Callsign: King II- Underworld

The driver abruptly stomped on the brake pedal and Dodge was hurled forward. His shoulder struck the back of the cabby's head, but the man was as rigid and unyielding as a tree trunk. Dodge's momentum pitched him over the seat and headlong into the windshield.

His next memory was one of pain; half his body slammed into the dashboard, delivering what felt like a head-to-toe bruise, while the rest smashed through the thin windshield, stabbing splinters of glass through his suit pants and jacket. He clutched ineffectively for a handhold as he bounced up and onto the hood of the cab. Before he could shoot forward onto the rain swept bridge deck however, a powerful hand closed around his biceps.

The cab lurched forward again and Dodge was hauled unceremoniously back inside to lie in a heap in the floor well beside the driver. After a few seconds of pure agony, Dodge managed to raise his head and gaze up at the other man. The driver's expression was as impassive as a dead man's, but there was something familiar about the face that stared unblinkingly forward as the vehicle accelerated into the driving rain.

"Hey! You're—"

Dodge didn't get a chance to put his revelation into words. The cab driver, almost without looking, drove a fist into Dodge's upturned face. Dodge twisted his head at the last instant, taking only a glancing strike on the cheek that nonetheless rang through his head like a bell. This time however, he was ready.

He didn't attempt to fight the driver; recognizing the man had been indication enough that such a course of action would be a waste of effort. His only priority was getting out of the car, and to do that, he had to slow it down. Even as he recoiled from the man's punch, Dodge jammed his right hand against the gearshift stick. There was a shriek of metal grinding at high speed, and then the engine revved loudly.

A perplexed look crossed the ersatz cabby's face as he tried to comprehend what had happened. In the two seconds it took for him to realize that the car was no longer in gear, Dodge scrambled away from any further retaliation and gripped the door handle. When the driver dropped his free hand to the stick shift, Dodge bought both feet up and stomped his heels into the man's face.

To his credit, the driver did not even flinch. One of Dodge's shoes gouged a bloody weal along his cheek but the assault was equivalent to scraping the bark off an oak tree. Nevertheless, it did have an effect; the driver's attention was distracted for one moment more, long enough for the speedometer needle to creep down to thirty-five miles an hour. Dodge knew he wouldn't get a better chance. He turned the lever.

The driver saw it and reacted immediately, but not as Dodge expected. Instead of trying to get the vehicle in gear and resume accelerating, the man suddenly cranked the steering wheel and the cab swerved to the right. Still coasting at more than thirty miles and hour, the Checker plowed through the river of water streaming down the gutter then jolted into the curb.

The door latch clicked but even as Dodge started to push it open, something slammed against the exterior of the vehicle, crushing the metal back into its frame. The car crashed through the guardrail, sacrificing the last of its momentum, then the front end dropped with a lurch as the cab bottomed out on the edge and ground to complete halt.

For just a moment, Dodge thought the peril was past. The impact had tossed him alternately into the dash then up against the headliner and back again, but he had fared better than the driver. The man groggily raised his head, blood streaming from his brow, but was unable to move his lower extremities; the steering wheel had snapped off in his hands and a piece of it had driven through his abdomen to pin him to the seat. Yet, despite what surely had to be a mortal injury, the man remained inhumanly focused on keeping his passenger from escaping. A beefy hand stabbed out for Dodge's throat.

Wincing, Dodge pulled back and the fingers closed only on the fabric of his jacket, still much too close for comfort. Dodge tried to wrestle free of the grip but there was nowhere to go; the door was jammed shut. Unable to get out of the front of the car, he shifted his weight planting a foot against the floor and tried to propel himself over the back of the seat.

In the instant that he thrust down with his legs, Dodge got a glimpse of what lay beyond the front of the taxi—or rather, the nothingness beyond the shattered windshield. The Checker protruded from the breach in the guardrail of the Brooklyn Bridge more than a hundred feet above the turbulent storm tossed surface of the East River. Then, with a noise that sounded more like a rusty hinge than a harbinger of doom, the cab began to tilt forward.

###

Click here to buy!





—SAMPLE—





THE SENTINEL by Jeremy Bishop



Available on Kindle: Click here to buy!



DESCRIPTION: