The Elders (Mind Dimensions #4)(53)

The annoying ringtone is back. I accept the call, and a voice says, “We couldn’t stop them at the merge point.”

“It’s okay, Sheriff,” Hillary says. “We didn’t think you could. At least we’re now on their tails.”

Her gloved hands grip the wheel tighter, and the engine sounds as if it’s possessed by a poltergeist.

You know when I said the previous five minutes of my life were the scariest? I’m changing that. These next five put them to shame.

Another bank-robbery alarm interrupts my hyperventilation, and I distract myself by accepting the call.

“Fuck,” a voice says loudly. Screams and shots can be heard in the background. “A Honda minivan just went around our blockade. This driver is a maniac. I have deputies on the dirt road waiting for the second Honda.”

“Sheriff Wilkin,” Hillary says disapprovingly. “Why did I hear shots? You are not permitted to use deadly force. There are hostages in those cars.”

“We tried shooting the tires, ma’am,” the guy says, “but missed.”

“Be ready,” she says. “They’re a few minutes apart.”

“We are,” he says.

“Let’s hope we catch them first,” she says and looks at her GPS.

According to its tracker, we’re already there.

A few seconds later, Hilary whispers, “Do you see that?”

I see Kate’s figure in the distance but nothing else. I squint and see she’s nearing a van.

Hillary squeezes more speed out of our car, the motor revving maniacally. With trepidation, I glance at the speedometer and wish I hadn’t. It reads 210 mph.

We get closer to Kate, the sides of the road blurring. I suspect we might be going ‘back to the future’ at any moment.

Kate parallels the van. The van swerves in her direction, apparently trying to force Kate off the road.

We move closer to Kate and her adversary.

Kate speeds up, pulls a wheelie, and races ahead of the van. I think the stunt was just her showing off, though I’m not sure.

We’re nearing the van; our front bumper is almost ready to kiss the circled H logo on the Honda’s rear. In the distance is a police blockade; it’s also where the road ends and the tree line begins.

“Hillary, you see that, right?” The words come out in a hushed whisper. “Are you sure we’ll have time to slow—”

I don’t finish that thought, as Hillary tries to pass the van on the right.

At the same time, Kate lets her bike drift, its tires smoking. The bike is angled so low to the ground that her right handlebar is touching the asphalt.

Then Kate jumps off the bike, letting the poor machine fly under the van.

The van swerves into us, the driver clearly not wanting to drive over the motorcycle while moving at this speed, then veers in Kate’s direction. We almost collide with its back. Hillary turns the wheel sharply to avoid crashing into the van.

Our car skids toward the side of the road—and toward a big palm tree. If we don’t slow down, the emergency workers will have a hard time scraping us out of what will be left of this car.

Hillary slams on the brakes, and I smell burning rubber.

Though we’re decelerating, we’re still going fast enough that the impact might turn us into burnt toast.

Hillary turns the wheel, gentler this time.

Everything goes silent.

Shit.

Looks like I scare-phased into the Quiet again.

I’m standing next to the palm tree we’re about to hit.

Luckily, Hillary’s last maneuver pointed the car slightly to the side of the tree; we might not hit it head-on, though I’m no expert when it comes to car physics.

I walk over to where Kate jumped/fell.

I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

Kate sliced through the Honda’s front tire. She’s holding the blade steady, ready to give the back tire the same treatment.

She’s insane. If the car veers her way, it’ll run her over.

Reluctantly, I make my way back.

I phase out and instantly learn I was wrong about the car’s trajectory; Hillary’s last maneuver didn’t help us.

With the sound of worlds colliding, our race car crashes into the tree.





Chapter 16





Even with the six-point straps and the neck support of my helmet, the jolt is so violent that I feel as if my whiplash is getting whiplash.

I’m still conscious, however. Hillary managed to change the angle of our impact to lessen its severity, and we skirted the tree instead of hitting it dead-on. We’ll live.

My heart, which is currently up my throat, clearly hasn’t gotten the memo.

“We have to go,” I croak, fumbling to unbuckle my multiple straps.

Hillary beats me to it, unclipping my lap and my right and left shoulder restraints. I take care of the one by my crotch on my own.

Fleetingly, I note the lack of any airbags. Race cars must not have them.

As soon as I’m free, I remove my helmet, stumble out of the car, and look at the road.

The Honda Odyssey is out of control, but driving away from Kate, who’s plastered against the road. The van’s rims are raining sparks as they scrape against the ground, and the smell of burning rubber mixes with a strange metallic odor.