Louisiana Bigshot

the notion that they were taking him into all that swamp. They were going to kill him, there was no other reason for going there. She should have heard sirens. Why the hell didn’t she? Where were the cops?
    She looked in the mirror, impatient, and that was when she saw the Buick bearing down on her, not even making a show of hiding—the same white Le Sabre that tailed her before. How the hell had they picked her up?
    Maybe by accident. Maybe Stan was following his buddy and happened to run into Talba, also following his buddy. And now he was following her. Killing two birds, as it were, with one stone.
    Talba reached for the cell phone, but the other car started ramming her. She needed both hands to drive. The man had no respect for his own car, let alone hers.
    She assessed her situation. They had to know she’d called the police. Everybody had cell phones. But what they wouldn’t know was that she’d told them exactly where Stan was headed. Because they couldn’t know about the GPS.
    She really, really had to keep them from finding out. And, incidentally, it would be good to keep breathing.
    The car rammed her again. And again. It was getting damned bumpy. He was trying to force her onto the shoulder. Once she stopped, Stan could just shoot her and be on his way. She wished to hell she’d told Skip his name.
    Well, they didn’t know about the gun either. To her chagrin, she happened to know how to shoot a gun. Should she try to shoot out his tires or something?
    Negative. Surprise was all she had going for her, on any front whatsoever. She’d just pull over and when he came over to get her, blast him in the face with the gun.
    Except that she knew she wouldn’t.
    Not even to save her life could she do that. The better plan was to hit the ground running. She had now crossed the high-rise herself, and was somewhere near Jazzland. There was plenty of open land. She could draw fire, get him away from the GPS.
    It was foolhardy. She knew that. But she was a sitting duck in the car. She stuck the gun in her waistband, pulled over, grabbed her Tee-ball bat, opened the door, and started running, wondering if the guy was going to start shooting at her. Out here, she could shoot him. Just not in the face, at close range. Only out here, she’d probably miss.
    He squealed to a stop and a millisecond later was clomping toward her. It seemed to her there hadn’t even been time for him to open his door.
    Well, hell. She didn’t want to get too far off the road. Maybe here, a motorist would see them squaring off and call the cops. It would be an embarrassing place to commit murder, and the least she could do was embarrass him.
    Also, she would have the element of surprise once more if she went on the offensive. She’d read something once about self-defense against rape. Prison interviews with rapists had revealed certain very interesting things, the main one being that they didn’t pick blondes or prostitutes or cute chicks under thirty—they picked easy targets. For instance, they picked women with ponytails because they could grab them by the hair. They might pick a woman with her keys in her hand—keys meant nothing to them—but they’d avoid one with an umbrella she could use to keep them at bay.
    Listen,
Talba thought,
if an umbrella can stop a rapist, a Tee-ball bat can stop this bozo.
    She slowed to a crawl, pretending to be tired. When he was almost upon her, she turned, winding up the bat and shouting, “Hyaaaahhhhhh!” like some kid playing at kung fu.
    She saw his eyes before the bat connected. Startled. Not exactly a deer in the headlights—more like a dog when a cat arches its back. And the principle was exactly the same. She had to look a lot bigger and scarier than she was.
    The bat got him in the chest, and he was already raising his arm to take it away from her. Good, he was otherwise occupied, not watching her feet. She kicked him in the balls.
    Anyway, she aimed for the balls, and she almost hit the target dead on. If she had, she’d have disabled him. As it was, she did hit groin, but evidently not the most sensitive area. He stumbled but didn’t fall. The hand going for the bat faltered, and she momentarily withdrew her weapon, stepped back, then cracked it full in his face. Still, he didn’t fall. He grabbed again, catching the end of the bat, pulling it away from her. She let go, and this time he fell, the victim of his own momentum—sat down on his backside. Ha! Talk about your