her,” he said, humor lightening the grim lines for a moment. “But don’t tell Linda Carter I said that.”
I laughed and shook my head. “I can’t believe you just made me laugh. We’re being chased by bad guys with guns, and you make a joke.”
“Do it quickly,” Dante urged, growing sober. “If I didn’t cut deep enough, just push through with your fingers—you’re strong enough. Doesn’t matter if you tear up my flesh. Just get the damn slug out of me.”
Without thinking about it, because if I did, I would scream, I stuck two fingers into his wound and pushed my way slowly down. Blood squished out, sliming my fingers and hand.
Shots sounded, thudding into the rear window. Bulletproof glass apparently. My hand on the wheel jerked in surprise, causing the car to swerve. I had to put both hands back on the steering wheel to regain control as I sped up.
Lowering his window, Dante leaned out and fired back. After several seconds of return fire, our car suddenly dropped a few inches on the passenger’s side, pulling the steering violently to the right. I knew in an instant our back rear tire had been shot out. Our smooth ride turned bumpy as we rode the metal rim of the hub.
“Good news and bad news,” Dante said, sticking his head back inside. “I shot out his front tires, but he blew out our rear wheel.”
“I can tell,” I grunted, fighting to keep our car straight without overcompensating so much that I accidentally ripped out the steering wheel. Despite the lost tire, the car was still drivable, though at a much slower speed. But with two of their tires out, our pursuers weren’t going any faster.
“Pull over,” Dante said.
“What?”
“Pull over and get out!”
I started to ask why but then glimpsed the reason in the rearview mirror. Roberto and his men had abandoned their car and were coming after us on foot. And Roberto was running with superfast speed, faster than our car was going, apparently no longer hindered by the silver bullet I’d jammed in his back, though Dante did his best to remedy that by shooting at him. But he missed. Didn’t even come close to hitting Roberto, moving as fast as he was, and with Dante slowed down to sluggish human reflexes and speed.
I jerked the car to a halt and sprang out, gun in hand. Roberto’s men were firing at Dante—not me, just Dante. Some of the hail of bullets struck our car, others Dante managed to deflect with his wrist bracelets—a pretty miraculous feat considering how much the silver slowed him. He slid back into the protection of the car, but Roberto had come close enough that he now had a clear shot at him. They drew on each other, but it was an unfair match. Roberto was much faster.
I fired before I gave myself a chance to think and watched blood blossom on Roberto’s right shoulder. He cried out, dropping his weapon.
I turned and emptied my gun, laying out a round of fire that hit the asphalt in front of the four bodyguards, making them scramble back to their car for cover. Before Dante had time to lift his gun and fire at Roberto, I yanked him out through the driver’s seat door and took off, carrying him. A quick sprint and we reached the cover of trees. I heard Roberto yelling orders at his men. No gunshots followed us, but I didn’t bother slowing down, just kept moving deeper into the forest.
“You missed his heart,” Dante said after ten minutes of running through the woods.
“Surprisingly, I hit exactly what I was aiming for—his shoulder. I guess you’re right: I do know how to shoot a gun.”
He closed his eyes, shook his head. “You can put me down now. Are they following us?”
I listened and heard only the quiet life-sounds of the jungle, no sound of pursuit. “Not at the moment.”
“Roberto will want to get that silver bullet out of his shoulder before coming after us again. He’ll go to a hospital,” I said, setting Dante on his feet, dropping down to the ground to rest for a few moments.
I laughed and shook my head. “I can’t believe you just made me laugh. We’re being chased by bad guys with guns, and you make a joke.”
“Do it quickly,” Dante urged, growing sober. “If I didn’t cut deep enough, just push through with your fingers—you’re strong enough. Doesn’t matter if you tear up my flesh. Just get the damn slug out of me.”
Without thinking about it, because if I did, I would scream, I stuck two fingers into his wound and pushed my way slowly down. Blood squished out, sliming my fingers and hand.
Shots sounded, thudding into the rear window. Bulletproof glass apparently. My hand on the wheel jerked in surprise, causing the car to swerve. I had to put both hands back on the steering wheel to regain control as I sped up.
Lowering his window, Dante leaned out and fired back. After several seconds of return fire, our car suddenly dropped a few inches on the passenger’s side, pulling the steering violently to the right. I knew in an instant our back rear tire had been shot out. Our smooth ride turned bumpy as we rode the metal rim of the hub.
“Good news and bad news,” Dante said, sticking his head back inside. “I shot out his front tires, but he blew out our rear wheel.”
“I can tell,” I grunted, fighting to keep our car straight without overcompensating so much that I accidentally ripped out the steering wheel. Despite the lost tire, the car was still drivable, though at a much slower speed. But with two of their tires out, our pursuers weren’t going any faster.
“Pull over,” Dante said.
“What?”
“Pull over and get out!”
I started to ask why but then glimpsed the reason in the rearview mirror. Roberto and his men had abandoned their car and were coming after us on foot. And Roberto was running with superfast speed, faster than our car was going, apparently no longer hindered by the silver bullet I’d jammed in his back, though Dante did his best to remedy that by shooting at him. But he missed. Didn’t even come close to hitting Roberto, moving as fast as he was, and with Dante slowed down to sluggish human reflexes and speed.
I jerked the car to a halt and sprang out, gun in hand. Roberto’s men were firing at Dante—not me, just Dante. Some of the hail of bullets struck our car, others Dante managed to deflect with his wrist bracelets—a pretty miraculous feat considering how much the silver slowed him. He slid back into the protection of the car, but Roberto had come close enough that he now had a clear shot at him. They drew on each other, but it was an unfair match. Roberto was much faster.
I fired before I gave myself a chance to think and watched blood blossom on Roberto’s right shoulder. He cried out, dropping his weapon.
I turned and emptied my gun, laying out a round of fire that hit the asphalt in front of the four bodyguards, making them scramble back to their car for cover. Before Dante had time to lift his gun and fire at Roberto, I yanked him out through the driver’s seat door and took off, carrying him. A quick sprint and we reached the cover of trees. I heard Roberto yelling orders at his men. No gunshots followed us, but I didn’t bother slowing down, just kept moving deeper into the forest.
“You missed his heart,” Dante said after ten minutes of running through the woods.
“Surprisingly, I hit exactly what I was aiming for—his shoulder. I guess you’re right: I do know how to shoot a gun.”
He closed his eyes, shook his head. “You can put me down now. Are they following us?”
I listened and heard only the quiet life-sounds of the jungle, no sound of pursuit. “Not at the moment.”
“Roberto will want to get that silver bullet out of his shoulder before coming after us again. He’ll go to a hospital,” I said, setting Dante on his feet, dropping down to the ground to rest for a few moments.
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