Nickel City Crossfire Gary Ross (e book reader pc .txt) 📖

Bluetooth technology was standard in cars, I knew I had no choice but to drive.

Phoenix shouted to Keisha, who answered yes, she was okay. I jammed my foot to the floor. But my four cylinders were as much a match for the Caddy’s eight as my Glock was for whatever gun they had. The Caddy kept up with me effortlessly. A quick look told me the big man in the passenger seat was white, with close-cropped hair and a dark beard that posed no threat to ZZ Top but seemed more than menacing enough in its own right. I glanced again but couldn’t see past him to the driver, mainly because he was steadying himself for another shot. He took aim with a large revolver.

I swerved left slightly, hoping to nudge the Caddy into the concrete Jersey barrier that divided the highway. Yes, I had seen too many movies but I couldn’t think of anything else to try at that moment. When the cars touched, however, the squeal and scrape of my middleweight SUV shuddering against an old tank vibrated through every tire and bolt, into the steering wheel, and right up my arms to my shoulders. I pulled away, fearing I’d lose control, almost doing so. I dropped off the gas a bit and slowed just enough to regain control as the Caddy pulled ahead.

“Son of a bitch!” I said.

Having prevented one shot, I had set up another. Now the passenger turned and stuck his gun out the window. The angle was awkward, an over-the-shoulder left-handed effort that might have been hampered by his seatbelt or his size. His attempt to adjust himself gave me the time I needed to shift lanes and get behind them.

I shot a sidelong glance at Phoenix, who hunkered as low as she could with her seatbelt still fastened.

“I’m okay!” The combination of speed and shattered back windows gave us a noise level that required her to shout. “Drive!”

The Best Street exit was up ahead, the same exit Odell and Keisha had taken the night they were intercepted. We were in the far left lane. There was not enough time to get over to the right lane to take it. Maybe at Jefferson, the next exit, but that meant passing a car whose shooter had time to reorient himself and his hand cannon for a shot through my windshield or into the engine block. If there had been no Jersey barrier on my left, I might have risked riding the shoulder because surely the gunman would not try shooting past the driver.

The Caddy began to slow. I got close enough to see the big man trying to get over the front seat into the back. Without his seatbelt, he could lean out a rear window and take careful aim with his left hand. With a heavier car and no passengers, I might have tried a PIT maneuver right about then, even without a PIT bumper. But it had been too many years since my law enforcement pursuit intervention training, and the car I would attempt to spin around from behind might have a thousand pounds on mine.

Promising myself my next vehicle would have a PIT bumper, I hoped the shooter wasn’t left-handed.

We passed Best Street.

“Phoenix, can you reach my gun! My belt, on the right!”

She sat up a bit. I felt her fingers groping for my Glock. I shifted a bit, hiking my right side an inch or so, and felt the gun pulled free.

“I haven’t fired one in a long time!”

“Give it to Keisha!”

“Keisha! Here! Take it!”

I couldn’t quite hear Keisha’s response, so I raised my voice. “Both hands! Short barrel so brace it on the window frame! Shoot when we’re close!”

I checked my passenger side mirror, relieved to see other cars had slowed and fallen far back. I made the only move I thought I could. I shifted into the center lane again and put the pedal to the floor. Trying to pull alongside the Caddy, I made no attempt to hit it. I hoped to keep my car close enough to it that the shooter inside would be reluctant to stick his arm out.

Keisha didn’t need me to tell her when to pull the trigger. As soon as we drew even with the Caddy and I caught sight of the driver because the shooter was in the back seat, she let loose, squeezing off four shots before we passed. The explosions were loud inside the car, but I managed to stay focused on my driving as I counted. Six left in the magazine.

The Cadillac dropped back just as we passed the Jefferson exit and entered the stretch of highway that gradually rose to street level. Ten or twelve car lengths behind us, the Caddy kept coming. We had bought ourselves breathing room, nothing more. Locust then, maybe Goodell—I hoped to get to one of those exits before they caught up to us, swing onto a street, and scramble out of the car for a last stand. I also hoped Keisha hadn’t dropped my Glock out the window. But that fear vanished when my peripheral vision caught sight of a shaking hand coming over the back of the seat and returning the gun to Phoenix. The relief I felt at the sight of the gun let me process the other information I had taken in.

Tito Glenroy, the church custodian, was driving the Cadillac—which, I remembered, he had inherited from his father, an elderly man who probably couldn’t bring himself to part with it.

We reached the Locust Street exit.

I took the off-ramp at full speed because Tito had gained on me and I needed time to angle the car into a defensive position when I stopped. But while the expressway had been plowed already, the access street parallel to this section of it had not. Hitting a patch of snow-covered ice, I lost control as I tried to make the near-hairpin turn onto Locust. Despite all-wheel drive, the Escape spun out. I turned