Suddenly it was quiet. Too quiet.
A streetlight a few feet away cast a dim yellow beam across the road, but everything around it was black. Like being inside with the lights on and not being able to see anything but your own reflection in the windows.
Then I heard something-couldn’t put my finger on it-but the air bag began to slowly deflate.
“You okay, Kavanaugh?” Jeff’s voice pierced the silence.
I turned my head slowly-everything hurt-and saw a glint of something in Jeff’s hand. A pocket knife.
“What happened?” I asked, surprised that my voice sounded normal, even though it was too loud in my ears.
“Car was coming straight at us. I swerved right into a pole or something. That’s why the air bags inflated.”
But that wasn’t what I’d meant.
A rustling outside the car caused me to tense up, pain tearing through my muscles. My eyes had begun to adjust to the darkness, but I still couldn’t see anything outside the car.
“What is it?” I whispered.
Jeff put a finger to his lips, the streetlight illuminating his silhouette. He shifted down in his seat and indicated I should do the same. Pain shot through my back and up to my neck, but I moved past it as I heard more rustling. It sounded as if someone or something was walking through the shrubs along the side of the road, just beyond the car.
We were facing the desert. I glanced in the side-view mirror. Behind us, on the other side of the street, town houses stood in line like toy soldiers, but it was a development that was only half finished. No lights in any windows.
No cars on the road, either.
Nothing except that blasted streetlight, which was more of a hindrance than a help. I saw now that the pole we crashed into was another streetlight, but it wasn’t working.
Jeff put his fingers to his ear, pantomiming a phone. I wondered where his was as I stretched my arm to reach my bag on the floor. As my fingers touched the fabric, an explosion rocked the air.
I yanked my hand back, my whole body shaking.
It wasn’t an explosion. It was a gunshot.
Who was out there?
Jeff’s hand encircled mine, and he squeezed tight, as if to say it would be okay.
But I wasn’t convinced. Someone was out there. Someone who’d tried to run us down and was now shooting at us.
Well, one shot.
Made me wish Willis hadn’t found that gun I’d had. Not that I knew how to use it, but it was big. Big enough to make a statement, even if I just waved it around.
After a few minutes of silence, I reached down again for my bag.
Another shot rocked the air.
Whoever was out there could see me.
“What’s going on?” I whispered.
Jeff was holding on to my hand so tightly that when he squeezed it again, I barely noticed. I moved my head slightly, and he was looking out the front window. I didn’t think he could see any more than I could. Unless his time in the Marines had given him some sort of natural night-vision goggles.
The air bags hung, deflated, in front of us like empty sacks. I was acutely aware that my face felt as though it were on fire. I had turned my face slightly when the bag inflated, and I sensed that my cheek had a huge rug burn. I was afraid to touch my nose, as if any movement would cause whomever was out there to shoot again.
“We can’t just sit here like this,” I whispered.
“Got any ideas?” he whispered back.
“You’re the Marine. What did you do when you got shot at in the desert?”
“I never got shot at in the desert. Except for now.”
His other hand inched toward the door. Great. He was going to try to open it, and we’d both get blown away. But as I contemplated how to stop him, he fingered the knob that maneuvered the side mirror.
It moved a fraction of an inch.
And another gunshot pierced the air and shattered the mirror.
Jeff seemed to have been expecting that because he didn’t move his finger.
“He’s behind us,” he whispered. “I saw the car.”
“Could you see him?”
“I saw a shadow. He’s standing right at the trunk, watching us.”
A shiver shimmied across my shoulders and down through my legs. “What does he want?”
“Want to ask him?”
I tried to pull my hand away, but he held it tightly.
“I’ve got a plan,” he said.
“Will it get us killed?”
“Hopefully not. But you have to scooch down further. He can’t have a good visual.”
That didn’t make me feel very confident. But we couldn’t just sit here, held hostage by some unknown guy with a gun.
“I’m going to start the car and back up into him,” Jeff whispered.
“You’re nuts. Can the car even start?”
“We’ll find out, won’t we? Get down.”
I tried to slide down farther, but the seat belt pinned me to the back of the seat. I managed to maneuver under the chest belt so it was behind my head. The lap belt was tight across my abdomen, but I could live with it. The deflated air bag covered my legs, but I pulled them up as far as possible. I didn’t want him to shoot my leg. Because I was certain he would start shooting.
Jeff let go of my hand, and I felt even more exposed. He shimmied down farther, too, but not as far. His seat belt was close to his neck, but still across his shoulder. He didn’t move his legs. His foot was hovering over the accelerator.
“Hold on,” he whispered as his hand moved to the ignition and he turned the key.
The engine roared to life, and he slammed his foot on the accelerator. The car shot backward, and I felt as if I was on a roller coaster, my body slamming back against the seat. I had shifted even lower, the seat belt strap across my neck, but I could still see out the front windshield. One of the headlights was out, but the other one illuminated the desert. It was ugly out here, brown with a few tumbleweeds and scattered yuccas.
The gunshots were steady now.
The car swerved around, and we were facing the road again.
“Down, Brett!” Jeff shouted as he put the car into first and we rocketed forward, shots ringing in my ears, barely discernible above the engine’s roar, so much so that I thought the shots might have been my imagination. But then I saw the hole in the windshield. It had just registered when a body came up over the hood, smashed against the windshield, and then rolled off.
I couldn’t discern the hole anymore, because the entire windshield had shattered into a mosaic with the impact of the body.
The car kept going.
I moved up in my seat and stared out my window, looking back to see who it was.
“Do you think he’s okay?” I asked. My voice sounded too loud.
“Call 911,” Jeff barked, the car still rocketing down the road.
I leaned down and grabbed my bag. We were getting close to a traffic light, but Jeff wasn’t slowing down. There were a couple cars waiting at the light.
“Aren’t you going to stop?” I asked.
Jeff didn’t answer, spun the Pontiac around the cars.
It was brighter here, too, the streetlights doing a better job than the one up the road. I turned to confront Jeff about the speed of the car when I saw it.
The gun had blown a hole through more than the windshield.
Blood was pouring out of Jeff’s shoulder.