Page 50 of Retribution
“Neither. I got kids.”
“Immaculate conception?”
“And an ex-wife,” he says with an annoyed expression. “I don’t care about her.”
We’re not at the point where I can ask him if he’d ever roll on Finn or Lorcan. This information certainly puts him in my crosshairs. I have to be sure I can trust him to take a plea deal if he gets hauled in by us. Otherwise, I’m putting a giant target on my forehead instead of his.
“Kids, huh?”
“There isn’t nothing a good father won’t do for his kids.”
That was true of my own father. His hiking accident ripped another hole in my mother, left a gaping absence in me as well. That hole rotted and festered in each of us in different ways. I’m here, doing this. My mother? She’s gone. Checked out. Both of us are searching for paths to reunite our family. Her way is less violent.
“Well, I hope you get your wish, Antonio. You never know. Sometimes life goes in an unexpected direction.”
The roar of a motorbike penetrates the interior of the car. I glance over only to be met with a loudpopas a bullet hits the window. Like a web, the glass cracks on impact. Antonio swerves. Two other shots ping off the car. I reach for my gun, ducking low in my seat.
“Jesus Christ,” I say. “Are the windows bulletproof?”
“Far as I know.”
“How many shots till it fails?”
“No idea. We’ve never been shot at before.” He jerks to the side, and our car picks up speed.
The motorcycle roars beside us, a driver and the shooter. With what they’re riding, they’ll be able to outrun us all day, every day. Speeding away from them isn’t an option. He tries to swerve into them, but the driver of the bike is skilled and outmaneuvers him with ease.
There are two ways this ends. I can let them empty whatever ammunition they have into the car. Or I can roll down my window and fire back. There’s a good chance Antonio will be killed if I do the second option.
Another bullet hits my window, and the web spreads wider. Some glass is five rounds, others three, and some even less. Doing nothing is as much of a risk as doing something.
My hand hovers above the button for the automatic window.
Chapter Eighteen
Without giving it any more thought, I hit the button while Antonio swerves again. The motorcycle jerks to the side with us.
“Kim, what the hell!” he shouts above the thumping wind entering the car. “You’re going to get me killed.”
As they dip closer again, I take a deep, steadying breath. My heart beats so fiercely, I swear each pulse twitches my fingers. I fire a round into the leg of the driver. The motorcycle veers and rights itself. The shooter on the back readjusts and takes aim. Before they can fire, I shoot the rider in the arm. In the darkness, the gun clatters to the ground, and the bike falls back again before roaring up beside us once more.
“Aim for their Goddamned heads!”
“I’m trying!”I’m not.Killing people means a lot of paperwork with the bureau. These things are supposed to be preapproved.
The driver fires a rapid set of bullets at the car, but they go wide. This guy can’t steer, aim, and shoot. The passenger is slumped over, clutching his arm.
“Ram them!”
Antonio swerves again, and the bike pitches to the left before crashing to the ground and spinning out of control.
He slams on the brakes, reverses with a squeal of the tires, throws the car into park, then flings open his door.
“What are you doing?”
“Finishing them off.”
“Jail? Really? That’s what you want?”