Devil Said Bang (Sandman Slim 4)

“And spill our drinks? Against the bar maybe, but not on it.”

“Keep talking and I won’t go back to your suite with you.”

“You started it.”

“Did I? I don’t remember. Home, Jeeves.”

I pull a U-turn across four lanes of traffic and head for the freeway. When we pass the garage Ivan and his pal are still wrestling.

We’ve been on the freeway maybe five minutes when I spot the pickup truck. It’s not hard. It’s been on our tail since we got on the road. It’s white like a rental but the windows are tinted opaque black. There aren’t many rental companies that do that, and by “not many,” I mean none.

“We’re being followed.”

Candy turns and looks out the back window.

“Which one?”

“The white pickup.”

“Are you sure?”

“Let’s find out.”

I stomp the accelerator and the Porsche tears a hole in the traffic ahead. I squeeze between two SUVs as they’re changing lanes and cut off a cable-company truck trying to pass a wrecker on the shoulder. Candy turns and looks out the back.

“The pickup is still there.”

“Put on your seat belt.”

“You always sound so serious when you think we’re going to die.”

“I have an allergy to being dead.”

“I didn’t say I minded. I like it when you talk butch.”

“Good. Shut up and keep an eye on the truck for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Of course the truck can keep up with a Porsche. It’ll be some of King Cairo’s crew in a pickup souped up with Aelita’s Golden Vigil tech. Outrunning the asshole isn’t an option. The only thing I can do is stay clear of it until one of us grows wings or runs out of gas.

I let the wrecker pass and when the traffic thins for a second I jerk the steering wheel, blasting the Porsche across all six lanes to the far side of the road. A second later the truck follows. I cut back a couple of lanes.

“They’re still on us,” says Candy.

There’s no way they think I’m Saint James. The first attack might have been a mistake but this is a straight-up hit.

I try to charge back over the way we came but we’re trapped between a lunch truck and a chop shop Camaro, the body covered in primer and all the doors different colors.

The pickup accelerates and rams us. I can’t hold the wheel. I sideswipe the lunch truck. We bounce off and tag the Camaro before I get control again. I floor the Porsche and we shoot ahead to an open spot in the traffic.

“Still there,” says Candy.

I aim the Porsche all over the road, changing lanes like I’m drunk, seasick, and snow-blind. The goddamn pickup stays on our tail.

I cut back to the slow lane and slide in between two sixteen-wheelers, drafting off the first. Bad idea. The pickup pulls alongside us and the front and rear windows roll down. I know what’s coming and don’t want to see it.

I jerk the wheel right, completely blind. Aiming for the shoulder of the road. Lucky for us there’s no one there. It’s shit news for the truckers though. The shooters in the pickup truck start firing their modified rifles. They miss us and hit the side of the rear truck. Rear and front tires blow. Shots hit the cab. I can’t tell if the driver is hit or not. The truck starts drifting into the pickup’s lane while its trailer slides in the opposite direction, pulling the rear of the truck around on the bad tires. It jackknifes, cutting off five of the six lanes. I hit the accelerator, trying to get ahead of the chaos. I do, but so does the pickup. It rams us again. And again. The little Porsche isn’t made for this kind of abuse. There’s a metallic grinding from the back like the rear axle is about to go.