Robert Browne: Kiss Her Goodbye

He found the key in the ignition, twisted it, and the engine coughed, roaring to life. Jamming his foot against the accelerator, he spun the wheel and shot toward the intersection.

The news van was two blocks ahead now, weaving crazily through midmorning traffic. Donovan searched the dash, flipped a switch, and the patrol car’s siren kicked in.

Traffic parted grudgingly and he punched the pedal, picking up speed-two blocks, a block, half a block-steadily gaining on his prey.

The van turned, a hard right into an alley. Donovan raced after it, honking his horn as he went. He whipped the wheel and turned into the alley just as the news van cleared the opposite end. It made an arcing left, nearly sideswiped a parked car, and continued on without slowing.

Donovan sped up, made a quick left.

Up ahead, the van blasted through another intersection. As Donovan struggled to catch up, some idiot in a Volvo crossed his path. Donovan swerved to avoid him, but clipped the Volvo’s rear bumper and sent it into a spin.

Stupid bastard.

Donovan straightened the wheel and continued on without slowing, glancing in his rearview mirror as the Volvo slammed into a lamppost with a metallic crunch. He could only hope the driver was okay.

The wound in his thigh felt like a lump of molten lava. He probed it with two fingers and discovered something hard and jagged embedded in the flesh. He couldn’t be sure, but it felt like a sliver of Plexiglas.

Biting back a wave of nausea, he tried to concentrate on the van. It was within striking distance now, its rear bumper only feet away.

Donovan nudged the accelerator and pulled up along the right rear side. Jerking the wheel hard, he smashed the side of the van.

It swerved, losing speed.

That’s right, you son of a bitch, I’m right on your ass.

Without hesitating, Donovan jerked the wheel again. Metal crunched.

The van fishtailed, its driver nearly losing control.

He had them now. One more hit and this race was over. He was about to jerk the wheel a third time when the van’s side door flew open and Alexander Gunderson pointed the business end of an M203 grenade launcher directly at him.

So Barney wanted to play.

Moments earlier, Gunderson was watching him through the van’s rear windows, watching him work the wheel with a ferocity he didn’t know the man possessed. Fucker blew right past that Volvo with barely a backward glance.

Driving like that took balls.

Until today, Special Agent Jack had been more of an annoyance than a threat. Gunderson had never considered him much more than a minor itch he’d eventually have to scratch. That opinion had changed, however, with every jerk of Barney boy’s wheel.

So maybe he wasn’t Barney after all. Maybe he was Chuck Heston, NRA poster child, crashing his chariot into theirs, jostling Gunderson’s crew and forcing Tina, Queen of the Gladiators, to fight the wheel.

If Jack wanted to play, Gunderson was more than happy to oblige.

He’d even brought along his toys.

After that second jolt, he tore himself away from the window and gestured to Gabriel, who immediately tossed him an M4 carbine with an underbarrel launcher. Squeezing past Luther and Nemo, he moved to the side door.

Sara, strapped in up front, looked at him over her shoulder. “Careful, sweetie.”

She was trying to mask her fear, but he could see it in the way she kept her shoulder muscles tensed, as if bracing for an impact.

Poor kid. He’d tried to convince her to sit this one out, but she’d insisted on coming along. Refused to be left behind. She was a True Believer, Sara was-her passion and his skill the perfect marriage. And despite her condition, she was the best soldier on his team.

She was his muse. His inspiration.

His only true cause.

He smiled at her, reached over, and rubbed her belly. Alex Jr. was kicking around like crazy. Probably scared, too. “Hang on, baby. It’ll all be over in a minute.”

He popped a charge into the breech. With a grunt, he rolled the side door open, then pointed the launcher at Donovan’s windshield.

“Send up a prayer, motherfucker. You’re about to kiss God.”

The grenade launcher barked and Donovan swerved. The charge hissed overhead and a parked car behind him exploded, erupting in flames.

Score one for the good guys.

But Gunderson wasn’t a quitter. He popped another charge into the breech, let it fly.

Donovan braked and swerved a second time, hearing another ominous hiss as the grenade streaked past his windshield and blew a chunk out of the blacktop.

Two-nothing, home team.

But he’d been lucky. If Gunderson fired that weapon a third time, there was a pretty good chance they’d be peeling Donovan’s hide off these car seats with a pair of forensic tweezers.

He floored the accelerator, regaining his momentum, and just as Gunderson finished loading up charge number three, Donovan jerked the wheel, hard.

The van shuddered and fishtailed, the impact knocking Gunderson off his feet. He fumbled the carbine, which tumbled past the doorway, slammed onto the hood of the cruiser, then bounced into the street. Gunderson was about to follow when big hands grabbed him and yanked him back inside.

But Gunderson’s troubles were far from over. The news van swerved wildly now as its driver fought for control of the wheel.

Up ahead, a road crew had set up shop in the middle of the street, signs warning drivers to PROCEED WITH CAUTION — and the van was doing anything but.

The next happened so fast it barely had time to register in Donovan’s brain:

Swerving to avoid the road crew, the news van tilted sideways onto two wheels, then tipped over with a rusty groan and began to roll. Gunderson and a big guy in a ski mask were launched through the open side door by the force of the impact. As they tumbled onto the street, the van rolled and rolled, metal pounding blacktop, windows splintering, until it finally barreled through a row of parked cars and came to rest against the fresh carcass of a BMW.

Donovan, meanwhile, jammed his foot against the cruiser’s brake pedal, feeling the tires melt beneath him. But it was too little, too late. The patrol car skidded into the mangled leftovers and stopped cold.

That’s when Donovan’s forehead met the steering wheel and everything went black.

A baby was crying. Somewhere far away.

Gunderson lifted his head off the blacktop, felt the burn of road rash against his left cheek, the tickle of blood on his forehead. He pushed himself up on his elbows and looked around, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened.

Someone was lying near him on the road. Dressed in black. Groaning.

Luther?

Sounded like him. Looked about his size. Still wearing his goddamn ski mask, the paranoid fuck.

Luther always said he’d back Gunderson’s play with everything he had-everything except his face. “I’m no superstar,” he’d once told Gunderson. “You tell me what to do, I’ll do it, but my ma ain’t gonna see my face all over the TV news.”

Luther wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but Gunderson had to respect his point of view.

But then, Luther wasn’t the concern right now, was he? Something else sat unformed at the periphery of Gunderson’s mind, something he needed to take care of. Unfortunately, his head felt like a can of soda that had been shaken up and left in the freezer too long.

In the distance, the baby was still crying. Getting closer now. Couldn’t somebody shut that fucking kid up so he could concentrate?

No, wait. Not a baby.

A siren. A police siren.

Then all at once it hit him: Special Agent Jack. The van. Tina losing control of the wheel.