Page 89 of Slow Burn

“We won’t lose them,” she said. “Did you put on that scarf I gave you, Bryce?”

“Yes ma’am.” He only sounded a little sarcastic. Martin adjusted his own scarf—the bright blue one—tighter around his throat. “We’ve got to do something, and soon.”

“I quite agree. Whatisthat noise?”

It was a steady booming sound. Until she mentioned it, Martin had been afraid it was coming from the engine. Agent Jennings pointed off to the right.

“Some kind of dance club. Over there.”

“At three o’clock?” Mrs. Womack clucked her tongue. “Don’t they shut those things down?”

“Some of them stay open until four,” he said, and shrugged when she stared at him. “So I hear. I’m a little old for that kind of thing, myself.”

“I should hope so,” she sniffed. “Martin, I want you to stay in the car. We have to move quickly.”

“What are you going to do?”

She laid the shotgun across her lap, pulled a compact black revolver from a holster on her hip, and checked the rounds.

“Agent Jennings and I are going to ask the driver for his bill of lading.”

She opened her car door and stepped out in a rush of wind and ice. Agent Jennings sighed and bailed out after her. The doors slammed and left Martin alone with the wheeze of the heater and the distant boom of the rock club.

He hit the windshield wipers, and in the resulting inch of clear glass watched Mrs. Womack walk quickly across the street in her sensible shoes, head down, shotgun concealed under her billowing coat. Agent Jennings moved in from behind.

The truck continued to idle, windshield wipers madly flapping. Martin tightened his grip on the steering wheel as Mrs. Womack marched right up to the cab’s door and knocked on the metal.

The driver’s side window rolled down. Mrs. Womack shouted something that was lost in the wind; the driver cupped his hand around his ear and shook his head.

She flipped the shotgun up from under her coat.

The driver threw himself backward and raised something metal. Mrs. Womack fired, a boom out of sequence with the rock club bass, and he fired back, quick yapping shots.

The windshield fogged over with sleet again.

Martin hit the windshield wipers, but the street was empty, no Mrs. Womack, no nothing. He turned to look over his shoulder. Everything was cloudy with ice or fogged up.

Damn. Damn. Da—

The throaty roar of the truck startled him. They were running for it. Oh, god, he couldn’t see anything. He turned on the wipers and put the heater on high, dimly made out the white shape of the truck moving forward.

The passenger-side door opened and Agent Jennings flung himself inside; his gasps shuddered in the air like smoke. Over his shoulder, Martin saw Mrs. Womack’s face as white as the ice caught in her hair.

Blood poured from a hole in her leg. She folded into a sitting position on the cold street.

“Drive!” Jennings yelled. Martin pointed wordlessly at Mrs. Womack; Jennings slapped his hand down. “Damn you, drive, don’t let him get away! Don’t you understand? Go!”

Jennings jammed the accelerator, pinning Martin’s foot underneath his. The car leaped forward, and the passenger door slammed shut with enough force to crack the window.

“I can’t see!” Martin yelled. Jennings grabbed for the wheel. The car picked up speed, thirty, thirty-five. The tires started a long fast slide.

Something white ahead. The rock club’s bass boomed like a giant heart.

“We’re going to—”

They slammed head on into the truck.

Cold. Martin tried to sit up, but his head screamed in protest. He felt for it with numbed hands and yelped when his fingers brushed his nose—broken. Bright red blood on the dashboard in front of him, dripping on the steering wheel. It was all over his hands.

---