Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [123]
Just ahead was a vast and panoramic vista overlooking all Prague—its river, its bridges, its many districts sparkling with lights. At the edge of the precipice, there had been a retaining wall, but it was demolished. Younger began to fear that he really might have lost his prey.
The response to this inward conjecture was the roar of an engine behind them and a crash. Gruber’s car had rammed them from the rear, forcing them several feet closer to the cliff. Gruber backed up and rammed them again. Younger had no escape route, caught between the two hillocks on either side of them and the precipice ahead. Gruber’s car now locked against the rear of the motorcycle and sidecar; its engine screamed, pushing them forward. Younger’s brakes had no effect. He put the bike in reverse and gunned the motor. This slowed their forward motion, but didn’t halt it. They came to the very edge of the precipice—and lurched to a stop. The remains of the demolished retaining wall, maybe five or six inches in height, had saved them.
Gruber backed up one last time. Younger tried to yank Luc out of the sidecar by the collar of his leather jacket, but the boy was crammed into it too well. Younger couldn’t get him out. He heard the roar of Gruber’s car; he heard its gears engage. Younger jumped onto the top of the sidecar. He seized the boy by the armpits, pulling and twisting at him just as the final impact came, which punched the motorcycle over the curb. Younger was thrown into the air, with the boy in his arms, as the motorcycle plunged over the cliffside and banged down the mountainous slope, flipping over, hitting ground and flipping again, finally crashing into a stone wall at the bottom of the hill, where it exploded into flame.
Younger looked down at the explosion from a spot a few yards down from the top of the cliff. He and Luc had rolled down the treacherous slope together until Younger arrested their descent by the clever stratagem of slamming into a tree trunk. The explosion sent pieces of the motorcycle high in the air, several of which rained down on either side of Younger and Luc. The boy wasn’t breathing properly: his eyes were wide, but he wasn’t taking in breath at all. Younger had a heart-stopping instant. Then Luc began to gasp brokenly.
“You’re all right,” said Younger. “Just the wind knocked out of you. Stay here.”
Younger ran up the slope. When he climbed back into the plaza, he saw Gruber’s car at the other end—about to leave the square by the same cobbled lane they had come up. Younger put fingers to mouth and whistled piercingly in the night.
Gruber’s car stopped. Younger whistled again. The car backed up and wheeled around, its headlamps illuminating Younger, perhaps a hundred feet separating them. For an instant there was no movement except the wind ruffling the tails of Younger’s long overcoat. The great towers of the castle were shrouded in darkness; moonlight cast a faint glow on the flag-stones. Younger opened his arms wide, beckoning Gruber to come at him.
The car’s engine clamored. Younger began walking forward. The car jerked into motion; Younger broke into a trot. Gruber accelerated; Younger ran. In the center of the plaza, when the collision was imminent, Younger leapt high in the air. The car’s hood passed under him. He hit the windshield with his shoulder, shielding his face behind an arm.
The glass gave way, knife-like shards flying into Gruber’s face, and the car spun out of control. The front passenger seat broke from its anchorage when Younger smashed into it, plowing into one of the men in the backseat, who cried out in pain, his legs pinned or perhaps broken.
Next to that pinned and unarmed man, in the middle of the backseat, was Colette. “Stratham?” she said.
“Don’t move,” he replied.
Gruber’s second stocky friend, on the other side of Colette, had her pistol in his hand and tried to point it at Younger as the car skidded to a halt. Younger seized that hand, placed his own thumb over the gunman’s trigger finger, and