Bad Guys

“We’ll just keep going straight up Wilson,” he said quietly. And so we did, driving at the speed limit, a couple of guys out for a cruise around the town. The A

“Okay, moment-of-truth time,” Lawrence said, put on his blinker, and turned right down a side street, nice and proper, like he was delivering, instead of me, his grandmother back to the nursing home.

The SUV stayed with us, rounding the corner without slowing down. I didn’t want to admit this to Lawrence, but I was starting to feel just a tad apprehensive. And by apprehensive, I mean scared.

There was a deep throaty roar behind us, and the lights from the A

“The guy’s out of his fucking mind,” Lawrence said. He hit the gas and we pulled away from the truck. We heard another roar as our pursuer gu

“I think he wants to drive right over us,” I said.

“If he gets a chance, he will,” Lawrence said. “Hang on.”

He yanked the wheel hard to the right, sending us down a side street. The car lurched wildly and all four tires skidded across the pavement, but we made the turn and barreled our way up the street. The SUV, with its high center of gravity, couldn’t navigate the turn at such a high speed, but this didn’t seem to trouble the driver all that much, who steered the beast over someone’s lawn, plowing through a row of hedges and a small fence, and flattening a bicycle that had been left out on a driveway.

“If you had a chance to pull over anywhere,” I said, “you could just let me out.”

And then I heard a popping noise. Pop-pop-pop.

Lawrence said nothing, just kept both hands gripped on the wheel, swinging hard to the right, then to the left, glancing for split seconds at his rearview mirror.

Pop. Pop.

“Lawrence,” I said, somewhat hesitantly, as the A

“Yeah?”

“I hate to ask, but what are those popping noises I keep hearing?”

Rather than answer my question directly, Lawrence told me to open the glove compartment. “There’s something in there we need. You’ll know it when you see it.”

I took out a customized auto-club map detailing the route to Florida. “Triptik?”

“Keep looking.”

Behind several maps, tissue packets, a roll of masking tape, and ownership papers, I came across a small handgun.

“Actually,” said Lawrence, “given that I’m driving, it might be better if you used it.”

This was not a good idea. The last time I’d had a gun in my hand, I’d fatally shot a desk. “This really isn’t my area of expertise, Lawrence,” I said. “I’m not particularly adept where guns are concerned. Plus, there’s the nature of my role here. I’m really more of an observer, not a participant, so-”

And then the back window of the Buick blew out.

“Jesus!” Lawrence said, turning so hard this time the g-forces jammed me against my door. “Hand me the fucking gun!”

I handed it over. He was still steering with both hands, but there was little more than the thumb of his right hand around the wheel, his fingers gripped around the gun.

“You ever hear about how to get away from a crocodile?” he asked. He was shouting now. With the back window gone, it was a lot noisier in the car, especially with the A

“No,” I said.

“Well, they’re bigger and stronger and faster than people, but they can’t corner worth shit. So if you’ve got one coming after you, you keep ru

Up ahead, a sign for the Midtown Center. The largest mall in this part of the city. As the mall’s west-end anchor store, a Sears, came into view, so did the massive, entirely empty, parking lot.

Our Buick screeched around the entrance into the lot. Again, the black A

“What do you mean, own medicine?”

“He took a few shots at us, now we’ll return the favor.”

“How are you going to shoot and drive at the same time?”

“If you can’t handle a gun, surely you can handle a fucking steering wheel.”

“You gotta be kidding.”

“Does steering compromise your journalistic integrity, too?”

So I leaned over in the seat, ready to grip the wheel whenever Lawrence wanted me to.

The A

But the driver seemed to know what he was doing. He wasn’t pushing the truck to extremes. I glanced back and saw a leather-jacketed arm hanging out the window. The hand was clutching a weapon that looked a lot bigger than the gun I’d handed to Lawrence.

The Buick lurched and its tires squealed. A hubcap went flying off, spi

“Okay,” he said. “Hold the wheel.”

I gripped it like I was holding on for dear life, allowing Lawrence to switch the gun to his left hand, get his arm and shoulder out the window, and start firing.

He got off two shots, but the A

“Again!” he said, and I grabbed the wheel as he leaned out the window, firing the gun twice more. “Shit!” he shouted, wind blowing into his face.

“Did you hit him?” I asked as he took control of the steering wheel again.

“I don’t think so. And even if I did, the thing’s a fucking elephant.”

Ahead, the A

“What’s he doing?” I said. “He’s got nowhere to go.”

The A

“He’s going for the highway,” Lawrence said. “He’s creating his own shortcut, the son of a bitch.”

The A

Lawrence brought the car to a stop, and neither of us spoke for a moment as we listened to the motor idle and tick, as though trying to catch its breath.

“Fuck me,” said Lawrence.

“I take it that’s not an actual invitation,” I said.