Relieved, I glance back one more time.Shit.In the few seconds since the last time I checked, Stacy has climbed out of her car seat and now stares out the back window on her knees. No doubt she’s hoping to find more danger on the horizon.
“Let’s do it again, Mr. Suds.”
“No way, little missy. I’m taking you home. Then, we’re going to have a long talk about you getting out of your booster seat.”
“Nyet.” She is too damn stubborn and, in that way, reminds me of my wife.
God help us, Sam and I will probably have a kid just like her. Worried for her safety, I click on my blinkers, stop on a narrow strip of pavement, and stretch to buckle her in.
All secure, I use my firm voice. “Stay put, you little munchkin.”
“I’m not a munchkin. I’m a witch.” The first-grader lost a baby tooth and when she smiles, it’s so damn cute, I can’t help but return one of my own.
As I stare out the back and wait for a break in the line of oncoming cars, I give her a wink. “I thought you said you were a princess?”
“I can be both.”
“True that.” At the sound of a roaring engine, my eyes snap to the front.
What the fuck?Is he suicidal?The same black Mercedes must’ve turned around and barrels straight at us. With less than a second to spare, I avoid a head-on collision, veer across eight lanes of heavy traffic, and race forward at ninety miles per hour. The other car manages to do a u-ie and soon, the damn window inches down. This time, mine does, too.
Not today, asshole.Weapon in hand, I slow until we’re side by side and when the rocket pokes out, I take aim and shoot.
The damn thing explodes and the ensuing screams are not pretty.
I inform Slate of our status. “Homebase, we are in the clear. I say again, we are in the clear. Please alert the Feds and the state authorities. I shot at a terrorist and am damn well not stopping until the kid is safe.”
With sirens screaming from every direction, I duck off the highway, and with the help of a Map application, meander the local streets. After a few miles, the online lady guides me onto a ramp.
Only then do I dare take my eyes off the road. Thinking I’ll see a terror-stricken kid, I laugh when the little girl meets my gaze with her toothless grin.
“You got them. Bang, bang.” Her finger-gun points and shoots.
“I sure did.”Thank you, Jesus.
Turning on the music, we sing, and a few minutes later, arrive at the Oblonski mansion where her billionaire father paces in the driveway.
“Daddy.” Stacy waits for me to open the door and hops into the large Russian’s arms.
Head down, I speak into my chest. “Delivery complete.”
Back in New York, Slate responds, “Injuries?”
“You tell me.” I’m pretty sure rocket-man is no longer among the living but don’t say so.
“Police are on the way and our lawyer will meet you at the station. And Suds?”
“Yes sir?”
“No rambling. None. I mean it. And believe me. I will know.”
I chuckle. “No promises. Out.”
The arms dealer, his daughter on his hip, tries to get in a word edgewise as she explains her thrilling ride from start to finish.
With one palm on each cheek, she directs his gaze to her face. “And then, Papa? This big gun pointed at us and Mr. Sudsy went blam-blam-blam. And we got off the big highway and went on this curvy road and sang Sweet Home Al-bama and-”
She’s still talking when he hands her off to the nanny. “Later, myshka.”
