Grant’s only reply is an audible swallow.
“Maybe they’re lost and they want to ask us for directions.”
“Or they’re bad guys and they want us to die,” Grant says. His hands are choking the life out of the steering wheel.
“Or they’ve been trying to reach us about our car’s extended warranty,” I try.
“Yeah, or they’rebad guysand theywant us to die.”
I throw my hands up. “Sure, if you want to go all worst-case-scenario about it. Maybe let’s not jump to conclusions?” The light in front of us turns red, and Grant swears under his breath as he comes to a stop. I try to ignore the SUV drawing nearer in the rearview. “All they’re doing is driving the same way we’re driving. There could be many reasons for that, some of them noteven nefarious. Besides, what are they going to do,followus to death?”
I turn back around to examine them further. That’s when the scowling man driving the car leans over, then lifts up something shiny.
“GUN!” I shout. “HE’S GOT A GUN. GO!”
Those appear to be the magic words; Grant floors it through the intersection. He signals left and then veers right to fake out our pursuers, and for a moment it seems to have worked until they pull a screeching U-turn and follow us, horns blaring all around.
I can’t tell exactly where the first shot hits, but the loudbangsends us instinctively ducking and screaming. Grant angles himself to maintain control of the wheel, swearing profusely.
“Whoisthat?” I stare behind us, but there’s absolutely nothing of any identifying value, beyond the evident contempt of the tight-lipped man pointing his gun at us. More gunshots ring out, pinging off metal as we screech through alleys and small roads, driving farther and farther off course.
“Whoever they are, I don’t think this is their first car chase,” Grant says through gritted teeth. “I can’t shake them. Is there anything in the back we can use? Something we can throw, maybe?”
I shoot a flat look at him. “Yes, as a matter of fact, there’s a crate of banana peels.”
“Seriously?”
“No!This isn’t Mario Kart!”
“Oh, you mean stealing moves from a video gameisn’tpractical in real life?”
“Shut up,” I snap, but then my eyes catch on something poking out from the back seat. Something metallic. With a trigger. And even though it seems to be our only hope right now, my stomach turns. I gingerly pick it up, pinching it between my thumb and forefinger as if it were a dirty diaper.
“Um, I may have found something.”
Grant glances at the gun as he cranks the wheel away from another onslaught of gunfire. We tear through an alley and back onto the main road, much to the horror of the screaming bystanders on the sidewalk.
“Shit,” hisses Grant. “Do you know how to shoot?”
“No, and Ireallydon’t want to learn,” I say. Even the plastic training guns in Uri’s class make me uneasy, and I’ve learned to disarm those with as little handling as possible. I stare at Grant, taken aback. “Are you really insinuating that I should shoot these people?”
“No!” he protests, swerving sharply to avoid a cyclist. The SUV makes the exact same move seconds later. “I just thought maybe you could try to hit their car or something, just to slow them down.”
I eye the gun mistrustfully, and reluctantly try holding it the way I’ve seen people do in movies. It feels foreign and unnatural in my hands. I glance out the window at the buildings racing past. The pedestrian traffic is thinning out as we near the highway, but there’s still a good chance I’d hit someone else if I tried for the SUV. I’m not interested in hurting anyone, or worse.
The man behind us doesn’t seem to have the same qualms, or is maybe just a much more confident marksman. Once we race clear of a Mini Cooper, he sends another shot ringing out and Grant and I both tense.
“What if I just, like, wave it threateningly at them?” I demonstrate, and Grant flinches into a defensive hunch over the steering wheel.
“Jesus!” he cries. “At least make sure the safety’s on first!”
My voice comes out shrill and frenzied. “What part of me holding a gun like this makes you think I know how to do that?”
He curses and wipes sweat from his forehead. “I’ll talk you through it,” he says.
I almost drop the weapon in shock.
“You’re agun guy?”
