Hour Game (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 2)

Michelle undid her safety belt.

“What the hell are you doing?” cried King.

“You can’t outrun him on these windy roads, and I can’t get a decent shot off with my belt on. Just keep ahead of him.”

“Wait a minute, call 911 first.”

“I can’t. I didn’t bring my cell phone. My purse was too small for it and my gun.”

King looked at her incredulously. “You didn’t bring your phone but you brought your gun?”

“I think I have my priorities right,” she said sharply. “What can I do with a phone: call him to death?”

She turned around in her seat, leaned over it and placed her elbow on the headrest of the rear seat. “Keep ahead of him,” she repeated.

“Well, damn it, you keep from getting killed,” he shot back.

The truck came powering up again for another collision of metal on metal, but before it could make contact, King shot across to the other side of the road, whipped back and rat-tat-tatted on the gravel shoulder before regaining the hard surface. He downshifted and nailed the hairpin turn at fifty, tires screaming. He suddenly felt the right wheels losing touch with the asphalt, and he lurched his two hundred pounds to that side, grabbing hold of Michelle’s right hip and pushing her sideways against the passenger door.

“I’m not being fresh. I just need the ballast. Stay there for a sec.”

He dropped his speed a couple of mphs and exhaled a sigh of relief as the rubber attached itself once more to terra firma.

They hit another straightaway that King knew would run for a quarter of a mile before a series of serpentine curves would confront them. He smashed down on the gas so hard he was sure his loafers would be hitting the pavement in another quarter inch. As he ripped right through triple digits on the speedometer, the trees flashed by at such dizzying speed he would’ve started puking had he bothered to look.

Behind him the driver of the truck wound it up to well over a hundred on the quarter-mile stretch, keeping well within striking distance. King hit 130 and looked for another gear to grab, but the Lexus didn’t have any more to give. All he could think about was, How many air bags does the damn car have? He hoped it was at least a dozen; it looked like they would need every one because the series of curves was flying at them. If he slowed down, they were dead; if he kept this speed, they’d be equally dead.

Michelle eyed the headlights bearing down on them and then slid her gaze up to the driver’s silhouette. She inched forward, finally resting her right elbow on the top part of the car’s trunk, and took aim with both hands on her pistol.

They hit the curvy area, and King braked hard to sixty when the signs said twenty, but the traffic engineers had undoubtedly not taken into account murderous SUVs in their calculations of highway safety. This allowed the truck to make up significant ground. “He’s coming up,” warned King. “I can’t go any faster without us flipping.”

“Just hold it steady. If he doesn’t back off, I’m going to take out his front tire.”

Their pursuer came within fifty feet and then twenty. He had to see that she had him dead in her sights, Michelle thought, and yet he wasn’t giving an inch of ground. Then the SUV took an incredible leap forward as the driver gunned it.

King had seen this and mimicked the man’s efforts. The Lexus shot forward, the truck right on their ass. King arched his body and stamped both feet on the gas as though that would give them the turbocharge they so desperately needed.

What he hadn’t counted on was a family of deer choosing that moment to amble across the road.

“Look out!” screamed King. He whipped the wheel to the left and then to the right. They went off the road and pinballed alongside a stretch of guardrail as the Bambis scattered. King felt the guardrail imprint its signature on his once beautiful convertible rivet by screeching rivet. He regained the road and looked back. The driver of the truck had smashed on his brakes to avoid the deer, but the SUV had never left the road, and it was barreling down on them once more.

King didn’t have time to get back up to cruising speed, and anyway, the engine’s peculiar whine made him wonder if the guardrail had done more than simply cosmetic damage. What was certain was that the speedometer had dropped to under ninety and was staying there.

“Brace yourself,” cried out Michelle. “Here comes the son of a bitch.” She fired her gun twice right as the truck ate into the rear of the Lexus, ripping a hole in the car and taking what little was left of the molded bumper and flinging it into the woods. Michelle was thrust forward from the collision toward the rear of the car. As King saw her legs flying past him, he reached out with his free hand and clamped down on her ankle, looping his arm around her limb and holding on for dear life. They hit another straightaway, and he somehow coaxed more speed from the car, leaving the truck behind again.

“Shit!” yelled Michelle.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, I got off a couple shots, but I lost my gun. Damn it, I’ve had that SIG for five years.”

“Will you forget the gun; this guy’s trying to kill us.”

“Well, if I had my gun, I could kill him before he kills us. I don’t know if I hit anything. He slammed into us right as I fired.” She yelled out, “Wait

a minute!”

“What?”