“Go now, Josh. Hurry. Take both SUVs, because we found a new ride,” the guy with glasses said into the phone.
My heart leapt as the garage door behind us began to rattle open. The guy with the beard turned around and knelt on the seat with his machine gun at the ready, and he said, “Now would be a great time to get that engine started, Jack. Otherwise, this is about to turn into a Quentin Tarantino film.”
Jack muttered, “I’m trying,” as he stripped a bit of wire with his pocket knife.
Glasses guy dropped his phone back into the pocket of his suit jacket and said, “They’re safe and on their way back to town.” Then he too turned around in his seat and pointed his gun at the garage door as he told his brother, “I would have said John Woo, or maybe Robert Rodriguez. Their films have a much higher body count than Tarantino’s.”
“That’s a good point,” the other guy said. “You know what’s funny, though? I recently read an article that claimed the director with the highest body count overall is actually Peter Jackson.” How the hell were they so calm?
“No shit.”
“Yeah, well, when you think about it, all those Middle Earth armies really stacked up the casualties.” He turned his head and added, “We’re about three seconds from major carnage, Jack.”
The slow-moving garage door was maybe three feet up by this point, and I could see at least six pairs of legs on the other side. Good thing none of those men were ambitious enough to duck under and start shooting us like fish in a barrel.
In the next instant, the engine turned over and Jack whooped with joy. I smiled at him and said, “I knew you could do it.”
He grinned at me, and then he threw the car into reverse and yelled, “Duck!”
All four of us ducked down as the Corvair shot backwards. The windshield tore off with the sound of bending metal and breaking glass as we just barely cleared the garage door. Jack sat up and looked over his shoulder as he sped down the driveway, and I peeked over the hood at the scene back at the garage.
Greco’s men had all managed to dive out of the way, and as they staggered to their feet a couple of them started firing guns in our direction. I pulled Jack down so we were both below the dash, and he smiled at me and said, “I’m so happy you’re okay.”
Then he sat up again, shifted gears, and yanked the parking brake. The car spun around with the smell of burning rubber and the squeal of tires on asphalt. Now that we were pointing the right way, he shifted gears again and slammed on the gas.
He laughed delightedly, and I sat up and yelled over the wind, “Marry me!”
He flashed me a smile and yelled back, “Ask me again when you’re not high on adrenaline!” Then he shifted gears once more and accelerated, and we were tossed back against our seats.
I said, “I will,” and fished around in the glove box. Then I handed him a pair of aviator-style sunglasses. It was dark out, but the air flow was intense without a windshield.
He thanked me and put them on, and then he said, “Shit, do you suppose that’s Greco?”
Another car was dead ahead, barreling toward us on the one-lane private road. “Probably.” After a beat, I added, “He’s not slowing down. I bet his men called and told him I escaped, so maybe he plans to run us off the road.”
Jack asked, “Should I offroad it?”
“Nah, you might flip the car with those ditches on either side of us,” one of our companions said, as they both stood up. Without discussion, they started shooting at the approaching vehicle, which was maybe a hundred yards away and closing fast.
Seconds before impact, one of them managed to hit a tire, and the other car careened off the road. As we zoomed past, I caught a glimpse of Greco’s startled expression, which made me grin. Then I turned around and watched as he staggered out of the car, which had ended up nose-down in a ditch.
Moments later, Jack made a wild left turn onto the main road and asked, “Is anyone chasing us?”
The guy with the beard looked behind us and said, “I don’t see anyone, but I’m not worried. I’ll just shoot out another tire if they come after us.”
I asked him, “Which one are you, again?”
“Dante. That’s Vincent.” He gestured at the guy in glasses, who offered me a little salute.
“I hate to break it to you, Dante,” I said, “but Vincent shot out the tire. The one on the right blew, and you were aiming at the one on the left.”
Vincent smirked and said, “I was just about to point that out.”
Dante muttered, “Whatever,” and took a phone from the pocket of his black suit jacket. Both he and Vincent were dressed impeccably. I had to admire anyone who decided a perfectly tailored suit was the right choice for a heavily-armed commando raid.
Dante placed a call, yelling over the rushing wind, “Charlie? Is that you?” He listened for a few seconds, then said, “I can’t hear a fucking thing, but this went great and we’re right behind you. Can you pull over so we can catch up? I think we need to ditch our ride, because it’s making my eyes water.” He listened for another moment before shouting, “I adore you, angel. See you in a minute.” Then he returned the phone to his pocket and reclined casually with his arm draped over the back of the seat, as if he was out for a peaceful Sunday drive.
A couple of minutes later, Jack pulled in behind a white SUV that was parked on the side of the road. Dante immediately vaulted over the side of the convertible, closed the distance to a muscular brunet, and kissed him passionately.