The Escape (John Puller, #3)(119)

The metal gave, the wood did not, and the S550 was down for the count.

The Escalade avoided this melee by falling back. Now it shot forward like a shark after a seal.

Puller had gone up on the opposite sidewalk and clipped a parked car. He cut his wheel to the left and shot through a gap in the line of parked cars, slamming back onto the street. His brother was up ahead and getting farther out of sight. But the Escalade was now right behind Puller and closing fast.

The driver of the SUV gunned his ride and the bumper of the Escalade rammed into the rear of the Malibu, crumpling it.

Puller fishtailed briefly and then regained control. He looked up ahead. His brother was slowing down. Puller cursed, flicked his headlights, and honked his horn in a precise manner.

The truck sped up again.

Good old Morse code, Puller thought. He had just spelled out G-O.

His positive feeling was short-lived as the SUV hit him again and then pulled up beside his car.

He knew what was coming next.

The windows of the SUV slid down. Gun muzzles appeared at the openings.

He already had his M11 out. He hit the window switch for the passenger side. As it came down he fired directly at the driver’s window. The window glass didn’t break.

Polycarbonate. Great.

Unfortunately, his windows were not bulletproof.

An instant before they fired he slammed on the brakes, smoking his wheels, and the SUV flew past him. The guns roared and a line of parked cars was suddenly full of bullet holes, hissing radiators, flattening tires, and the sounds of car alarms screaming.

Puller looked around for a cop but again saw not a single one. He expected to hear sirens in the air, but all he heard was his heart hammering in his ears. What, were they all on a break? Was the president out and about in his motorcade and the cops were clearing the streets for the man?

Cars in the lanes ahead had seen what was coming and had pulled off the road, horns blaring.

He cut the wheel to the right and slid in behind the SUV.

They couldn’t fire through the glass in the rear of the SUV, but they might fire out through the side windows. He gauged the height of his hood and that of the SUV’s bumper. Well, he was about to find out if his math was good or not.

He rammed down the gas and the Malibu surged ahead, hit the SUV’s bumper, and stuck there. He kept his foot on the gas and the hood of the Malibu crumpled and then slid downward and under the SUV’s bumper. He kept the gas flat to the floor.

The gun muzzles reappeared at the side windows pointing backward. Puller dropped sideways in his seat as his windshield exploded, covering him with shards of glass. But because the two vehicles were now coupled, he didn’t really need to see to drive. The SUV was steering for him. He was just providing the horsepower.

He waited for their fire to subside and then popped back up and hit the gas harder. The Malibu slid farther under the rear bumper.

One inch, two inches. His hood was crumpling badly; his front bumper was but a memory back in the road.

But now what he had wanted to happen did. The Malibu’s engine chassis, far stronger than the car’s hide, started to bear the weight of the SUV’s rear.

And then the back wheels of the SUV began to rise slightly. He didn’t need them to be completely off the road, just not hugging it.

Then the SUV’s rear window started to open. That could only mean one thing. They were getting ready to fire again and the driver was making sure they would get a direct sightline this time.

Well, we can’t have that, thought Puller.

He whipped the wheel of the Malibu back and forth and had to grin when the two unbuckled gunmen, who were trying to take aim at him through the rear opening, collided with each other like pinballs. He cut the wheel twice more and their heads thunked together. One of them fell over. The other dropped his weapon and clutched his head, cursing.

The driver of the SUV undoubtedly could sense what Puller was doing, because he heard the SUV’s engine slow and he felt the truck decelerate. The only problem with that was that Puller was running the show now, not the other vehicle. He kept the gas pedal jammed to the floor mat, and the SUV was propelled along by the Malibu’s motion.

Puller eyed what was coming up and gauged the trajectory.

He counted off the seconds in his head, hoping that his brother had long since turned off this road and was gone for good. He couldn’t see around the SUV to check.

He stopped counting at ten, said a silent prayer, and then ripped the wheel to the right.

The Malibu’s front broke free from the SUV’s rear. The truck’s nose went hard to the left. When its back wheels fully touched down they caught right in the middle of the cut. Neither the driver nor the truck was apparently ready for this wild mix of gravitational and centrifugal forces. The SUV corkscrewed, hit the curb, then a parked car, and then a steel bench anchored to the pavement.

And finally, for an exclamation point, it flipped.

It landed on its top, which caved in, and then it rolled, which crushed the driver’s side. It came to a stop on its side after colliding with the corner of a brick-and-masonry town house.

Puller kept rolling and never looked back. He turned left up ahead, then right, and then checked his dot. His brother was up ahead, two streets over and going fast.

Eschewing any more texts, Puller called him.

“You okay?” his brother said anxiously.

“Both bogeys gone and I’m in one piece, although my car’s trashed. You?”