Once we were a couple of car lengths past it, I glanced back. No doors were opening, no one was getting out. The Annihilator’s lights came back on, and the truck slipped back into the lane behind us.
I was still turned in my seat, taking in our new situation, when Lawrence barked at me, “Eyes front! Don’t look!”
I shifted back, tried to get a glimpse of the SUV in the mirror on the passenger door.
“This is not a good thing,” Lawrence said. “Not a good thing at all. I hate it when I get made. Absolutely fucking sloppy. You want to know what they’re doing right now?”
“What?”
“They’re taking down my license plate, that’s what they’re doing right now.”
“That’s bad, right?”
“Normally, it would be, but I’ve got bogus plates on this car, so it’s not that big a problem.”
“Uh, isn’t that illegal, Lawrence?”
He had only a moment to glance at me and grin. “Which Hardy Boy are you? Frank or Joe?”
I decided not to respond to that, but go on the attack myself. “So what’s your plan now, Sherlock?”
“We just drive along, like we don’t know who he is and don’t care, and maybe he starts thinking that maybe he was wrong, that we weren’t following him.”
As the Annihilator gained on us, its raised headlights shone through the back windows of the Buick, reflecting off the rearview mirror and nearly blinding Lawrence. “Fucking SUVs,” he muttered. He was on edge, and it had to be taking every bit of resolve he had not to tromp on the accelerator and leave that lumbering vehicle in our dust.
“We’ll just keep going straight up Wilson,” he said quietly. And so we did, driving at the speed limit, a couple of guys out for a cruise around the town. The Annihilator kept pace behind us, barely a car length, those annoying lights illuminating everything inside the Buick.
“Okay, moment-of-truth time,” Lawrence said, put on his blinker, and turned right down a side street, nice and proper, like he was delivering, instead of me, his grandmother back to the nursing home.
The SUV stayed with us, rounding the corner without slowing down. I didn’t want to admit this to Lawrence, but I was starting to feel just a tad apprehensive. And by apprehensive, I mean scared.
There was a deep throaty roar behind us, and the lights from the Annihilator grew more massive. The vehicle was only inches behind our bumper. Then there was the sound of a horn, a deep, resonating blast like a ship pulling into the harbor, that I could feel in my bones.
“The guy’s out of his fucking mind,” Lawrence said. He hit the gas and we pulled away from the truck. We heard another roar as our pursuer gunned his engine.
“I think he wants to drive right over us,” I said.
“If he gets a chance, he will,” Lawrence said. “Hang on.”
He yanked the wheel hard to the right, sending us down a side street. The car lurched wildly and all four tires skidded across the pavement, but we made the turn and barreled our way up the street. The SUV, with its high center of gravity, couldn’t navigate the turn at such a high speed, but this didn’t seem to trouble the driver all that much, who steered the beast over someone’s lawn, plowing through a row of hedges and a small fence, and flattening a bicycle that had been left out on a driveway.
“If you had a chance to pull over anywhere,” I said, “you could just let me out.”
And then I heard a popping noise. Pop-pop-pop.
Lawrence said nothing, just kept both hands gripped on the wheel, swinging hard to the right, then to the left, glancing for split seconds at his rearview mirror.
Pop. Pop.
“Lawrence,” I said, somewhat hesitantly, as the Annihilator, half a dozen car lengths back, caught the back half of a parked motorcycle and sent it flying across a sidewalk.
“Yeah?”
“I hate to ask, but what are those popping noises I keep hearing?”
Rather than answer my question directly, Lawrence told me to open the glove compartment. “There’s something in there we need. You’ll know it when you see it.”
I took out a customized auto-club map detailing the route to Florida. “Triptik?”
“Keep looking.”
Behind several maps, tissue packets, a roll of masking tape, and ownership papers, I came across a small handgun.
“Actually,” said Lawrence, “given that I’m driving, it might be better if you used it.”
This was not a good idea. The last time I’d had a gun in my hand, I’d fatally shot a desk. “This really isn’t my area of expertise, Lawrence,” I said. “I’m not particularly adept where guns are concerned. Plus, there’s the nature of my role here. I’m really more of an observer, not a participant, so—”
And then the back window of the Buick blew out.
“Jesus!” Lawrence said, turning so hard this time the g-forces jammed me against my door. “Hand me the fucking gun!”