scream as I fling open his driver’s door, and in my periphery I see Llanos streaking around the corner, gun out and up. The woman has sand, I’ll give her that.
The driver unbuckles his belt as he puts his hands up but he isn’t moving fast enough. I yank him the rest of the way out of his seat, on to the sidewalk, and just as another volley of bullets pelts the side of the cab, I slide behind the wheel, throw the car in drive, and jam the pedal through the floorboard, not bothering to close the door. I couldn’t if I wanted to, my left arm is pinned to my side; my right guides the wheel. It slams shut from the momentum as the car races forward.
I don’t have much time. My vision is already going hazy at the edges, like I’ve stumbled into a tunnel. I need to think of something. Anything.
A quick glance in the rearview mirror, and goddammit, this Llanos woman is tenacious. I see her commandeer a second cab much as I took the first, and it roars away from the curb like a lion tracking wounded prey. She knows she landed a blow, and like a prizefighter crowding an opponent into the ropes, she’ll be damned if she’ll give up that advantage.
I throw the car around a corner, blinking doublevision out of my eyes, and if I’m going to do something, I’m going to have to do it now. My hold on consciousness is slippery at best, and the pain in my side is burning, like half my body has been lit on fire.
Before she can take the corner, I slam on my brakes, smoking the tires and just as quickly, I throw the stick into reverse and mash the pedal.
When killing a mark, there is only one sure way to put the target down permanently: a headshot. With a car, the principle holds, and any time you can sacrifice your trunk for your opponent’s engine, you should launch at the chance.
I can’t turn around, so I utilize the rear view mirror and grit my teeth and hope, hope, hope I’m timing this right and just as she blitzes around the corner, I thunder into her in reverse with a full head of steam.
Her hood crumples like an accordion, bucking the yellow cab up so the back tires threaten to flip over the front. Then the rear tires slam back to the pavement before her entire cab spins to the side.
I spin too, but am still facing away from her, thank God, and my engine is humming softly, so I shift back into drive and plow forward. My left rear tire is airless but the axle feels like it has kept its alignment and this poor cab may not get me far, but it should be enough. I eye the sideview mirror; Llanos’s car remains in the middle of the street, smoke rising from its hood like a funeral pyre and if she makes it out before the whole thing goes up, at least it’ll be with her confidence rattled. At least I gained that.
Now that my adrenaline is in full retreat, I feel tired, so damn tired, like I’m trying to walk along the bottom of the ocean. I need to make a move, a decision. I can’t get much further limping in this cab. I have to find help. Goddamn, I need a fence. I have to. . . .
Squash. Butternut squash soup, to be more specific, drips on my tongue and hits the back of my throat. I can smell it full in my nostrils, warm and salty. It might as well be a bone-in rib-eye. It tastes like the most delicious morsel I’ve ever put in my mouth.
I open my eyes and am staring at a young black woman, pretty, unthreatening. She is ladling the soup into my mouth with one hand under the spoon to keep it from dripping on to my chest.
“Hello.” Her voice is warm, barely hiding a southern accent.
“Hello.”
“How you feeling?”
“Stiff.”
“You had a twenty-two slug in you, lodged into your rib. You want to see it?”
“No, thank you.” She spoons another bite into my mouth and I can feel the heat moving down the length of my chest after I swallow.
“Just a second.” She sets the bowl down and bounces over to a nearby door so she can stick her head into the hallway. She isn’t dressed like a nurse or a
The driver unbuckles his belt as he puts his hands up but he isn’t moving fast enough. I yank him the rest of the way out of his seat, on to the sidewalk, and just as another volley of bullets pelts the side of the cab, I slide behind the wheel, throw the car in drive, and jam the pedal through the floorboard, not bothering to close the door. I couldn’t if I wanted to, my left arm is pinned to my side; my right guides the wheel. It slams shut from the momentum as the car races forward.
I don’t have much time. My vision is already going hazy at the edges, like I’ve stumbled into a tunnel. I need to think of something. Anything.
A quick glance in the rearview mirror, and goddammit, this Llanos woman is tenacious. I see her commandeer a second cab much as I took the first, and it roars away from the curb like a lion tracking wounded prey. She knows she landed a blow, and like a prizefighter crowding an opponent into the ropes, she’ll be damned if she’ll give up that advantage.
I throw the car around a corner, blinking doublevision out of my eyes, and if I’m going to do something, I’m going to have to do it now. My hold on consciousness is slippery at best, and the pain in my side is burning, like half my body has been lit on fire.
Before she can take the corner, I slam on my brakes, smoking the tires and just as quickly, I throw the stick into reverse and mash the pedal.
When killing a mark, there is only one sure way to put the target down permanently: a headshot. With a car, the principle holds, and any time you can sacrifice your trunk for your opponent’s engine, you should launch at the chance.
I can’t turn around, so I utilize the rear view mirror and grit my teeth and hope, hope, hope I’m timing this right and just as she blitzes around the corner, I thunder into her in reverse with a full head of steam.
Her hood crumples like an accordion, bucking the yellow cab up so the back tires threaten to flip over the front. Then the rear tires slam back to the pavement before her entire cab spins to the side.
I spin too, but am still facing away from her, thank God, and my engine is humming softly, so I shift back into drive and plow forward. My left rear tire is airless but the axle feels like it has kept its alignment and this poor cab may not get me far, but it should be enough. I eye the sideview mirror; Llanos’s car remains in the middle of the street, smoke rising from its hood like a funeral pyre and if she makes it out before the whole thing goes up, at least it’ll be with her confidence rattled. At least I gained that.
Now that my adrenaline is in full retreat, I feel tired, so damn tired, like I’m trying to walk along the bottom of the ocean. I need to make a move, a decision. I can’t get much further limping in this cab. I have to find help. Goddamn, I need a fence. I have to. . . .
Squash. Butternut squash soup, to be more specific, drips on my tongue and hits the back of my throat. I can smell it full in my nostrils, warm and salty. It might as well be a bone-in rib-eye. It tastes like the most delicious morsel I’ve ever put in my mouth.
I open my eyes and am staring at a young black woman, pretty, unthreatening. She is ladling the soup into my mouth with one hand under the spoon to keep it from dripping on to my chest.
“Hello.” Her voice is warm, barely hiding a southern accent.
“Hello.”
“How you feeling?”
“Stiff.”
“You had a twenty-two slug in you, lodged into your rib. You want to see it?”
“No, thank you.” She spoons another bite into my mouth and I can feel the heat moving down the length of my chest after I swallow.
“Just a second.” She sets the bowl down and bounces over to a nearby door so she can stick her head into the hallway. She isn’t dressed like a nurse or a
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