Page 67 of Gamma
“Warn me next time would you?” I ask through gritted teeth.
She winces. “Sorry.”
My arm is throbbing, pulsating with pain—I bumped it hard when I toppled as she braked. There’s no way I’m going to get a decent shot off out of the passenger window, I realize.
“Keep it steady for a minute,” I say. “Moving to the back.”
I climb over the center console into the back seat and to the inward-facing jump seat behind Rin; the window here slides horizontally, providing just enough of an opening for my arm, if the other car is directly beside us. I don’t much like my chances of hitting anything if I have to shove my whole arm out and aim behind us, however. Especially since I don’t have the use of my left arm to steady myself.
Rin shoots a look over my shoulder. “Are they back there?”
A split second later, a pair of headlights swing around the corner, rapidly catching up to us; another moment after that, a second pair.
“Yes,” I answer. “They are. Both of them.”
“Are we losing them or taking them out?” Rin asks.
“Losing them seems unlikely. We are not equipped to outrun them, and we don’t know the city well enough to outmaneuver them.”
“We can’t allow any collateral damage,” Rin says. “No innocents can get hurt in the process due to our actions. That’s gonna make this tricky.”
“Right. Because I can’t drive the manual one-handed, and my aim is going to be iffy at best considering I can’t steady myself.” We come to an intersection, where the narrow lane crosses a larger street. “Turn here and let them catch up—get one of them next to us, preferably on this side.”
She snorts. “Yeah, no problem. Only just learned how to drive a stick a few hours ago.”
I lean over the back of her seat and kiss her ear. “You’re doing great.”
She slowly eases off the accelerator, and the nearest headlights grow closer. I shrink in the back seat in an effort to minimize or eliminate my silhouette. Safety off. Finger along the trigger guard. Watching, waiting.
The headlights are within reach of our rear bumper, so close I could kick their front bumper if I had the tailgate open. I consider doing exactly that, throwing open the tailgate, but discard the idea. One-handed, it’s impossible. I’d have to put down the gun, open the door, grab the gun, fire, put the gun down, close the gate. Nope.
Original plan is best.
The taillights swing out, into what would be oncoming traffic, if there were any. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it—there’s almost no traffic this time of night, not where we are, at least. Up alongside us, then.
I brace my foot against the back of the SUV, my back against Rin’s seat, sitting parallel to the wall on the jump seat. When the cab of the Hilux is even with the rear window, I sit forward, draw a quick bead on the driver, and crack off a shot. A second. A third. Barely taking time to aim again, just trying to get the rounds to do some kind of damage.
One round hits his headrest behind his head, the second shatters the windscreen—the third spatters his brains over the cab. The truck wobbles, swerves, and then twists sideways—the wheels catch and the vehicle rolls in a shattering of glass and crumpling of metal.
“Nice one,” Rin says. “One down, one to go.”
The sedan jukes around the wreck—I hear its engine dutifully attempting to rev as the driver tries to catch up to us. I see more than one head in this vehicle. Indeed, as Rin slows again in an attempt to draw them up alongside us, I see their window open and an AK-47 extend out.
“Shit,” I mutter.
I’m not fast enough—the AK’s muzzle flashes, and several rounds plunk into our rear quarter panel, hitting low. Nothing for it—I shove my arm out the window and fire. I’m just aiming for the truck in general, the motor, the driver, the shooter, anything. I pop off shots slowly; one hits the motor, and something starts smoking from under the hood, but the car continues apace for the moment at least; second and third rounds spiderweb and shatter the windshield, respectively. Another burst of muzzle flash from the AK, but these rounds hit the ground behind us and another flies wide and high. I fire again before they can, smashing through the hood; fire again where the shooter should be, more or less—I’m rewarded by a reddening of glass.
There’s an explosion of glass as the driver finishes off the windshield with a burst from a small, handheld automatic; his face is a sheet of blood as he drives with one hand and fires at us with the other.
This time, perhaps through sheer luck, his rounds hit—the tailgate of the SUV dents, I hear the spare tire pop, and then the rear glass cracks as a round divots on the seam between metal and glass.
I aim carefully this time, or as careful as I can with one arm out the window. I crack off a shot, and it smashes the driver’s side-view mirror. To the left a touch;crack-crack, and now my rounds finally hit flesh. One reddens his shoulder, forcing him to drop his gun, and the second hits his chest center mass a heartbeat later.
The sedan slows and stops in the middle of the road—my last image of the driver is of him slumping forward over the wheel.
I pull my arm in, rest against Rin’s seat for a moment. Sirens howl.
“Better get scarce,” I murmur.