The Quickie - James Patterson [61]
A second jarring shift flipped me over onto my stomach. Immediately after that, there was a loud, crunching bang, and the driver’s side wall of the van bent inward. Jesus! What now?
A steady rumbling noise along with a violent vibration suddenly filled the van. I realized that we had driven over the grooved shoulders that are there to keep drivers from falling asleep. The sound was like a bizarre alarm clock going off inside my skull as my forehead did a drumroll on the van floor.
“Son of a bitch!” Ordonez yelled, gunning the accelerator. The van’s engine roared, and the rumbling vibration stopped as we whipped to the left, back onto the road.
I slid in the opposite direction and hit the passenger side wall like a forgotten pizza box.
“Hey! It’s not a drunk,” Ordonez called back to me. “The driver’s covered in blood. I don’t believe it! How do you like this shit? It’s your husband!”
He gunned the accelerator even more then. The engine whined, and the van began to wobble dangerously from too much speed.
“White boy thinks he’s a badass, huh? Want to play bumper cars?” the dealer sneered into the driver’s side mirror as he floored it.
My stomach dropped when I saw him reach over and click on his shoulder belt. I didn’t even have a lap belt to restrain me.
“That’s right, you dumb son of a bitch. Catch up, four-eyes! That’s it. Now, how do you like . . .”
There was a sudden shriek of metal and rubber as Ordonez slammed on the brakes.
“. . . them apples!” he screamed.
For a moment, the only sound was the whisper of me sliding forward toward the passenger seats.
Then the back of the van blew in with an eardrum-ripping bang.
I did a headstand as the van sprang forward, then a belly flop as it dropped back down with a hard bounce. Through my shock and the gap of the now-bent rear double doors, I saw the smoking front of what had been Paul’s Camry. At the very top of the accordioned hood, through the shattered windshield, I could see Paul. He was covered with blood, but blinking at least, as he pawed at the deployed airbag in his lap.
I turned toward Ordonez when I heard a loud, metal clack. He showed me my own Glock as he opened the door.
“Don’t worry, Lauren,” he said. “Our departure is still right on schedule. Be back in a jiff, honey.”
As he stepped out of the van, one thought pounded through me like a sledgehammer.
He’s going to kill Paul! After all this, Paul is going to die!
Chapter 87
I SCREAMED THEN. One of those wordless, guttural roars that singed my own ears as I scrambled up with my hands still cuffed behind my back.
Headfirst, reckless, without thinking, I propelled myself toward the open driver’s side door. I missed the open door by a mile, but I did manage to bang my head a nice lick off the steering wheel before I landed upside down in the driver’s footwell. Unbelievable.
The idling engine raced as I thrashed against the gas pedal somewhere behind me. I kicked my legs, trying to get some leverage to push myself outside. My foot was stuck between the steering wheel and the gear shift.
I kept kicking, trying to free myself.
Uh-oh.
The gear slid free with my foot, and suddenly the van was rolling. The van was picking up speed!
Based solely on the sudden sound of car horns and the elongated blast from a semi, I guessed that I was rolling into traffic. I’d managed to sit sideways in the footwell by the time Ordonez arrived in the open doorway at a run and jumped in.
“Where do you think you’re going, you crazy bitch?” he yelled. He slapped me across the face before he lifted me up and threw me into the passenger seat, then steered the van back onto the shoulder.
He shut the engine, pulled the emergency brake, and put the keys in his pocket before he stepped outside again.
Then Ordonez raised a finger at me and smiled wickedly.
“Okay, let’s try this again,” he said. “You stay ri —”
I never got to hear him finish his sentence. Or his word, for that matter.
The truck that removed him and the van door was a car carrier. Loaded to full capacity with Chevy Tahoes and creaking like