Authors: Stan Crowe
“Alright. Which way now?” he asked.
Silence.
He glanced over to see Sullivan’s face pale and panicked, small rivers pouring down it. The left side of her face was badly bruised, and her hair was splayed all over her floppy airbag. Another pang of sympathy beat through his veins, but he swallowed it. “Sullivan? Self? Hello?”
“I
told
you
not
to call me
Self
!” she snapped, through hot tears.
“And I asked
you
,” he said, “how we’re supposed to make the freeway. I think your ego can take the bruising better than your body can if we can’t ditch Jane.”
“Who’s Jane?” she half sniffled. Wait. Was that… jealousy he heard in her voice?
“Old girlfriend,” he muttered sarcastically, sneaking a sidelong glance at her. Her eyes widened as if offended, but he ignored it.
“Please tell me
you
dumped
her
.”
Clint rolled his eyes. “The freeway, please? We can talk about my failed love life over coffee sometime. Maybe, oh, once we’re
not being chased by a crazy lady
!”
Sullivan stomped down a sob, and snorted. “Right on Market. I already told you.” She was venomous now. “We’ll take a left on Fourth and that will put us on southbound One-oh-One toward San Jose. Or we could head north across Golden Gate. It’s too late to try the Bay Bridge now and northbound traffic shouldn’t be too bad this time of morning.”
“I thought the freeway didn’t run through downtown.”
“It doesn’t,” she said, sagging slightly.
“I hear San Jose is nice this time of year….”
Clint pulled hard right as Market Street came into view. When he was younger, he used to love driving along Market just to look at the cable cars, their rails neatly embedded in the street itself. Now he was dodging those cable cars and the buses that ran off the same overhead crisscross of power lines. Sometimes, it simply wasn’t possible. Stuck again behind slow moving traffic, Clint sweated out the longest quarter mile of his life.
Fourth Street came up on the left. As soon as there was a break in the cars he ignored the “no left turn” sign and zipped into the other lane, flashing his lights and honking like a goose on speed before cutting across the curb and missing the pedestrian light by inches. He frowned as some poor sap had to lay his bike down to avoid getting clipped by the Audi.
“Sorry!” he called behind him, knowing the cyclist would never hear it.
Traffic on Fourth was blessedly lighter than expected, though someone in a truck decided to play “enforcer” by repeatedly swerving to block Clint’s escape. Then three of Jane’s bullets hit the truck; that got him to pull over real quick.
Another half mile, several intersections and at least two red lights passed under burned rubber and low gear, high-RPM maneuvers. Clint was sure he heard sirens from somewhere nearby, though he couldn’t see any cops yet. Maybe he should have called Cal Trans to clear San Francisco’s cramped streets for him prior to running for his life at sixty miles an hour. The freeway entrance was upon them, and Clint cut off a pair of cars that were merging there.
The Audi blazed up the on-ramp and into freeway traffic like a torpedo slipping through water, entirely ignoring the fifty-mile-per-hour speed limit. The Bentley was still too close, and seemed to be pushing Mach one as it started gaining on them. The gunfire was more sporadic now, and Clint forced himself not to think about collateral damage; Jane didn’t seem to mind shooting over or even
through
a few intervening cars.
Maybe I’ll make the morning traffic report
, he thought dryly.
Maybe I’ll make the state pen, too…
A chime sounded. Clint looked down, and noted that a small image of a gasoline pump had appeared on the dashboard. His heart sank as he confirmed that the needle on the fuel gauge was hovering on the wrong side of the letter “E.”
“You didn’t bother to fill your tank this morning?” he called at Sullivan.
Her sheepishness flashed across her face, but she was back on the defensive in a blink. “It was on my ‘to-do’ list,” she spat. “Right under, ‘get abducted by insane client,’ ‘get shot at,’ and ‘buy a new car.’”
They locked glares for a few moments, and then Clint turned his attention back to his driving with the shake of his head. This chase was going to end soon one way or other, and he’d rather not have to trying escaping from Sullivan’s car in the middle of freeway traffic.
“Is there a gas station around here?” he asked quickly.
“A what?”
“A gas—oh, never mind. Nearest freeway exit. Where?”
“Uh…,” and he could hear her mind switching gears away from “I hate Clint” mode. “Right side,” she said. “Maybe a mile up. Maybe two?”
“You don’t know?”
She spitted him with a look. “I don’t
have
to know! I just follow the signs! They’re easy to read at
fifty
.”
“Would you like me to slow down?”
“No!”
A jolt shook both of them, and Clint stooped instinctively as more bullets tore through the windows and embedded themselves in the doors. The Audi rocked again, and Clint took a rapid peek at the road ahead as he guided the car away from the Bentley. He was coming up fast on a blue sedan; a slow-moving Cadillac blocked the lane to his left, though Jane was trying to nose it out of the way. A guardrail to his right eliminated any road shoulder he might use to escape. Once again, he was just going to have to go for it.
He switched on his turn signal without thought, downshifted, and wedged himself in front of the Cadillac a heartbeat before passing the sedan that had been blocking his lane with its seventy-mile-an-hour crawl. The limp airbag tangled around his hand, and he barely managed to pull back to the left in time to avoid sideswiping a moving truck next to him.
“Clint! That was the exit!”
A signboard that read “Golden Gate Bridge 101 North” passed overhead to his right while a line of vehicles peeled off in that direction, heading back into town.
“I thought you said I had a
mile
, maybe
two
?”
“We did when you first asked me! You’re the driver! It’s your responsibility to pay attention to these things!”
“Well in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m paying attention to
other
things! Like keeping us from ending up as
roadkill
, and praying that this thing doesn’t run out of
gas
!”
“I didn’t have time to fill it up before you stole it!”
“Well
next time
I have to run from a homicidal witch,
I’ll make an appointment first
!”
The car shook again, and Clint willed it to go faster.
“Next exit?” he barked.
“I don’t know! Soon?”
Clint risked a backward glance at Jane’s ride. It was still behind him to the left, though it had to dodge a lane or two over to clear other cars. As it drifted back toward him, the gun came out once more, and Clint ducked yet again. His blood froze as he heard the rounds strike the front door panel instead of his window. A gout of smoke puffed from under the hood, obscuring his vision for precious seconds. He released the gas on a hunch, and when his vision cleared, he found himself almost nose-to-tail with a lime-green Toyota. He braked, but not fast enough to completely avoid nudging the hideous rice burner. The Bentley seized the initiative to edge itself into his flank and shove the Audi laterally toward the ranks of trees lining the freeway. Clint could see Jane’s shadowed face staring daggers from the passenger’s seat of the other car.
And to think he’d wanted to date her once upon a time.
A Glock 9mm peeked out the window, and Clint’s life flashed before him. Any second, that gun barrel would spit death one final time, and that would be it.
Happy moments from his childhood flitted before him. There he was in the swimming pool as a toddler, Dad tossing him in the air and catching him again and again. Then, his first bike ride that didn’t involve losing skin. Then, his sister Holly’s ninth birthday, where she invited three new friends, Molly, Becca and Jane.
Then he saw his first date—a middle school dance with Kelly Graydon—and blushed at the embarrassment. He’d tried so hard to impress her, but ended up with his underwear on his head, a hole in the knee of his jeans, and a smorgasbord of bruises after the school bully had walked all over him, and then walked away with Kelly.
High school zipped by in a moment, and he was stunned as a girl’s face long since forgotten, yet surprisingly significant, flashed before him, and then was gone. He couldn’t get it back, and he couldn’t remember anything other than a vague impression that he should know her better.
Suddenly he was graduating, and he and Holly and her girlfriends were out for the best night on the town he’d ever had. He’d even made a move on Becca, since he knew she’d never be coming back; he’d been too nervous to try anything with Molly or Jane. But had Jane been jealous even back then? He couldn’t tell; he’d been too young to think about such silly things.
Before he knew it, Molly was there, whisking him away from his apartment and to unexpected safety. His heart tightened at the thought that any chance he had with her was a mere finger flick from being eternally null and void. Guilt crushed him at the full realization that, yes, Molly
had
been right after all, and now he was costing him—them, rather—a future. He took some comfort in the idea that his last, living thought was of her.
Only it wasn’t. Sullivan’s firm-featured face fluttered to the top of his consciousness, and for the barest of instants, he comprehended that for some reason, he didn’t mind dying next to her.
“
CLINT!
”
Her hand was suddenly on the wheel, and the Audi heaved left, shoving the Bentley away. Clint watched it race past them as Sullivan’s Audi bumper-car slammed the Toyota again; the Toyota was slowing fast, one tire clearly flat.
“Are you alright? I thought you’d fainted,” Sullivan said with a gasp.
Clint shook his head violently to clear it. The taillights on the black luxury car flared red, and the glint of gunmetal shone in the morning sunlight.
“Hang on,” he exclaimed. He dropped into third, and broke hard left. The Audi rammed the Bentley on the driver’s side hindquarters, and Clint saw Jane’s gun spin away into the air. He heaved a short-lived sigh of relief; Jane’s ride was braking hard now, slowing them with it, and bringing the nose of the Audi dangerously to the right. Clint fought to turn into the skid, but the wheel responded sluggishly; he suspected the last volley had hit the power steering fluid line. Sullivan’s car shifted further and further, and Clint could tell that physics was about to take over; once they were sideways, a roll was inevitable.
Up ahead, a road sign on an overpass read “C Chavez St” with an arrow gesturing to the right. And then they were under the viaduct. A plan coalesced in his mind in a split second. Kicking the brakes, he backed off enough to disengage from the Bentley’s rear bumper. Then he opened the throttle wide, and literally scraped past the black car on its left side, cutting back into its lane before speeding ahead. Jane pursued immediately, making up the distance almost at once. The “C Chavez St” off-ramp split away from the main road, and fell behind them. The Bentley roared toward the battered Audi, and the bushes ahead of them were giving way to another guardrail.
“Do or die,” he muttered. “Brace!” Clint spun the wheel as hard as he could to his right, praying no one was coming up on his right side.
“CLINT!”
A hedgerow that separated the freeway from the off-ramp rushed to meet them, and then exploded under the force of the car. Clint lurched forward as the speed dropped, and then they were rattling hard down a small, steep incline. The Audi’s nose ground hard against the off-ramp pavement, and with a series of bone-shaking bumps and a spray of sparks, they were level again, and pointed directly at the far guardrail. The despondent steering left Clint unable to fully correct. The rail buckled, but held, shoving them back into their lane. Horns wailed, but Clint managed to avoid the off-ramp’s own split. He hung right, and exited onto westbound Cesar Chavez more by default than anything.
The Audi sputtered and coughed as it rolled along the street, hints of its perilous chase leaking behind it. More smoke spewed from under the hood. Clint noticed a baseball field through Sullivan’s window, and turned right at the street past that. He was grateful they hadn’t wound up here after hours. There was something unnerving about old buildings with turquoise paint peeling from the stucco. Too many of the bystanders were in dark hoodies for his liking, and the whole place exuded “run down.” For now, though, it was better than being shot at.
Ignoring the “no parking during these hours” sign, Clint rolled to a stop at a pullout by a pedestrian bridge adjacent to the ball field. He staggered out to pointing and stares. A middle-aged man in overalls was approaching, a questioning look on his face.
“Need a hand, son?” Mr. Overalls asked.
Clint bent forward, bracing his hands against his knees. “Naw. Car trouble,” he panted.
“Car trouble doesn’t usually involve bullet holes.”
“Jealous ex,” Clint responded. As if on cue, Sullivan emerged from the car, and Overalls’ eyes widened.
“Ah.” He nodded knowingly. “Well, good luck with all that,” he said, and he turned to leave.
“Hey—wait!” Clint called after him. “Where’s the nearest bus stop that’ll get me back into downtown?”
TEN
It was all Clint’s fault. But then, that didn’t surprise Lindsay; it had been his fault since her sophomore year. Oh, she didn’t mind riding public transit. If nothing else, it was often cheaper and far easier than trying to park in downtown. What she minded was ending up next to a drunk with an overdeveloped sense of flirtation.
For the fifteenth time in the last mile, Lindsay gently shoved the grizzled man’s hand off her knee. The man chuckled, exposing what was left of the nicotine stain she assumed used to be his teeth. The stench of old tobacco mixed with cheap booze (and something else she didn’t care to even guess at) whenever he opened his mouth.