Edge

moment, silence in the car, silence outside. Then the partner, hidden somewhere in the bushes, opened fire, as the tires on Loving’s car squealed to smoke and he sped directly toward us.

Chapter 17
    I SLAMMED THE shifter into reverse; a three-point turn would have taken too much time. I shoved the pedal to the floor.
    I heard a jarring bang from the side of our vehicle as the partner continued to fire on us from the bushes. But I’d moved just as he was pulling the trigger and the slug hit the sheetmetal, not tires. Which was good; run-flats are impressive but they’re not indestructible.
    Another slam of a bullet on the body steel. The sound was very loud. Unlike in the movies, you never hear whining ricochets and you never see sparks. A bullet is a piece of lead that’s moving about three thousand feet a second. You hear a big, big bang when it hits your car and it usually stays where it’s sent and doesn’t bounce around the neighborhood.
    “Covering fire,” I ordered. “Keep the partner down. But visible hostiles or neutral targets only. Do not shoot blind. Everybody else, stay down.”
    Ryan was in the far back—there were three rows of seats in the car—and Garcia and the women in the seats just behind me.
    “Garcia, muzzle flash to your left!”
    “Got it.” He rolled down the window a fewinches and began firing judiciously. Regulations prohibit us from discharging a weapon unless we have a clear target and there could possibly be bystanders nearby. Garcia shot toward where the partner had stationed himself in a thick stand of bush but was aiming only at a tree or the ground, to keep the partner down while making sure no innocents were hit.
    Loving’s car was pursuing us and, still driving in reverse, I called to Ahmad, next to me, to target him. But it was particularly difficult to do so because of the curvature of the driveway lined with trees. I had to swerve wildly, depriving my colleague of a clear shot.
    Another slug from the partner’s gun impacted the Yukon’s side. Maree barked a brief scream, her hand to her mouth, eyes wide. Ryan was trying to open the rear window—which was sealed shut. His revolver was in his hand but at least his finger was outside the trigger guard.
    In four-wheel drive, the Yukon bounded backward, churning up a nice cloud of dust.
    My head spun around briefly, glancing behind us through the front windshield. I saw Loving’s car coming after us fast, veering to avoid Ahmad’s rounds. I turned back again to look out the rear window, in the direction we were speeding.
    Ahmad called, “Loving’s slowing.” His voice was calm.
    “Garcia, take your shot.”
    The FBI agent leaned over Joanne, who looked numb with fear, her purse clutched to her chest. He eased out the window. “The trees,” Garcia called. “I don’t have a clear shot.”
    “I’ll do it!” Ryan muttered. “I’ll get the fucker.”
    This brought Joanne to life. “No, honey, please! You’ve been drinking.”
    “Goddamnit, I’m a better shot drunk than all of them put together.” He strained forward. But we were saved from a confrontation because we hit a speed bump and he was knocked to the side. Thank God his weapon didn’t discharge.
    Garcia leaned forward and fired in bursts of three with his handgun.
    I couldn’t tell if he’d hit anything. I couldn’t be concerned with that now; I had the Yukon up to about forty in four-wheel reverse, the transmission screaming, and we were crashing over speed bumps and tearing the shrubbery apart.
    A bullet thudded into the back of the Yukon, the fender or bumper. One glanced off the windshield. No glass broke; it was resistant but not bulletproof, depending on the jackets of the rounds, so I was thankful there’d been no direct hit on the windows, though it made sense; Loving would not want to risk killing Ryan.
    Then, about ten yards from the motel, a straight stretch loomed.
    “Both of you,” I called to Garcia and Ahmad. “You’ll have clear targets in about five seconds. Go for the grille of the Dodge. Take out the engine.”
    “No, the windshield!” Ryan shouted.
    I said nothing else, not explaining that the rational move in a situation like this was to aim for a vital area of the car; you’d have to be very lucky to hit the driver.
    But just as we leveled out, Loving ditched the lights and veered to the right. The Dodge skiddedbehind a bush beside a curve in the driveway and vanished over the lawn.
    “No target,” Ahmad