“Shit!”
Bethany and the silver truck roared through a red light, heading straight for us, obviously heedless of any possible wrecks that might stem from her actions. Lindsey accelerated, spinning the wheel to make a sharp left onto a busy four lane avenue. Looking over my shoulder, I watched the truck also speed up in pursuit.
“That bitch,” I snapped. “She’s gonna get someone killed.”
“I believe that’s her intention,” Lindsey replied dryly. “Us.”
Weaving in and out of slower traffic, Lindsey maintained a few car lengths ahead of Bethany. Also forced to weave, Bethany couldn’t seem to close the distance. Horns blatted in irritation as we both cut drivers off in our effort to flee and her effort to catch us.
“What does she think she’ll do if she does catch up?” I asked.
“Shoot us,” Lindsey answered.
“I don’t suppose you have a gun in here?”
“My purse.”
I opened her handbag, easily finding the grip of a nine-millimeter, and pulled it out. I flipped off the safety, slid the bolt back, and saw the round in the chamber. “Okay,” I said lightly. “Time to get rough.”
“Only if we have to,” Lindsey said, her tone sharp. “We can’t risk shooting a bystander.”
“Do I look that dumb to you?”
Lindsey merely shook her head.
“Where’s a cop when you need one?” I muttered, watching the mirror as Bethany nearly ran a taxi into a light pole.
“Call Skinner.”
Handing me her cell, Lindsey steered the sedan around a corner, the Ford careening in pursuit. With lighter traffic on this street, she accelerated. As did Bethany. I found the number in her contacts list and pushed the button.
“Let’s hope he answers.”
After two rings, Skinner said, “Lindsey? All okay?”
“It’s Brody and no. We’ve got Bethany Byrd in a silver Ford chasing us across town.”
“Where exactly are you?” he asked, his tone crisp.
I looked at the street signs. “Just passed Fifth, heading west on Broadway.”
“All right. I’ll dispatch units to your location. Is she armed?”
“And dangerous.”
“Okay, hang in there. Cavalry’s on the way.”
I clicked off. “He’s sending cops.”
“Good. I’m almost out of gas.”
“That’s not good.”
Twisting, I watched Bethany speed up until the smashed front bumper nearly hit the sedan’s. Bethany, the gun in her hand, stuck her arm from the driver’s side window. Aiming, she fired off two quick rounds.
“Fuck,” I screamed. “Can I shoot back?”
“No.”
