Page 49 of Lash

And then I notice both Solomon and Lorenzo's shoulders tense up, and Solomon twists to look behind us.

The rest of us do, too—a sleek black BMW is behind us and closing in fast, with two more trailing behind it.

"Too easy," Solomon grumbles. "Fuckin' knew it. Buckle up, boys and girls. Shit's about to get interesting.”

italy, germany, brazil…again

Lash

"Let them get close," I say.

Lorenzo nods, steering wheel gripped in both hands, jaw tight at the pain of using his wounded arm. He backs off the accelerator, allowing us to slow without the use of brakes. The BMW closes on us even faster; the front windscreen is illegally tinted. Half-turned in my seat, I watch the car approach.

"How do we know they're after us?" Tatiana asks.

The timing of her answer is comically perfect: the moment the question leaves her lips, a hand emerges from the passenger window, wielding a pistol.

“That's how," Scarlett answers, glancing at me. "Ready?"

I eject the magazine of my gun, tap it back in, and nod. “Ready. Windows down." We both roll the windows all the way down. "On three. One…two…three!"

In unison, as if we’ve practiced it, Scarlett and I both twist to lean up and out the windows, facing backward with our torsos half-out of the vehicle. Our pistols crack in synch, and holes sprout in the hood and windshield. The BMW shimmies, the engine billows smoke, and then flat spins ninety degrees and rolls, bouncing. One of the other cars dodges it, but the third carback doesn’t, and I glimpse flying wreckage before we speed out of view of the crash. The third car is now fifty-some yards behind us and closing—the powerful roar of its engine is audible with the windows down.

"Two for one," Solomon says, "Good work."

No one celebrates, however; there's still one left. A figure emerges from the passenger window, wielding an assault rifle.

"Fuck," Scarlett snarls. "Down!”

The three of us in back throw ourselves down, and I hear therattle-crackof an assault rifle; metallic thuds echo as a few bullets smack into the body of the car, although most go wide.

I snarl a curse in Romani and then switch to English. "Fucking idiot. Did no one teach you anything?"

I lean out the window, steadying my pistol in both hands, aim, and then cracks off a single shot. Blood sprays, and the shooter slumps to hang half out the window. The body twitches, and then topples out of the window, splatting across the concrete as it tumbles and rolls, rag-doll limp.

Another figure emerges, and, with an annoyed sigh, I repeat the feat, putting a slug through the would-be shooter's skull.

Scarlett eyes me as I sink back into the seat. "Alright then, Annie Oakley."

I frown at her. "I do not know this reference."

Scarlett waves a hand dismissively. "Famous sharpshooter from the American Old West."

I shrug. "Oh. Bah. You could do this. So could either of them," he says, gesturing at the men in front.

"Yeah, sure," Scarlett answers, "But we'd need more than one shot."

I grin. "It helps that I used to practice it."

"How do you do that?" she asks.

Another shrug. "A dummy secured partly out the window of a car. My unit and I practiced it at a remote proving ground."

Scarlett snickers. "That sounds super safe."

I laugh. “It wasn't exactly an approved practice. That was how we filled our free time. Bored soldiers, especially elite ones, will do idiotic things to entertain themselves."

Lorenzo and Solomon both laugh.