Doranna Durgin - Beyond the Rules

“Where’s the shotgun?” Kimmer asked, cranking the engine. It hesitated; she gave it a swift kick of gas and it caught, rumbling unhappily.

“I don’t—”

“You do. Where?” She wrestled the gear shift into reverse, giving the approaching sedan a calculating glance. We’re not fast enough.

“Under the seat,” Hank admitted, and Rio ducked to grab it. “Why—”

“What did you think?” She snorted, backing them down the driveway. “Have it out right here in my neighborhood, with all these innocent people going about their lives? In my own house?”

“I didn’t think you’d run!” Hank snapped. “But then, that’s what you’re good at, isn’t it?”

“When the moment’s right.” Kimmer cranked the wheel to catapult them out into the street, looking back over her shoulder through the rear glass of the big utility vehicle.

Too close. They’re way too close.

She couldn’t make herself feel any particular concern about her brother’s safety, but this moment didn’t have to be about Hank. It was about the goonboys, who were now chasing not only Hank, but Kimmer and Rio. Rio, whom she wouldn’t allow to be hurt again. With the vehicle still whining in reverse, she locked her gaze on the rearview mirror. There they were. Goonboys, to be sure—guns at the ready, assumed victory molding their expressions.

She wasn’t in the habit of letting the goonboys win.

Kimmer jammed down the accelerator and watched their eyes widen.

T he crash resounded along the street. Mrs. Flint popped up from her flower garden next door, horror on her face. Kimmer didn’t wait for her rattled head to settle or her vision to clear. She ground the balky gears from Reverse to Drive and jammed her foot back down on the accelerator, bare foot stretching to make the distance.

The bumper fell off behind them. “Son of a bitch!” Hank groused, scrambling to find a seat belt that had probably disappeared between the seat cushions years ago.

Kimmer glanced in the rearview only to discover it had been knocked totally askew, but Rio saw it, too. He looked back and then turned a grin on her. “Nice,” he said. “They’re stalled and steaming.” He racked the shotgun with quick efficiency, counting the cartridges. “Four. And here I was thinking you might have bored out the magazine plug.”

“That’s not legal,” Hank muttered, still in search of the seat belt as Kimmer bounced them along the uneven street, discovering waves in the pavement she hadn’t even considered before.

“Oh, please,” she said while Rio loaded—one in the chamber, three in the magazine. “You just haven’t done it yet. Got more ammo?”

“’Course. Under the seat somewheres.”

“Find it.” She hit the brake, found it soft and unresponsive, and stomped down hard to make a wallowing turn uphill. “This thing drives like a boat.”

“Needs new brakes,” Hank said. He pawed through the belongings in the backseat, tossing take-out food wrappers out of his way.

“Needs brakes,” Kimmer repeated. “You don’t say.” And to Rio, “How’s it look?”

A glance, a resigned grimace. “They’re on the move again. You have a plan?”

“One that doesn’t include outrunning them?” she said dryly, glancing at the speedometer. Just forty miles per hour—fast enough in this rural-residential area. “Yes. Get the high ground. Pick them off if we have to. Hope my neighbors called the police.”

“I love that about you,” he said. “So efficient. Bash the bad guys—”

“BGs,” she reminded him.

“—and get the cops in on things at the same time.”

“Cops?” Hank popped up from his search. “If I’d wanted to go to the cops, I woulda called ’em from my place and saved myself the trip!”

“Quit whining,” Kimmer said shortly. “And find that box. Unless you just want to get out now? I can slow down—”

“This isn’t my hunting vehicle, you know. Dunno that I’ll find—whoop!”

Kimmer had no doubt that without his seat belt on that last hump of road, he’d been riding air. White picket fence flashed by the side windows as they hit a washboard dirt road and another incline. She spared a hand to grab quickly at the rearview mirror and straighten it. The road made perfection impossible, but now she could get her own glimpses of their pursuit.

Too close. She made a wicked face at the mirror. “Dammit.”

“Still going with Plan A?”

“There isn’t a Plan B. Besides, the last little bit is completely rutted—” this as she manhandled the Suburban around a turn that took them from dirt-and-gravel to dirt-and-grass—“and I don’t think they can make it.” They’d left the last farmhouse far behind and now climbed the road over a mound with picturesque spring-green trees. At the crest of that hill the road faded away into a small clearing, one that bore evidence of being a lovers’ lane, teenage hangout and child’s playground. Condoms, beer cans and a swinging tire.

On the nights when Kimmer couldn’t sleep, she found it the perfect target for a fast, dark training run. Less than a mile or so from home, a good uphill climb and at the end a perfect view of the descending moon on those nights when there was a moon at all.

The Suburban creaked and jounced and squeaked, and then abruptly slowed as Kimmer carefully placed the wheels so they wouldn’t ground out between ruts. A glance in the rearview mirror and…ah, yes. The sedan had lost ground. Pretty soon they’d be walking, unless they didn’t realize this road dead-ended and gave up, thinking the Suburban would just keep grinding along, up and over and down again.

Though if they stuck around long enough, they’d hear the Suburban’s lingering engine noise.

Kimmer crested the hill, swinging the big vehicle in a swooping curve that didn’t quite make it between two trees; the corner of the front bumper took a hit.

“Hey!” Hank sat up in indignant protest, scowling into the rearview mirror when no one responded to his squawk. Kimmer finally put the gearshift in Park, unsnapped her seat belt with one hand and held out the other for the shotgun. “Keep looking for those shells,” she told Hank.

“And Plan A is…?” Rio asked.

“I can get a vantage point on them. See if you can find something else in this heap that we can use as a weapon. Tire iron, maybe. Any other nefarious thing Hank might have collected. I’ve got my club, too.” She twisted around to look at Hank. “I changed my mind. Get your ass up here and turn this thing around. It’s going to take time we won’t want to waste if they do come up here on foot.”

“Jeez, when did you get to be such a bitch?” Hank gave her a surly look. “I came up here for help, not to get pussy-whipped.”

“You’ve got help.” Kimmer assessed the semiautomatic, a gun made for a bigger shooter than she’d ever be. No surprise. “You just thought you were going to call the shots. Well, guess what? Wrong.” She slid out the door. Rio was already out and at the back, rummaging around. “Watch your feet,” she told him. “There’s broken glass up here.”

“Got it. And got the tire iron. I’ll keep looking.”

With little grace, Hank climbed down from the backseat and up into the driver’s side. With exaggerated care he began the long back-and-forth process of turning the SUV around.

Kimmer took a few loping steps to the nearest tree, the maple with the tire swinging from a branch made just for that purpose. A lower branch on the other side acted as a step. She pulled herself up one-handed, climbing the easiest route to the branch from which the tire hung. From there she looked down on the road they’d just traversed. It passed almost directly beneath the tire before the hairpin turn that ended at the top of the hill. From there the area spread out before her—small farms and then the smaller tracts of her neighborhood in neat, topographically parallel streets.