The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp (Alfred Kropp #1)(33)

“So that’s a yes, right?”

“Is it so important, Kropp? For me, it has always been enough, that I should be charged with the protection of the Holy Sword.”

“So I guess you’re saying it’s mostly just a lot of sitting around.”

He didn’t answer. I went on. “Sounds like my life. Only I wasn’t protecting anything holy. Just sitting around eating Bugles, drinking Coke, and listening to music. I bet this baby’s got a heck of a sound system. Want to try it out? What kind of music do you like? I bet it’s Gregorian chants or something like that. Sinatra maybe. Though Sinatra was no monk. I thought you were a monk in the Towers the night I stole the Sword. My mom loved Sinatra. Am I talking too much? I think my brain is on overload, trying to process everything. You know, it’s a lot to process. Sacred swords and modern-day knights and the world teetering on the brink of total annihilation. I think I’m doing pretty good, considering.

“I don’t travel much either, not since my mom died, anyway. Every summer she took me to the beach in Florida and we wouldn’t be four miles down the road before I had to eat something. What’s in the case back there, by the way?”

“A gift.”

“Oh, I was hoping maybe that Miriam lady packed us a couple of sandwiches for the road. Anyway, I always got these cravings for some pecan logs or those bags of boiled peanuts they sell from the roadside stands.”

“What is a pecan log?”

“You know, pecan-encrusted nuggety things. On our Florida trips Mom would stop at these stores along the highway called Stuckey’s. Stuckey’s pecan logs and also turtles— not real turtles, but that’s the name for this chocolate candy with pecans. I really don’t know what that nugget in a pecan roll was made out of; it’s sort of like candy or maybe like congealed pie filling. Sort of vanilla-y, but real sweet. When you put the crunchy pecans with it, it’s really good.”

“One might have it with a bread-wrapped wiener.”

“Corn dog.”

“Corn dog, yes.”

His eyes had been flicking between the road, the rearview mirrors, and me.

Suddenly he slammed the accelerator to the floor and my head popped back against the seat. A few seconds later, when we reached 120, he hit the cruise-control button and said, “Take the wheel, Alfred.”

“Huh?”

“Drive for a moment.”

He let go of the wheel and I grabbed it with my left hand as he twisted around to fumble with the latches of the black carrying case.

“Bennacio . . . !”

He sat back down and said, “Keep your hand on the wheel. If we run off the road at this speed we will not survive.”

He pulled two curved pieces of wood from the black case, fitting one piece into the other, the curves going in the same direction. He was having some trouble with it because together they were about five feet long. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw sunlight sparking off a mass of black metal and chrome that took up both lanes, coming up fast.

“What are those things behind us, Bennacio?”

“Suzuki Hayabusas.”

“They’re gaining on us.”

“I have no doubt,” he said. “They are the fastest motorcycles in the world.”

He had pulled a long white cord from the case. The cord had a hook on each end. He threw one hook over the little metal eye at one end of the stick, flipped the staff around, and his neck muscles stood out as he pressed on the curved part of the other end, bending the whole thing so he could hook the cord.

“What you are doing?” I asked.

He answered in that same calm voice, “I am stringing my bow, Kropp.” He rolled down the window and wind tore into the car, whipping his hair into a white tornado.

I looked in the rearview mirror again and saw that the riders—dragon thralls, Bennacio had called them—had separated and were gaining fast. I counted six, but I had to count quickly or risk running off the road.

“Keep us in the lane, Alfred!” Bennacio shouted. “Steer with your right hand and hold on to me with your left!” He reached back and pulled a quiver full of arrows from the case.

“I don’t think I can do that!”

“You have no choice!”

He threw the quiver over his back and scooted backwards through the open window until he was sitting on the door, leaving only half his butt and his long legs inside the car. I grabbed a fistful of his pants leg with my left hand.

Now I could hear the harsh, throaty screaming of the motorcycles’ engines as five of them swarmed past the car like enraged wasps. The sixth stayed a few car-lengths behind us.

The riders were dressed all in black. Even the visors on the helmets were black. As they roared past, Bennacio let fly the arrows. I heard the shhh-phut of the arrow leaving the bow and saw the lead bike spin out of control: Bennacio had shot the arrow into the right side of the rider’s neck, a nice shot, considering he was firing against the wind in a Ferrari Enzo going 120 miles an hour. Two of the bikes couldn’t avoid hitting the leader as he went down. Both struck him with their front tires and both bikes jackknifed, throwing the thralls forward, their bodies already limp as rag dolls when they hit the pavement.

That left two plus the one behind us, and now I could hear explosions coming from our left. The guns they fired at us were pretty big, but I couldn’t see what kind because Bennacio was blocking my line of vision and besides, I had to watch the road.