Emma nailed him in the thigh with her knee. He fell back and she blasted him in the eyes with a burst of the pepper spray. He covered his eyes and dropped into the fetal position. She promptly kicked him out through the door.
“Cambio exacto,” she said.
To Kurt’s surprise, the passengers cheered.
“Exact change,” she said. “He didn’t have it. So I had to kick him off the bus. Get it?”
Guiding the bus through a sweeping, high-speed turn, Kurt laughed. “We’re going to have to work on your delivery. But great work.”
For the next mile, Kurt was able to keep the other bus well behind them, but when the road straightened, the bus closed in once again. Another slam from behind almost sent them down the embankment, while the lights of the Malecón, and a sign depicting a boat being pulled out of the water by a trailer, whipped past.
“We’re running out of road,” Emma said. “Unless you can make this thing swim, we’re going to need an exit strategy.”
“That’s a brilliant idea,” Kurt said.
“No, actually, it wasn’t,” she said.
“Seriously, it’s genius,” Kurt replied.
“But buses don’t swim.”
“Exactly!”
Kurt slowed around the next turn and edged to the left. The other bus pulled up once again, dutifully taking the right side. It came over and hit them once. Then did so again. Kurt held his ground and waited until he saw the opening for the boat ramp.
Spotting it, he turned hard and held it. The two buses locked together, sections of sheet metal tearing loose and scraping the road.
Racing forward with a trail of sparks flaring out behind them, they came to the Y junction and the boat ramp.
Kurt gave the other bus a final shove and then spun the wheel back to the left. As the two buses separated, the one driven by the Chinese agent went down the boat ramp. The driver locked up the brakes, but the bus skidded on the wet, angled surface and slammed into the bay. A sheet of water flew up and crashed down around it. When the bus came to a stop, two-thirds of it was submerged.
Kurt brought his vehicle under control and continued down the road. Less than a mile later, he pulled into a bus stop on the outskirts of the Malecón.
Several people scattered, in shock at the condition of the bus. As Kurt parked, one of the front tires blew and the entire bus tilted to the side. Broken windows and paneling swung back and forth while chunks of glass dropped to the floor. When the air brakes hissed to release their pressure, the old bus gave up the ghost.
Kurt opened the door and waved a hand toward it as if delivering his passengers on a daily run. “Welcome to the Malecón. Watch your step.”
The passengers just stared at him with blank and confused expressions. “Tough crowd,” he said, switching the sign up front to: Sin Servicio—Out of Service.
He and Emma stepped off the bus together and made their way toward the crowd of tourists down below on the promenade.
“Think they’ll be back?” Emma asked, looking toward the boat ramp.
“Not tonight,” Kurt said. “If they’re not injured, they’re probably running and hiding, like we should be doing. But I’m assuming your NSA friends can get us out of any trouble we encounter.”
“I think we’ll be okay,” she said. “So how’d I do?”
“Not bad, for a rookie,” he said.
“Not bad?” she replied. “I totally saved you from some Mace in the face. And I got rid of the guy who tried to Tarzan into our crosstown express.”
Kurt laughed and the two of them eased into the flow of people, disappearing into the crowd and making their way to a secluded spot farther down on the pier.
“Okay, you did great,” Kurt admitted. “Just don’t let it go to your head.”
“I won’t,” she promised. “As long as I get appropriate credit in your report.”
“I’ll make you look good,” he said, “which won’t be hard to do. But if you really want a gold star, you’re going to have to take another risk. One that most of your NSA coworkers would have a meltdown even contemplating.”