“He’ll die if we get caught!” Harithi retorted. “Once the cops regroup and call for backup, our chance at escape narrows significantly.”
They turned out of the alley onto a quiet street. Not a single car was in sight. Harithi said, “Where the fuck is?—”
A charcoal sedan with heavily tinted windows swerved into view, squealing to a stop beside them. They ran to the car as the driver’s side window rolled down, revealing a Virian man in his early thirties, with a close-shaven beard.
“You’re late, asshole!” Harithi shouted, her shoulders sagging with relief.
“They’ve blockaded the roads,” the newcomer explained. “We have to go quickly.” Then he caught sight of the Jackal, and his jaw dropped. “What happened to Hasan?”
Hasan.So that was the Jackal’s name, Poppy thought. Though the round syllables seemed incongruous with the bloodied man leaning on her, it suited him, the soft, unvoicedslike the hiss of a viper.
“Gunshot wound,” she said, while Harithi simultaneously snarled, “Montrose.”
She opened the back-seat door, and together, the two women managed to get the Jackal?—Hasan?—inside, streaking blood on the cream leather seats. “Sit with him,” Harithi ordered, getting into the passenger seat. “Do not let him lose consciousness.”
The second Poppy closed the door, the driver slammed on the gas. As he peeled away from the curb, the wail of sirens rose behind them, coming from the same direction as the column of smoke spiraling out of the museum. Poppy pressed on Hasan’s back, trying to staunch the flow of blood, dyeing her gloves crimson.
“We have two options,” the driver said as he made a hard right, sending her careening into the window. “They’re sending men to secure Morning Bridge. We can either plow through them, or go up into the countryside, then around to Sanivali.”
“Sanivali?” Harithi asked. “Can’t we take him to Azha?”
“The cops are going to tear the city apart.” The man shook his head. “We need to get to the safe house.”
“Well, he won’t make it that far if we take the long way,” Harithi warned.
“Then we’ll have to push.” The driver set his jaw and met Poppy’s eyes in the rearview mirror for the first time. His gaze felt familiar, though she couldn’t say why. “You’ll need more pressure than that to treat a gunshot wound. Take his jacket off. Ball it up and use it as a compress. Kneel on it. As much pressure as you can apply.”
“Zeyar!” Harithi shouted. “Ahead!”
The driver?—Zeyar?—snapped his eyes back onto the road. Two police cars barreled toward them, one in the oncoming lane. “Get ready.”
He swerved, the car hitting the curb, splintering the flimsy barrier designed to protect pedestrians. As they passed the police vehicles, Harithi pointed her stolen handgun at the closer of the two cars, firing at the driver. Red burst across the windshield as her bullets struck home. The car swerved away, crashing into the other police cruiser with a hefty metallic crunch. The mangled remains of both vehicles collided with the pedestrian barrier on the other side of the road and slid to a hard stop.
Zeyar pulled their car off the sidewalk back onto the road, making another hard turn. This time, Poppy stayed grounded, kneeling in the footwell of the back seat as she wrestled the suit jacket off Hasan. He was still conscious enough to carry his own weight, sitting up so she could slide the garment off.
“Thought you didn’t want a brute like me?” he slurred, but she barely heard him. His dress shirt, once white, was now drenched red with blood.
“Founder, help us,” she breathed, bunching up the ruined jacket and pressing it onto the wound.
“Pretty sure your Founder wants us dead,” Harithi remarked. Up front, three more police cars were parked in a line, forming a blockade. Their drivers had gotten out, aiming rifles at them. Bang. Bang. Bang. Harithi fired at the officers, forcing them to duck behind the open doors of their vehicles for cover.
“I have this,” Zeyar said, “but it’s going to take all of my daivyakhi.” He lifted one hand off the wheel, putting it out of the window and punching the air once, hard. The police vehicles flew as though struck by an invisible fist. Poppy gaped at the open display of unnatural power. The cops shouted in terror and dismay, but Zeyar tore past them.
Harithi leaned out of the window, the wind ripping her hair out of its bun. She fired at the few cops who pursued them on foot, striking each one with ease.
“I’m out!” Harithi swore, clicking the trigger pointlessly.
“There’s a rifle under the seat and a handgun in the glove compartment,” Zeyar barked. He glanced at Poppy in the mirror. “Not enough pressure, Miss Sutherland! Kneel harder. Put your full weight into it.”
“Look out!” she shouted. Another police car had hidden between two buildings, headlights off, nearly invisible in the night.
Zeyar swore, swerving at the last moment as the police vehicle rushed forward, trying to T-bone them. The other car fishtailed, accelerating on their heels. Harithi shouldered the rifle, firing at the windshield. Cracks spiderwebbed across the glass, and the police car zigzagged as the driver attempted to prevent Harithi from shattering it.
“Hold tight,” Zeyar said. “I’m going to take a little shortcut.”
He wrenched the wheel into a hard right, driving up onto the sidewalk. Despite his warning, when the car hit the curb, Poppy flew backward into the window. The blazer fell from Hasan’s back. Zeyar threw the car down a flight of pedestrian stairs. The sideview mirrors scraped the railing with a screech, sparks flying. Poppy couldn’t help the shriek of alarm that escaped her lips.
“We’re in the last stretch,” Zeyar said.
