Run - Blake Crouch [21]
Dee had his door open and he jumped in, hands shoved into his pockets, digging for the keys.
“Jack, come on.”
Naomi sat up, blinking against the overhead dome light. “What’s going on?”
Jack fumbled the set of keys, finally got the right one between his thumb and forefinger, and fired the engine as the cycle roared up on them. He went straight at the black and chrome Harley, the rider cranking back on the throttle to avoid a collision, the bike popping up on one wheel as it surged out of the way.
Jack turned out into the highway. Back tires dragging across the pavement as he straightened their bearing.
“Get the shotgun, Dee.”
“Where is it?”
“In the way back.”
She unbuckled her seatbelt and crawled over the console into the backseat.
“Mama?”
“Everything’s okay, Cole. I just need to get something. Go back to sleep.”
Jack forced the gas pedal to the floorboard. Above the din of engine noise and the plastic windows flapping like they might rip off, Jack registered the vibration of the cycle in his gut.
“Hurry up, Dee.”
“I’m trying. It’s wedged under your pack.”
He looked in the rearview mirror—darkness specked with the diminishing lights of town. He punched off the headlights. The speedometer needle holding steady at one hundred ten though they still accelerated. The pavement silvered under the moon and glowing just enough for him to stay between the white shoulder lines.
Dee crawled back into her seat.
“Jesus, Jack. How fast are we going?”
“You don’t want to know.”
A piece of fire bloomed and faded in the side mirror, and the square of glass exploded.
“Get down.”
The gunshot was lost to the flapping windows, but the V-twin wasn’t.
“Give me the gun, Dee.” She hoisted it up from the floorboard, barrel first. “I need you to steer.”
The cycle screamed just a few feet behind their bumper, only visible where its chrome caught glimmers of moonlight.
His foot still on the gas, Jack turned back, vertebrae cracking, and aimed through the back hatch and pumped the twelve gauge. The thunder of its report sent a spike through his left eardrum and filled the Rover with the blinding, split-second brilliance of a muzzle flash. Through the shredded plastic of the back hatch, the cycle had disappeared.
Bullets pierced the left side of the Rover, glass spraying the backseat.
Jack spun back into the driver seat, his right ear ringing, and took the steering wheel and eased off the gas.
The cycle shot forward and then its taillight blipped and it vanished.
Cole screaming in the backseat.
“Naomi, is he hurt?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“I think he’s just scared.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Help him.”
“Where’s the motorcycle, Jack?”
“I don’t see it. Steer again.”
She grabbed the wheel and Jack pumped the shotgun. “I still can’t hear too well,” he said. “You have to tell me when you—”
“I hear it now.”
He strained to listen, couldn’t see for shit through the plastic window, but he did hear the cycle’s engine, the throttle winding up, and then the guttural scream was practically inside the car.
“Hold on and stay down.”
He turned back into the driver seat, clutched the wheel and hit the brake pedal. Something slammed into the back of the Rover, the sickening clatter of metal striking metal, Jack punching on the headlights just in time to see the cycle turning end over end as it somersaulted off the road into darkness, throwing sparks every time the metal met the pavement, the rider deposited on the double yellow thirty yards ahead, the man sitting dazed and staring at his left arm which dangled fingerless and unhinged from his elbow, his unhelmeted head scalped to the bone.
Jack struck the man at fifty-five. The Rover shook violently for several seconds, as if running a succession of speed bumps, and then the pavement flowed smoothly under the tires again.
He killed the lights and pushed the Rover past a hundred,