KnockOut

blog took us—a cult that glorifies psychics—and might risk a great deal for a child like Autumn. Of course, it could all be coincidence.”
    “Or maybe not.”
    A bullet whistled past Sherlock’s head and spiderwebbed the windshield.

46
    SAVICH SHOUTED, “HOLD ON.”
    He got control of the car again, glanced into the rearview mirror at a small black Ford Focus not twenty feet back and saw the black barrel of a gun and the hand holding it coming out the passenger-side window. So there were two of them. He wasn’t in his Porsche, he was in a Camry with regular gas in its tank, but it was a game little car. He sawed the Camry back and forth across the lanes, grateful there were no other cars in sight.
    Sherlock slithered low across the seat as she pulled her SIG from her belt clip, then twisted around to look at the car behind them. Savich said, “Gun out the passenger-side window. They haven’t fired again because they can’t get a fix on us.”
    “Got it.” She rolled down the window, leaned out, and yelled, “Now, Dillon!” She fired off three shots as he steadied the car, then he jerked the Camry hard to the left, through the other lane, nearly into the ditch, before he jerked it back. He heard the ping of bullets hitting the pavement and the car.
    “I missed him. Hold steady again, Dillon!”
    She emptied her clip this time. He wasn’t surprised when the Ford began careening all over the road, out of control and gaining speed on the decline behind them. The driver had to be hit. He saw the shooter trying to shove the driver aside so he could get control. It was going to be close, because lumbering toward them, not fifty feet ahead, was an old silver pickup truck loaded with hay bales highest than its cab. Savich laid his palm on the horn, blasting loud into the hot late afternoon. Thank God the driver of the ancient pickup wasn’t a slouch. He careened into the right lane and pulled over onto the shoulder, chewing tobacco furiously at them while they whizzed past.
    A caravan of trucks and a Goldwing with a man and woman on board came around a wide bend in the road, going at a good clip. He looked at the Ford behind him, thick black smoke billowing from beneath the hood, and watched the shooter jerk the Ford hard to the right and peel off onto an unpaved country road he hadn’t even noticed. He knew then they had to be locals, but he’d known that already.
    Savich slowed and Sherlock fired another full clip after them, but they disappeared into a cloud of whirling dirt from the road. He had to wait for the spurt of traffic to pass, then he turned the Camry in a tight U and came in behind an old SUV, the last of the traffic he’d just let pass. All the vehicles had slowed and were rubbernecking, trying to see that smoking car. He laid his palm on the horn and got the finger in return. Finally he reached the country road and turned a sharp left onto the dirt road.
    Sherlock was still hanging out the window, her hair whipping around her head. She jerked back inside. “There, Dillon, behind that stand of trees on your left. They didn’t get far.”
    He saw the black smoke before he saw the car. He braked fast and hard, closer than he wanted. Sherlock was out the door while the tires were still trying to grip the dirt.
    “Careful,” he shouted, pulled his SIG, and went out the driver’s side, bent low, his eyes on the car.
    The Ford exploded. No time, no time. The burst of heat singed their hair, seared the air itself, and the blast concussion hurled them backward. Savich grabbed her as they went down, protecting her as best he could, and rolled with her beneath the back of the Camry as burning pieces of the Ford rained down around them.
    Sherlock, coughing and trying to suck in air at the same time, finally managed to whisper against his shoulder, “I really didn’t mean to, but guess I got the gas tank. You think those guys are still inside?”
    “Yeah, probably,” he said. “Don’t move.” There were still hot flames and foul-smelling smoke gushing upward like black geysers, pieces of the car still hissing and exploding off the frame in the heat, setting nearby bushes on fire. Then there was silence, absolute silence.
    Savich slowly eased from beneath the car, came up on his elbow over her, and studied her black face and the cut along her hairline, snaking a line of blood down her cheek. He touched the cut, saw it was superficial, and drew a deep breath.
    “I’m okay, Dillon. How