The Nightworld - Jack Blaine [55]
I watch her go, admiring the view. Then I get my own washcloth wet. I can smell myself. A little washup couldn’t hurt.
Three things happen, almost all at once. Lara screams, and Tank starts to growl. Before I can even look at him, something hits me from behind and I’m out cold.
I wake to Tank licking my face and whining. For a minute I don’t remember where I am, but then I see the trees and the building and I’m on my feet. Tank stops whining and waits, like he’s waiting for me to tell him the plan. I look around. The bike is still here, along with all of our stuff. Whoever came only wanted one thing.
I run in the direction Lara headed to wash, and I find what I’m afraid of: her jacket is on the ground. The washcloth is next to it. She’s not here.
From far up the freeway I hear the screech of tires. I can’t see the vehicle because it’s already over the hill. I run back to the bike and start it. I’m on the road before I even think about Tank. My heart sinks, but I can’t go back. Tank is on his own.
I push the bike as hard as I can. I can’t hear the other vehicle anymore, but as soon as I clear the hill I see it: a beat-up convertible with just the metal frame of a soft top. Some remnants of the cloth top flutter from the frame, and I wonder who trashed it. Inside the car are three people. One of them is Lara. I can see her hair whipping in the wind, and it looks like she’s struggling, even from this distance.
The driver sees me and hits the gas. I do the same, and the bike gives me a little more, but not much. Still, I think I can catch them. Lara looks back and sees me. She struggles even harder, and the guy holding her twists one of her arms behind her back and slaps her across the face. She hits him back, and I watch in horror as he draws his fist back and slams it into her face, hard as he can. Lara slumps over, unconscious.
I scream into the air flying by, my heart pumping. I know what will happen to her if I can’t stop them. I drive with one hand, and with the other I get my gun out of my jacket. Then I get as close as I can get—they have about fifteen feet on me that I can’t seem to catch up on. I try to keep the bike steady, and I aim for the back tire. The guy behind the wheel must see me in the rearview mirror because I hear him yell. The other guy looks back and sees my gun. He grins, then casually pulls out a gun of his own and points it at my head.
He pulls his trigger a split second after I pull mine.
My bullet hits the tire, and the convertible skids to the side. I wait for the impact of his shot, but his aim is thrown by the movement of the car. I can see the driver fighting the steering wheel, and losing. The car is veering off the road, and it jolts along the side of the freeway lane until it hits the grass. I hold my breath.
Thankfully, it doesn’t roll. Before it comes to a full stop, the driver is out of his seat and running toward me. I stop the bike and jump off, just in time for him to leap on top of me. We roll together, but instantly push apart and spring to our feet. He comes in punching, but he’s wild; nothing hits home. I dodge around for a bit, trying to both avoid him and look for my gun, which I’ve lost in the tumble. There’s no time to try to get a fix on the guy who has Lara.
I can’t see my gun anywhere, and now my opponent seems to be showing better form. He darts in with a left hook that glances off my temple when I turn. He hops back and regroups. I focus on being ready for him when he comes back at me.
Then I hear a scream. I look in the direction of the car—it’s not Lara. She’s still limp as a rag, being dragged out of the car by the second guy. He’s the one screaming—a scary, crazy howl. I see him drop Lara on the ground and he falls on her, ripping at her clothes. Something deep inside me starts to burn, white-hot.
My distraction has been a welcome opening for the guy in front of me. He comes for me. But he hasn’t banked on my anger. I don’t know where my focus comes from or how I know just where to hit him; I’ve never been in a fight in my life. But I roundhouse-punch