The truth of the matter

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.

Blond Guy let out one more shriek, unleashed one more round of machine-gun fire. The cruiser’s brakes screamed again. Then the two cars-ours and the cruiser- smashed together on the straightaway. Glass shattered. Metal crunched. The two cars spun around each other like dancers and then spun apart.

At the force of the impact, the knife flew out of my grip and I was hurled off the seat, onto the floor. Handlebar, still clutching his bleeding face, smashed full force forehead-first into the seat back in front of him. In the front seat, the driver’s air bag exploded in a blinding white flare, smacking him in the face. Only Blond Guy was able to brace himself, able to hold his position in the jolting, spinning crash.

The two smashed cars came to rest. There was a second of confusion, a second of smoke and silence. Then Blond Guy was shrieking with rage, kicking at his door. The door came open and he tumbled out.

Dazed, I started to climb off the floor. At the same time, I was working my hands, trying to get them free. I could feel the cut duct tape tearing, loosening, giving me more room to maneuver.

I managed to get back on the seat. I could see through a fractured side window. I saw two state troopers come tumbling out of the wreck of their cruiser. I could see one taking cover behind an open door, the other behind the trunk.

At the same time, another cruiser was coming out of the turn behind them, joining them on the straightaway. Its tires screamed, its front end swerved as the driver saw the wreck up ahead and hit the brakes.

At the same time, the duct tape tore apart and my hands came free.

At the same time, Blond Guy screamed, “It’s not fair!” and opened fire on the troopers.

The troopers dropped behind their car, then popped up again, their pistols drawn and aimed. They fired back.

Handlebar, meanwhile, lay writhing on the seat beside me. I reached out over him. I pushed open his door.

Convulsively, Handlebar grabbed me. I tried to pull free. He held on with a powerful grip. I punched him in the side of the head. He let out a growling snarl of agony and fell back against the seat.

I climbed over him and tumbled out of the car onto the road.

I fell onto the pavement, landing on my back on the hard macadam. There was gunfire all around me. The cough and rattle of Blond Guy’s machine gun was answered by the steady bangs of the troopers’ pistols. Through the smoke from the wrecked cars, I could see flashes of fire as muzzles erupted. I could see sparks fly as stray bullets ricocheted off the pavement.

And, all the while, above the general chaos of noise, there came the steady stream of Blond Guy’s shrieked curses, his curses against fate and the unfairness of life. It was a wild, unholy sound, the sound of a man completely out of control, completely possessed by rage and a fury for death.

I climbed to my feet and ran, bent over, stumbling toward the edge of the road, hoping to reach cover before a bullet caught me. As I ran, I glanced back over my shoulder-just a quick glance but long enough to see what happened next.

Blond Guy was out of his mind with blood-fury. He was screaming and screaming, firing and firing at the police behind their doors, riddling their cruiser with bullet holes. His rage made him fearless. He was standing clear out in the open, totally unprotected. He just kept screaming and shooting, walking toward the wrecked cruiser, step after step.

He had the police pinned down behind their car. But by now the second cruiser had pulled to the side of the road. Two more troopers were coming out of it with their guns drawn. They dropped behind their cruiser’s open doors for cover. They took aim through the open windows, bracing their arms on the window frames.

Then-in that moment I looked back while I was running, bent over, across the road-Blond Guy’s gun clicked on empty. You’d think he would have thrown the weapon down. You’d think he would have put his hands up and surrendered. But no. Standing there, right out in the open, with the police guns still trained on him, he tore one magazine from the machine gun, tossed it away and, in the same fluid motion, reached into his jacket and pulled out another. He jammed the magazine in place, chambered a bullet, and was ready to open fire again.

The last thing I saw before I reached the edge of the road was the troopers rising up from behind their cars-two from behind the ruined cruiser and two from the second cruiser that had just come up alongside it. All four of them opened fire at the same time.

I saw Blond Guy fly back, letting out a last blast of machine-gun fire at the sky as the police bullets tore into him. Then he was going down, crumpling to the ground like some kind of broken toy.

I couldn’t stay to watch anymore. I had come to the edge of the road. Only a few seconds had passed since the crash. Handlebar was still in his seat, still clutching his bleeding face. The driver was still sitting slumped and dazed behind the wheel of the car where the air bag had hit him. For a moment, I was there at the edge, unnoticed. Beneath me was a steep drop, a sharp slope of dirt dotted with bushes and stunted trees. It ended suddenly in a vertical fall off the side of the mountain.

I charged off the road and down the slope. After two steps, I lost my footing and was tumbling, tumbling toward the brink of nothingness.