All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [210]
Eliot wanted to climb out, grab Lady Dawn, and . . .
All his heroic thoughts ground to a halt.
On a corner three blocks away squatted an armored tank, its muzzle pointed down the street at head level . . . at them.
Robert gunned the Harley, spun around, and roared down a side street.
They went fast, but it was just fast. Not the fast that Eliot knew they could go—fast that made the rest of the world stand still.
They raced for two blocks, screamed around three corners, and Robert skidded to a halt. He doubled over, examining the bike’s exposed V-pistons.
“Something’s wrong,” Robert murmured.
A block behind them, two primer gray Humvees careened through an intersection.
Gunshots cracked.
Holes chipped in the wall over Eliot’s head. “No kidding something’s wrong! Just go!”
Robert twisted the throttle and they sped off, quickly outpacing the larger vehicles—slalomed around two corners—then down an alley.
Rolling to block the alley’s exit, however, were two more Humvees. These had their tops off, roll bars exposed . . . with mounted fifty-caliber machine guns. They fired.
“Holy—!” Robert ducked, spun them around, and peeled out, scraping the alley’s wall.
Behind them, gunfire chewed through the concrete. Eliot instinctively crouched deeper into the sidecar (as if the fiberglass were going to stop a bullet).
Robert plowed through a row of trash cans.
Sparks flew and bullets puckered the metal . . . both cans and the bike’s frame.
Then the Harley was around the corner.
Robert accelerated to ninety miles an hour . . . still nowhere near the magical speed Eliot wished they were going.
Four blocks away, a helicopter skimmed over the rooftops. It rose, spun, and angled toward them.
Robert spotted it, too. He pressed his body low and went faster.
But there was no way they’d outrun a helicopter. They needed another option.
Eliot gripped Lady Dawn. He could summon Napoléon-era cannoneers and cavalry. Or that ghostly fog. At least that’d give them some cover.
But nineteenth-century artillery and soldiers on horseback against automatic weapons, bazookas, or armored tanks? They wouldn’t last two seconds. Fog would get blown away by the helicopter, and besides . . . the spirits inside that fog wouldn’t care if they attacked soldiers or civilians.
The Harley flashed through an intersection.
Eliot looked for more Humvees or tanks. The adjacent street was a blur of concrete gray and iron black—except for a spot of gleaming white and chrome.
He knew those colors. Not what specifically they belonged to, just that he had seen them before.
He tapped Robert and made a circle around motion.
Robert nodded. He braked, turned, and gunned the bike back the way they’d come.
The helicopter thundered overhead, overshooting their position.
Eliot pointed down the side street. Robert leaned the bike into the turn so far that the sidecar wheels lifted.
One building on this street was different. It was three stories, and on top was an enclosed glass atrium, gleaming in the tropical sun. There was an iron statue in front: the same gun and sword-wielding Presidente in the posters. Red flags fluttered alongside the wide stairs that led to steel double doors.
But this is not what Eliot had recognized, not what now made his heart catch.
Parked in front of the building was a 1933 Rolls-Royce limousine, all white curves that seemed to never end, chrome that looked like dripping quicksilver, and the woman-with-wings-swept-back-and-arms-held-forward hood ornament.
It was Laurabelle. Uncle Henry’s car.
“Hang on and duck!” Robert shouted.
He veered past the limo’s bumper—over the curb, shot up the stairs, and crashed though the double doors.
The Harley flopped over and skidded into a wall. The engine coughed and died.
Eliot tumbled out, Lady Dawn in one hand . . . the room spinning.
He was in was a lobby with more flags and oil paintings of Colonel V. C. Balboa, Presidente de por vida, but otherwise