Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure by Tom Abrahams Page A
Authors: Tom Abrahams
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steering wheel. “Who are these guys?”
“I don’t know. They don’t seem to care we know they’re following us.”
“Yeah,” George says, wiping his upper lip with the back of his hand. “It’s not good they let us see them.”
“Why?”
“Haven’t you ever watched action movies?” George glances at me as if I’m stupid. “The bad guys always kill people who’ve seen their faces. They don’t want people to identify them. It’s the kiss of death. You see their faces – you die.”
“They can’t kill us if they can’t find us, George. Focus on losing them.”
George tries to move farther behind the sedan, but they must be onto us. They stay one car in front of us as we inch closer to the exit for downtown. The sedan has no rear license plate.
“Is the exit up here?” I ask. I was on this same stretch of road in the bus a few hours ago, but I don’t remember paying any attention to the exits.
“Yeah, maybe a mile,” he says. “But it’s on the left. If I try to merge over, they’ll get back behind us. This isn’t working.” He looks at me, his face flushed with stress. This kind of pressure is clearly different from trying to make a deadline for a newscast. He’s folding on me.
“Okay look,” I say, looking behind me to the right. “There’s this wide shoulder here next to us. “Why don’t you get onto the shoulder and back up?”
“You mean, put the car in reverse?”
“Yeah, I’ll watch out for you.”
George looks in his rear view mirror before merging to the right and brakes, lurching the Lexus. He turns and puts his right arm behind my seat, shifts into reverse, and punches the accelerator. Within five seconds we’re ten cars behind the sedan. Another five seconds and we’re an additional ten cars back.
“That’s good,” I say. “Now get back onto the highway and merge all the way to the left.
George shifts back into drive and slips onto the freeway. Up ahead there’s a sedan moving backwards along the shoulder. They’re trying the same thing, but by the time they’ve made it back to where we were, George has already managed to maneuver into the far left lane and is several car lengths ahead. He’s put enough distance between us and the sedan that I can’t see it. George slides into the left shoulder and speeds up to 20 or 30 miles per hour as we approach the downtown exit.
He swerves back into the far left lane, cutting off an 18-wheeler that blows its horn at us. He clears the truck, and speeds down the exit ramp toward downtown.
“I’m taking Travis Street,” he tells me, which is the first of three street exits off of the ramp. “I want to get off this ramp before they catch up.” George steers the Lexus down the Travis Street exit and blows through a stop sign, speeding into downtown.
We merge onto Travis Street and fly through two or three intersections before George turns right onto Elgin and past Houston Community College. He almost runs over a young woman with a backpack slung over her shoulder. She’s wearing ear buds and is oblivious to us until the front end of the Lexus comes within about a foot of her.
She jerks back and flips us the finger, yells something at us I am sure is laced with profanity, kicks the front of the Lexus with the sole of her sneakered foot, and finishes crossing the intersection.
George is white-knuckling the steering wheel, the color drained from his face. He needs a cigarette, I know.
He exhales and eases through the intersection. There’s nobody behind us. We lost the black sedan and the assassins inside.
George speeds up again and turns north onto San Jacinto. We pass a BMW dealership and drive underneath an interstate overhead. A sign tells me it’s I-45, the highway that runs from Galveston to Dallas.
We pass a large church on the left, which reminds me to pray for help.
God , please help us . Please get us out of this mess .
I think about making some sort of promise in exchange for divine
“I don’t know. They don’t seem to care we know they’re following us.”
“Yeah,” George says, wiping his upper lip with the back of his hand. “It’s not good they let us see them.”
“Why?”
“Haven’t you ever watched action movies?” George glances at me as if I’m stupid. “The bad guys always kill people who’ve seen their faces. They don’t want people to identify them. It’s the kiss of death. You see their faces – you die.”
“They can’t kill us if they can’t find us, George. Focus on losing them.”
George tries to move farther behind the sedan, but they must be onto us. They stay one car in front of us as we inch closer to the exit for downtown. The sedan has no rear license plate.
“Is the exit up here?” I ask. I was on this same stretch of road in the bus a few hours ago, but I don’t remember paying any attention to the exits.
“Yeah, maybe a mile,” he says. “But it’s on the left. If I try to merge over, they’ll get back behind us. This isn’t working.” He looks at me, his face flushed with stress. This kind of pressure is clearly different from trying to make a deadline for a newscast. He’s folding on me.
“Okay look,” I say, looking behind me to the right. “There’s this wide shoulder here next to us. “Why don’t you get onto the shoulder and back up?”
“You mean, put the car in reverse?”
“Yeah, I’ll watch out for you.”
George looks in his rear view mirror before merging to the right and brakes, lurching the Lexus. He turns and puts his right arm behind my seat, shifts into reverse, and punches the accelerator. Within five seconds we’re ten cars behind the sedan. Another five seconds and we’re an additional ten cars back.
“That’s good,” I say. “Now get back onto the highway and merge all the way to the left.
George shifts back into drive and slips onto the freeway. Up ahead there’s a sedan moving backwards along the shoulder. They’re trying the same thing, but by the time they’ve made it back to where we were, George has already managed to maneuver into the far left lane and is several car lengths ahead. He’s put enough distance between us and the sedan that I can’t see it. George slides into the left shoulder and speeds up to 20 or 30 miles per hour as we approach the downtown exit.
He swerves back into the far left lane, cutting off an 18-wheeler that blows its horn at us. He clears the truck, and speeds down the exit ramp toward downtown.
“I’m taking Travis Street,” he tells me, which is the first of three street exits off of the ramp. “I want to get off this ramp before they catch up.” George steers the Lexus down the Travis Street exit and blows through a stop sign, speeding into downtown.
We merge onto Travis Street and fly through two or three intersections before George turns right onto Elgin and past Houston Community College. He almost runs over a young woman with a backpack slung over her shoulder. She’s wearing ear buds and is oblivious to us until the front end of the Lexus comes within about a foot of her.
She jerks back and flips us the finger, yells something at us I am sure is laced with profanity, kicks the front of the Lexus with the sole of her sneakered foot, and finishes crossing the intersection.
George is white-knuckling the steering wheel, the color drained from his face. He needs a cigarette, I know.
He exhales and eases through the intersection. There’s nobody behind us. We lost the black sedan and the assassins inside.
George speeds up again and turns north onto San Jacinto. We pass a BMW dealership and drive underneath an interstate overhead. A sign tells me it’s I-45, the highway that runs from Galveston to Dallas.
We pass a large church on the left, which reminds me to pray for help.
God , please help us . Please get us out of this mess .
I think about making some sort of promise in exchange for divine
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