Ken Douglas - Scorpion

“ Yeah,” Broxton said, adding gas. Then he was back on the road, charging toward an enemy car again. After so long, now twice in the same week.

“ What are you doing?” Ramsingh said, voice cool, like he was sitting in a bar ordering a gin and tonic.

“ Playing chicken,” Broxton said. “The last time I did this was a couple of days ago, with one of your police officers.” The back tires kicked off the last of the sand.

“ Who won?” Ramsingh said.

“ He did,” Broxton said, eyes glued onto the rushing headlights. Now, for him, there was no beach, no crashing waves, no lonely road, no prime minister. There was only the headlights, twin beams of death, racing toward him faster than his heart was racing out of control. Twice in the last week he’d taken a car into a spin and twice he’d panicked and done the wrong thing. Last time he told himself it was because he was driving on the left, this time he didn’t have that excuse, he just blew it.

And again he was back on Cherry Avenue, back in high school, playing chicken, only this time it wasn’t with a macho third world cop who would rather die than blink. This time he was playing with an assassin, and this time Broxton wasn’t going to blink.

He braced himself for the collision, but the on rushing car turned. Broxton grabbed a quick glance as they flew past. The driver jerked the wheel too fast and too far to the left. Broxton slammed on the brakes as the other car, a Jeep, left the road on its side. He heard the thunderous scraping of metal against concrete and then the car slammed onto its top, then over onto the other side, bouncing and sliding through the sand.

Broxton saw the headlights up ahead, “Another one,” he said as the Jeep hammered into the sea. It went into the water on the driver’s side, and Broxton shuddered for a flash of a second, thinking of the water rushing in around the man. Then he whipped the Mercedes around and accelerated away.

“ Remember the road ends,” Ramsingh said.

“ Yeah.” Broxton shifted into low, then he was going through a screaming right turn, following a sign with a long pointing arrow and the single word, ‘Marina.’ He didn’t know if the marina offered any help, or shelter, but he damn sure wasn’t going to charge another car. Not now, not ever again. He was going to quit that game while he was ahead. He was on a wide four lane road and the Mercedes was a thoroughbred. If the other car was another jeep he would have no trouble outdistancing it.

The engine was racing and Broxton grabbed the stick to shift out of low. “Shit,” he said.

“ What?”

“ Stuck.” The thoroughbred was stuck in low, it was rushing out of the starting gate, but it wasn’t going to canter or run. No way was he going to out distance anything.

“ Maybe it’s just someone out for a late night drive,” Ramsingh said.

“ They didn’t stop for the car that went off the highway,” Broxton said, pulling the wheel to the right and following another arrow, another marina sign, this one pointing left, and all of a sudden the heavy Mercedes was humping and bumping on a dirt road.

“ Slow down,” Ramsingh said, but Broxton already had his foot off the accelerator and he was gently tapping the brakes when the Mercedes coughed and died.

“ Shit, shit, shit,” he said as he tried the key.

Nothing.

“ We’re out of here,” Broxton said, opening his door.

Earl spun out of the parking lot and stepped on the gas, going through the gears like a pro.

“ Take the first left,” Undertaker’s voice cracked over the radio. He slammed on the brakes, skidding around the turn. He’d almost missed it. Then he was racing along a dark road, the pounding surf to his left, bare fields on the right. Up ahead he saw the two sets of headlights charging toward each other, like two bulls, fighting over the herd.

“ That’s some kind of crazy,” Earl said, and then Undertaker’s Jeep swerved left. The sudden jerk was too much for the top heavy car and it rolled onto its side, then onto its top as it slid off the road, toward the breaking waves. He slowed down, taking his foot off of the accelerator, downshifting into second as the Mercedes ahead spun around and took off like a rabbit running from the fox.

Unlike the Jeeps sold in America, the one sliding into the sea was built with a hard, square, boxy back. Earl noticed the hardtop right off. If his backup survived it would be the hardtop that saved his life.

“ Undertaker is down. Lost a game of chicken with your boy and is sliding into the surf as we speak,” Earl said into the radio. “Should I stop and offer assistance?”

“ Negative, keep after your quarry. I’m a minute behind. If he’s alive I’ll assist.”

More like put a bullet in the poor bastard’s brain, Earl thought, but “Affirmative” was all he said, as he stepped on the gas and took off after the Mercedes. It was about a quarter mile ahead. Earl punched the button on the glove box and took out her chrome-plated thirty-eight. Looked liked a pussy weapon, he thought, pretty and glittery, but deadly.

Up ahead the Mercedes squealed around a corner, headed toward the ocean. He wanted more speed, but his foot was on the floor. Then he was at the corner. He gave the brakes a quick tap, slammed in the clutch and threw it down into third, screamed around the corner and lost control as the Escort howled in protest, bouncing and slamming on a dirt road. The small car whipped around in a tight circle, but Earl managed to stop it without rolling it.

The road ended at the beach. The Mercedes was stopped ahead, with its doors open. The two men were running toward a dark group of abandoned buildings.

Broxton ran toward a Budget Rental sign, Ramsingh ran along with him, matching him stride for stride. The building was boarded and vacant, they hadn’t been renting cars for quite a while. Broxton tried the door, but he knew it was futile before his hand touched the knob. He was heaving air in and out and he could only imagine how the prime minister was doing.

“ I’m okay,” Ramsingh said, as if reading his thoughts.

“ We gotta move,” Broxton said. Then he heard the roaring engine and was captivated by the scene before him. The small Ford Escort spun around and was charging backwards toward the Mercedes. If we’re lucky, Broxton thought, but they weren’t lucky and the car stopped before the collision.

“ Quickly,” Ramsingh said, jerking Broxton’s eyes away from the two cars.

“ Right,” Broxton said, and together they ran along a series of closed, boarded and graffiti covered buildings. A small book store, a beauty shop, a tee shirt and dress shop, and a souvenir shop. Then he saw it. A huge monolith extending into the night sky. Dark, with a single light winking out from about the fifteenth floor. A failed hotel sitting smack on the beach, and there was a door on the ground floor, open wide and inviting. There was no place else to go.

“ I can make it,” Ramsingh said without waiting to be asked, and together the two men sprinted toward that door. Somewhere inside, down a corridor, a dim light beckoned. There was somebody in there. Hopefully not a trigger happy security guard, Broxton thought, as his feet slapped the hard ground. He was worried about Ramsingh, but the prime minister actually quickened his pace and Broxton had to fight to keep up, pumping his arms, forcing his feet to keep the rhythm.

Ramsingh burst through the door first as a gunshot ricocheted through the night and off the wall above the door.

“ Down,” Broxton screamed, diving forward and tackling the prime minister. They were both in the building, both down, both scrambling forward on hands and knees, when two more shots rang through the night. Broxton heard the bullets slam into something ahead in the dark.