If The Seas Catch Fire(124)

“Cusimanos,” he said under his breath. “Perfect timing.”

“Good. Let them f*ck things up.”

Using the trees for cover, they jogged along the road to where Dom had parked. There, they got into the car, and Dom fired up and the engine and pulled out onto the road.

Sergei kept his pistol in his lap. They weren’t in the clear yet.

Not half a mile from the marina, Dom growled, “Shit. So much for a clean getaway.”

Sergei looked over his shoulder. Those headlights were coming up way too fast to be a random driver. And there were two cars hot on that one’s heels.

“You know these roads, right?” he asked.

“Uh-huh. Hang on.” Dom didn’t even give him a chance to brace before he jerked the wheel and gunned the engine. The car swerved, the tires shrieked, and Sergei was sure they were going to slam into the sign in front of the bank before Dom regained control, straightened out, and took off.

He looked back. The other cars were still on their tail. “Faster.”

“Any faster is going to attract cops.”

Sergei thought quickly. “How well does this thing handle?”

“Depends—how fast?”

They glanced at each other.

“Get out on the 103,” Sergei said. “The cops almost never go up there, and we can lose these *s in the hills.”

Dom gunned the engine again.

The three cars stayed hot on their heels.

“Keep an eye on the side streets,” Dom said. “There could be more, and they could come from anywhere.”

Through the streets of Cape Swan, Dom zigged and zagged, taking turns unexpectedly, doubling back, even screaming down an alley between a couple of apartment buildings, and still, the motherf*ckers stayed on them.

Sergei’s pulse was out of control. At every turn, he expected flashing blues.

But finally—an on-ramp.

Dom floored it. The engine whined. The speedometer needle drew a rapid arc, and the darkened scenery blurred past them.

And in the side mirrors—headlights.

“Who are these f*cks?” Sergei shouted over the road noise. “Cusimanos or Maisanos?”

“You want to stop and introduce ourselves?”

“Good point. Hurry up and get out of town.” He clicked the safety off his pistol. “Then I can start shooting at them.”

“Working on it.”

Sergei took off his seatbelt and climbed between the seats into the back.

“What are you doing?”

“Putting myself where I can shoot them. Obviously.”

“You might want a seatbelt.”

“Can’t shoot with one.”

“And if I wreck?”

“Don’t wreck.”

“Sergei, for f*ck’s sake. Are—”

“Simple solution.” Sergei wrapped his arm around one of the backseat headrests, and used it to steady himself. “This is gonna get loud.”

“Great.”

“Sorry.”

If Dom responded, Sergei didn’t hear him—he squeezed the trigger, shattering the back window and deafening him. Sparks flew off the fender of one car. The driver swerved a little, but recovered quickly.

Sergei glanced around, orienting himself. As his hearing returned—sort of—he shouted to Dom, “There’s a sharp curve up ahead. Take it as fast as you can without spinning out.”

“Got it.”

Sergei held the headrest for support, aimed for the front passenger side tire, and curled his finger around the trigger.

Just before he knew Dom was going to hit the curve, he fired.

The tire blew out. The car swerved, colliding with the one next to it, and as Dom’s car swept around the curve, all Sergei could see was glass and metal going in all directions.

“You get ’em?”

“Two won’t be going anywhere for a while, but there’s still—yeah, there he is.”

One car lurched forward, and Dom accelerated down a straightaway before whipping around a switchback. The other car didn’t lose them, and he didn’t go off the road, but he lost some ground. Even more when he had to slow down for an S-curve that Dom took at full speed.

The road straightened out again.

A bullet pinged off the frame. Another off the trunk, a little closer to Sergei’s head than he liked.

The headlights were blinding him, so he adjusted his position. He slid forward, resting his forearms on the rear dash and leaning out through the broken window.

Sergei fired.

From the other car, a bright flash.

Something thumped against his chest. Heat drilled its way into his ribs.

The gun tumbled from his hand. Headlights went everywhere. Sergei dropped onto the backseat. Tires shrieked. His hand went to his chest.

And came away wet.

Cursing in his native tongue, he kept one hand against the wound—f*ck, that’s way too much blood—and with the other, tried to search the darkness for his weapon, but pain turned his vision red.

“Sergei? Sergei, are you—”

“Just drive,” he ground out. He braced himself for more nauseating pain, and searched for the weapon, but then Dom swore, and the world lurched.

Sergei clutched his chest and distantly heard himself crying out in pain.