A.k.a. Goddess. Evelyn Vaughn
bridge, the Saxo’s tires left the road.
It landed about as smoothly as the jet I’d ridden into Paris earlier today. I managed to hang on to the steering wheel and felt disproportionately proud of myself, which seemed preferable to feeling terrified.
We were leaving the industrial area behind for more open landscape and less chance of police intervention.
Who were these guys?
“Do you know where we’re going?” asked Rhys, his voice not quite as tight. He was trying to stay cool, anyway.
“Away from the damned highway,” I confessed. “And I want to be back on it. You’re wearing your seat belt, right?”
He didn’t sound encouraged when he asked, “Why do you ask?”
The Peugeot had reached our bumper. Now it was starting to pass us—rather, to pace us. I glanced to my right, to see that Rhys did have his harness on, before looking out to my left.
A tinted passenger window slid slowly downward, and a pistol appeared over its top, waving at us to pull over.
I hit the brakes.
The Peugeot whipped past us like the bullet I’d probably just escaped. Or postponed. The Saxo squealed to a reluctant stop with a horrible scream and stench of burnt rubber. My own seat belt yanked me back against my seat, hard enough across my shoulder to leave a bruise.
Rhys coughed out something that sounded like “Oofa coals.” Whatever. Since the Peugeot, ahead of us, was making a 180 turn, I wasn’t ready to ask for a translation.
I shifted the Saxo into Reverse and eased on to the gas. The tires had held. We started to pick up a little speed…but not as much speed as we’d need to outrun that Peugeot.
“I’d prefer we not take the bridge this way,” said Rhys, his Welsh lilt more distinct the more tense he got.
“We won’t,” I said. “Hang on.”
At least the road was relatively deserted—a benefit of late night travel. I’d only practiced this a few times, but the gun had upped the ante, so I ticked off the check list in my head.
Fix on a spot just ahead, like in yoga balance exercises.
Push the pedal to the metal. But not for long. This maneuver was only safe—relatively speaking—at under forty miles per hour. Whatever that was in kilometers.
I then did three things at once. I hit the clutch, threw the car into Drive and yanked the steering wheel to the left.
A brief grinding of gears joined the scream of tires as our back end pivoted left and our nose pivoted right, the weight of the engine carrying us around in a perfect bootleg. Yes!
Before we even came to a stop, I stood on the gas to shoot us forward—the Peugeot still gaining on us. It wasn’t a great improvement from a few minutes ago, but at least we were heading the right direction, nose first. We flew back across the bridge, startling some ducks out from under it. We shot back into the industrial area, but the Peugeot was quickly closing our lead. Instead of images of the gendarmerie finding our bodies buried in a field of picturesque sunflowers, I was now picturing them never finding us. Like Hoffa. But in France.
We weren’t going to outrun these guys.
“So what’s ‘Oofa coals’ mean?” I asked, surprised at how clenched my own words were. The Peugeot’s headlights, in the rearview, drew closer. I couldn’t see driver or passenger, but if I were the latter, I would be preparing to shoot out—
Yup, there was the pistol, aiming at our tires. I swerved, and the only explosion I heard was that sinister pop of gunfire. It doesn’t sound as loud in real life as in the movies.
It’s a lot scarier, though.
Rhys said, “Uffach cols. It means embers of hell.”
The Peugeot pulled around and was flanking us now.
“Hang on!” Again, I stood on the brake pedal, pulling the handbrake simultaneously. We skidded forward some yards, further abusing the tires. The Peugeot shot past us again, but braked faster this time—and turned, sideways, blocking our way to civilization.
Brick warehouses crowded the road on either side, without even a sidewalk to try to squeeze around the green car.
“That’s some fairly mild swearing,” I said, breathless.
“It is not, for me,” he muttered.
The passenger door of the Peugeot opened, and a man with a pistol got out. He was wearing a ski mask.
Rhys said, “Isn’t it time to back up again?”
I considered that, considered how much more abuse this poor Citroën Saxo could take. If we ran, the Peugeot would just follow us again. Cat and mouse…and they got to be the cat.
The gunman approached us, especially ominous in the white illumination of our headlights, wreathed with foreign nighttime.
I said, “So how much does Aunt Bridge like this car?”
“She rarely drives it. She prefers the Metro.”
The brake engaged and the gearshift in Neutral, I gunned the engine. Both Rhys and the gunman jumped. “Good.”
The gunman wagged a gloved finger at me, a clear tsk-tsk. He came closer. At least he wasn’t shooting us—yet. He probably wanted to question us first. Then shoot us.
Fat chance, monsieur.
“You cannot run him over,” said Rhys, his voice firmer than at any point since this car chase started. Interesting.
I gunned the motor again, this time with less effect. “Well…I could.”
Damned if Rhys didn’t unfasten his seat belt and reach for the door handle! I lunged across his lap, grabbing his wrist before he could do it. “Wait!”
His eyes seemed bluer in the shadows and the reflected headlights. They were determined, too. Any macho points he’d lost by not noticing the tail, Rhys Pritchard gained back in spades at that moment.
I straightened away from him, released his wrist. “Put your damned seat belt back on,” I said. “I don’t plan on murdering anybody, whether they deserve it or not.”
He hesitated. The gunman was slowing, waving at us to get out of the car.
“Please,” I said, not taking my eyes off the gun. “Have a little faith, here?”
“Have faith?” But thankfully, the familiar click of a seat belt locking into place gave me the permission I needed. I gunned the motor a third time, dropped the car into Drive and burned rubber like a teenage boy showing off at a red light.
Then I released the brake.
The Citroën shot ahead. The gunman leaped out of our path.
I wasn’t aiming at him, anyway. Instead, I accelerated. Thirty kilometers per hour. Forty. Fifty—that was about thirty miles an hour. Sixty…
I rammed our Citroën straight into the passenger side of the Peugeot, behind the rear wheel. There was a crash, a jolt—but, just as I’d been taught, the car skidded out of our way.
The rear of a car is the lightweight end.
I flattened the gas, and the Saxo surged forward—with a nasty dragging sound that, after a few hundred feet, stopped when we bounced over our own bumper. Oops.
Behind us, the Peugeot tried to follow, not waiting for its gunman. But the car managed only a few lunges forward, unable to even navigate the turn to escape the warehouses framing them. As I’d hoped, I’d disabled the damned thing.
Yes!
Rhys sat quietly in the passenger side of the car as I retraced my turns back onto the motorway. I realized, in the near silence, that neither of us had bothered to