As cold as the Arctic in January, Lindsey watched the mirrors, her mouth a grim, tight line. Her expression was calculating, her eyes flicking from straight ahead to the mirrors and back. She obviously planned something, but I dared not ask and potentially distract her.
Controlling my wild urge to shoot through the rear window and take Bethany out, I grimly hung on as Lindsey careened around a corner, Bethany hot on the sedan’s bumper. Speeding up, she put some distance between us, her determined expression never wavering.
Spinning the wheel, she sent us hurtling around yet another corner, and suddenly braked. I stared at her wildly, then at Bethany who charged around the curve and sped up. “What are you doing?” I yelled.
Lindsey didn’t answer.
She, too, watched Bethany race toward us, the sedan idling, not moving. I witnessed Bethany’s triumphant grin through her windshield –
Lindsey hit the gas.
The sedan’s wheels screeched out, surged the car forward.
Unable to stop, Bethany’s grin changed to an expression of fear. She spun the Ford hard left, the right front end and wheel striking a utility pole. The impact ripped the truck’s entire right side into a crumpled mass of busted metal. Steam from the smashed radiator drifted up and into the clear air.
“Holy shit,” I gasped. “How’d you do that?”
Lindsey didn’t answer. She shoved the sedan into reverse, speeding backward toward the bashed pickup. Bethany jumped from the cab, her blonde hair swirling, and fired her gun at us. I ducked as the bullets pinged into the trunk and buried themselves somewhere in the rear seat.
Then she bolted.
Lindsey stopped, slamming the sedan into park. She grabbed the gun from my hand, opening the door to leap out. Stunned, I gaped as she ran in pursuit, chasing Bethany down on foot.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Unable to climb over the console, I dashed around the car’s hood and got in behind the wheel. Turning the sedan around wasn’t easy, offering the reason Lindsey opted to chase Bethany on foot. Swearing a blue streak, I finally got the sedan turned and drove in search of them. Both had vanished.
“Fuck,” I yelled, slamming my hand into the steering wheel. “Fuck.”
Red and blue strobes flashing, sirens screaming, police units poured into the area. In the middle of the street, I stopped the car and got out, my hands raised. Uniformed officers swarmed from the cruisers, blocking the entire street off from traffic.
“Brody!”
Detective Skinner ran toward me. I lowered my hands as it appeared the police knew not to shoot at me. I met him inthe middle of the mob of cops and cruisers, frantic to go after Lindsey.
“Lindsey’s chasing her on foot,” I yelled. “Both are armed.”
“What is she thinking?” he yelled back. Turning, he waved toward the police units. “Cover the area. Find them. And for Christ’s sake don’t shoot anyone.”
The officers ran for the cars, then drove in different directions in search of Lindsey and Bethany. I started for the car, intending to also search, but Skinner’s hand on my arm held me back.
“I need you here,” he ordered. “Why are they on foot?”
“Lindsey pulled a stunt,” I replied, gesturing toward the area where the silver Ford sat. “Bethany smashed her truck and ran. And Lindsey went after her.”
“Shit.” Skinner ran his hands through his hair. “That girl has more guts than brains.”
I told him of the chase, Bethany shooting at us, the holes in the crimson sedan’s trunk. “The car rental people aren’t going to be happy.”
“Fuck them.”
Skinner paced, loosening his tie in his agitation, both of us watching for the units to return. An officer who hadn’t joined the search suddenly trotted toward us, his radio crackling at his shoulder.
“They’ve found her,” he declared, listening.
“Which one?” Skinner demanded.
“Lindsey. They’re still looking for the other chick.”
