at the scene before me. A crowd of people has gathered, taking photographs and pointing, but making no effort to see if Jones is alright. Luckily, no one appears to have been injured.
“This is all my fault…” says Clara, appearing next to me.
“How do you figure that?” I ask.
“He only ran when he saw me. If I’d let you go in alone, you might have been able to talk to him and stop him from running.”
“Look, neither of us could’ve known he was going to bolt the moment he saw you. No one’s been injured — except him, and I’m okay with that.”
She forces a smile. “But we’re still at square one,” she says. “We didn’t get anything out of him, and now Dark Rain will know we’re on to them.”
“Hold up,” I say, looking over at the crash.
Marcus Jones is climbing up and out of the passenger door window. He looks relatively unhurt, apart from some cuts and bruises. He jumps down to the road and bends over, resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath. He looks around at the people staring. Then he sees our car — which, let’s face it, isn’t exactly hard to miss. His eyes meet mine. We hold each other’s stare for an hour-long split-second, then he sets off running down the street, pushing through the crowd and disappearing.
“Oh, no you don’t, you little bastard!” I yell, setting off after him without a second thought.
I sprint round the corner and barge through the crowd of slack-jawed onlookers. I see Jones just ahead of me. Unfortunately, just as I realize I’m not actually gaining on him as quickly as I would’ve liked, I remember the sore back and busted ribs from last night. I grit my teeth as each rapid, deep gulp of air feels like knives in my chest. I’m usually in pretty good physical condition, so the fact I can barely move is both frustrating and embarrassing.