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.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Cliff-hanger
I rolled and tumbled, tumbled and rolled—for the longest time, it seemed. It seemed at any second I would reach the edge of the slope and go falling over. Roots and stones cut at me. Tree trunks banged me as I went past. But I kept falling faster, out of control.
Acid fear burned in me as I saw myself plunging toward the edge of the cliff and the sheer drop below it. I looked desperately for something to hang on to. I saw a tree—too far away to reach. But the roots came out of the ground in a great hunched tangle. Maybe . . .
I grabbed at the roots. I caught hold of a small cluster of them. My lower half kept falling, my legs tumbling past my torso. I clung to the roots as I felt my foot go over the edge into open air. But I had a firm grip. I dangled a second, holding on. Then I dragged myself back up onto the solid ground at the edge of the cliff.
Panting, bleeding, shocked, dazed, I tried desperately to get a sense of where I was. I looked up and saw the road far above me. I had tumbled down a long way. I heard another broken round of gunfire from up there and then the shooting stopped.
There were rough shouts:
“Get out of the car! Get out of the car with your hands up!”
It was the police. The law had won the day, and the two terrorists who were still alive were under arrest.
As I lay there, wincing, I saw a dark figure loom up on the ridge overhead. It was one of the state troopers. He was scanning the ground below, looking for me. I could see by the way he stiffened suddenly that he spotted me where I was at the edge of the drop-off, clinging to my cluster of roots.
I saw him turn away and I heard him shout to his fellow officers, “I see him! He’s down there!”
I knew I had to get out of there, fast.
I looked along the ridge on which I was lying. The slope was so steep, the edge so close, I didn’t think I’d be able to move quickly without falling over. I’d have to keep my grip on trees, on roots, on anything I could find in order to move along. The police would come down and get me easily. Either that, or they might just take a shot at me from the road.
No, the only way out was down—and that meant going over the side.
There was no time to be afraid. That didn’t stop me from
being
afraid—it just meant I couldn’t worry about it much. Holding on to my cluster of roots, I lowered my legs over the edge. My feet searched for purchase in the side of the mountain. There was soft earth and there were rocks— but I couldn’t tell if my footholds were firm or if they would crumble away underneath me. All the same, there was nothing else I could do. I let go of my handhold. I clutched at the earth under my fingers. I began to lower myself down.
It was a long climb and a scary one. Not a straight drop—not the whole way—but not much of a slope either. There was brush to hold on to, and rocks to brace my feet on. But the brush would tear free sometimes and I would have to grab hold of something else fast to keep from plummeting down. The rocks likewise would break from the earth under my feet and tumble down the mountainside, leaving me dangling helplessly until I could find somewhere else to stand.
But slowly, I made my way. When I looked down after a while, I could see the slope easing off a little bit. I could see a place where I might let go of my desperate handholds and start scrambling again. But I wasn’t there yet—it was still a dangerous fall. And as I climbed down, I began to feel something—something stirring inside me—and I groaned in terror.
It was another memory attack. I could feel it starting. I could feel that horrible writhing dragon of pain coming to life in my stomach.
My eyes filled with discomfort and frustration.
Not
now
, I thought,
not now
. I paused in my climb, clinging to the mountain face. I clenched my teeth and tried to force the growing pain down by sheer willpower. To my relief, it actually seemed to work for a moment. I seemed to be able to make the clutching agony subside a little and recede—the dragon pulling its head back under cover. I was pretty sure I couldn’t keep the memory attack away forever. But while there was time, I had to keep moving.
Slowly, I continued my climb down the mountainside.
And now, I heard noises on the slope above me. Deep voices calling to each other. Brush and sticks crackling. I looked up and saw dirt and pebbles pouring over the edge. Some of the debris showered my hair.
It was the troopers. They were climbing down the slope. They were coming to get me.
“He was right there a minute ago,” said one voice. “I saw him.”
“All right. Hold on. Take it easy, go slow. You don’t want to lose your footing and go over the edge. It’s a long way down.”
There were two of them as far as I could tell. The other two troopers must’ve still been up top with their prisoners and the dead.
I kept climbing down. The earth kept raining down on top of me as the troopers’ feet dislodged it from the slope over my head.
Then the sounds of brush and branches cracking— the sounds of the troopers’ descent—paused.
“Man,” I heard one of the troopers say, breathless, “this is really getting steep. Maybe we oughta wait for some climbing equipment or something.”
“The kid didn’t wait,” said the other, also panting. “He just went over the side.”
“Yeah, well . . . the kid’s a kid.”
The other trooper gave a weary laugh. “I know what you mean.”
A handful of pebbles showered onto me as the troopers started carefully down the slope again.
I continued to make my slow way down the cliff. I flinched as another twist of pain flared in my abdomen: the dragon of the memory attack rearing its head. But I managed to force the dragon down again and went on, moving my hand from rock to root to tree branch, working my feet from one crevice in the dirt to another as I descended.
A radio squawked above me. “Bravo-90.”
I heard the troopers pause again.
“This is Bravo-90,” I heard one of the troopers answer. “Go ahead.”
“It’s Rose.”
Now I paused too. Rose! Detective Rose. Was
he
here? Was he nearby? The idea frightened me.
Holding on to a stunted tree sticking out of the mountainside, I rested my face against the cold dirt. I was exhausted and, no matter how much I fought it, I could still feel that dragon of pain waiting to be born in my abdomen. I strained to listen.