Blindside (Michael Bennett 12)

Natalie said, “You make this drive often?”

He hesitated. It looked like he was screwing up his courage. It must’ve worked, as he turned and looked directly at Natalie. “Once every two weeks. How do you say in English? Semi-weekly?”

I had to think about that one for a moment. I was pretty sure he was looking for biweekly.

I wanted to get moving. I needed to know Natalie was safe and then I needed to check on Bill Fiore. The longer we waited, the more anxious I felt.

As I sat there, thinking about it for a moment, I saw a flash in the corner of my eye. Another car was barreling directly toward us. It had hopped a curb and was cutting across the stretch of park across the street from the church like a missile.

The crash was tremendous. It was as if sound faded away, then my whole world spun in every crazy direction. Our car flew across the sidewalk, spinning 180 degrees before plowing into the bushes in front of the church. The driver’s soda, which I learned that moment was called Lumivalgeke, floated into the air and seemed to freeze in space as gravity worked its magic on everything else.

/> It felt as if the laws of time had been suspended. Everything happened in slow motion. Until it didn’t.

The engine creaked and shifted under the crumpled hood as the car came to a stop. The windshield crackled, then tumbled into the car, a spider-webbed mass of glass.

Our driver was moving. Slowly. He called out, “Are you injured?”

I was relieved. If he was asking, it meant he wasn’t too badly hurt.

I turned to Natalie. She wasn’t moving and her eyes were shut. I thought the worst. I gently touched her arm. When her eyes popped open, I almost fainted with relief.

I leaned in close and spoke clearly. “Are you okay?”

She just sat there for a moment. Then she turned her head to face me. Her voice was weak. “I’m okay, I think.”

Then I looked past Natalie out the window. I could see that Father Marty had leapt out of the way.

The other car was also a Volkswagen. A slightly smaller one. The front end was smashed. The car would never run again. It rested partially on the street and partially on the sidewalk.

Then I saw the other driver. The Dutch killer Christoph glared out of the driver’s side window directly at me. This collision was no accident. And it left no doubt what Henry wanted done with me and Natalie.

I tried my door. Jammed shut. I fumbled with my seat belt, finally managing to open the buckle. I hit the door with my shoulder. Still nothing.

No one emerged from the other car, either.

CHAPTER 83

I’D BEEN IN car accidents before. Shock was one of my immediate concerns. Shock did crazy things to people. They couldn’t think clearly, and their perception was faulty. That was the last thing I needed right now.

I had to do something. My door was jammed, but if we waited much longer, that would be the least of our problems. The interior of our car started to fill with a foul smell. I’m not a mechanic, but it had to mean that the engine was leaking oil or some other kind of fluid. Either way, I knew we couldn’t stay in the car.

Latki moaned, then coughed, but kept moving. He pulled the handle on his door and almost fell out into the bushes. One of the hinges on his door snapped and the door fell onto the torn-up grass almost on top of him.

I reached across and unhooked Natalie’s seat belt. She opened her door easily, got out, then turned and reached back to make sure I got out of the car as well. She may have been scared, but she wasn’t clueless. I appreciated that.

I stepped out on shaky legs. Natalie grabbed me under the arm and helped me stand. I turned to her and said, “Go with Father Marty, right now.”

It was as if saying his name made him appear. He kneeled down and quickly checked Latki, who waved him off.

Father Marty said, “You both need to run. I’ll see if I can delay those men.” From what I’d told him earlier, he’d figured out who was in the other car.

I said, “We’ll run, but you can’t confront these men. They’re not like us. They won’t listen to reason. They don’t care about your standing in the church or if this is holy ground. You and Latki need to get out of here, too.”

Father Marty nodded, then shoved me toward the church to get me moving. My ankle and knee felt like someone had hit them with a hammer. But I followed Natalie as she urged me along, just as Father Marty and Latki trotted roughly off in the opposite direction, away from the church and hopefully to safety.

Each step was agony. I knew I wasn’t in shock because I rationally considered what a torn meniscus or damaged ankle might mean in the long run. I didn’t want Chrissy pushing me in a wheelchair before she graduated from Harvard.

Then I had an idea and was able to pick up the pace a little bit. I didn’t have a gun and I didn’t have backup, so I had to use our only advantage. I’d been here before and knew the terrain. These two Dutchmen had gotten in a surprise blow, but I knew not to underestimate them.