Valentine's CYOA, Chapter 4

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Chapter Four

"Shoot them."

"You so owe me some chocolate when we get out of this mess." I aimed and squeezed the trigger.

When a gun is thrust unexpectedly into your hand, and you've never fired a gun, you have to be willing to learn "on the job." Here's what I've learned so far: It's probably best not to close your eyes when you shoot a gun. Our driver's door would never be the same.

On the bright side, my killing our door sent our car careening, (the hunk is easily startled). Careening meant our heads were no longer precisely where their bullets were aimed. And, in case you ever need to know, bullets fired into a gas tank don't actually make the car explode. Plus we shook some of them off our tail. I count the whole thing a win-win.

Hunk did not. Weenie. However, the man can cuss an inventive blue streak and never take his eyes off the road or repeat himself. I'm guessing my evaluation will not include a smiley face. Hey, if you hire amateurs, then you have to be willing to live with the consequences. No, I did not say that aloud. I'm an amateur, not stupid. Besides, he was driving and I was very much afraid my survival depended on whether his rites of passage into manhood had included running dirt tracks in some backwater little town. We couldn't win a game of demolition derby, but if he could execute some nice weaves and turns, we might just open up enough daylight to survive. Maybe.

I was counting on that maybe. When you're scared, maybe means a lot. It's all you have to hold onto. When I finally risked another look over my shoulder to check on the Black Death rolling behind us, I realized we had opened up a lead. Unfortunately, I didn't think we were heading in the right direction. We'd passed over a small creek bridge, which meant we were leaving the city and all those lovely get-lost-in streets behind us. All I could remember was a corporate training seminar from my bank teller days in which they continually repeated, "Never let them take you to the second crime scene. Your odds of survival go down."

I didn't want to go wherever he was taking me-especially out of the city, but if he'd wanted to shoot me, he could have done so a long time ago. So, point for him. And to be honest, the careening had sent us in this direction away from town. I didn't think now was the time to bring that up.

"Gun." He held out his hand, calm in a way I hadn't seen before. Like he'd let go of some tension and made a decision. His gaze flicked repeatedly from rearview to the road.

I ponied up the pistol. "Look. I'm sorry, but I didn't sign up for the St. Valentine's Day Massacre."

"And that's what's going to get us both killed, Cara. Because Mel did and you're not Mel." He slipped the gun into what had to be a custom holster just to the side and angled under the driver's seat. "Which means we're going to have to do this the hard way. Hold on."

I grabbed the dash and held my breath as he hit the brakes and yanked the emergency while spinning the wheel. Our car wasn't small but we had turning radius to spare compared to the silent, relentless land shark we now faced. As I said, I'm an amateur but I'm not stupid. We were about to play a game of chicken and if the bad guy didn't give, we would surely swallow more than our recommended daily dose of iron.

"I'm not so sure this is a good idea." Well, I was sure, but I was trying to be polite. "I'd like to get out of the car now. Please."

"Weenie."

"They have guns."

"Yes, because you didn't shoot them."

"Which means they're going to shoot us, you moron." Okay, I was snippy. I admit it. This yahoo was about to get me killed. Again. I took back the point I gave him.

He must have decided he was in range again because he pulled the pistol from the holster and fired. The windshield had shattered sometime back. Targeting wasn't hampered by any pesky safety glass. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate his attempts to keep them from firing on us, but I found myself judging the speed of our car and trying to decide if a skid over asphalt on my ass would actually do anything for my cellulite.

Hunkster wasn't budging from his course. He could give lessons in focused. The man was in it to win it. Eyes on the prize. All those clichés which, quite frankly, were beginning to get on my nerves. What a load of crap. They were all code for "too stupid to quit." And I didn't care if he had silver bullets and nerves of steel. We were out-gunned. Even an amateur could see that. I shot a glance out the side window.

"In or out, Cara mia. Either jump or put your damned seat belt on. This isn't a game."

"You think?"

A) He squeezed off another round and as I watched fate bearing down on us, I realized he actually had a plan. The last SUV still following us after our careening episode had four wheels on that bridge and nowhere to go but through us or through the railing. Heaven help me. I was trapped in a car with a cowboy determined to replay the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral. We had to hope the other guy flinched first.

B) "Seriously, put your seat belt on."
He didn't look to see if I obeyed, which would probably have pissed me off, truth be told. He slammed on the brakes again and put the car into the weeds at the edge of the bridge. The car tilted, teetered and slammed hard as we found the sloping embankment. I took a hard return trip to the floorboard muttering, "Rat bastard." He knew I hadn't fastened my belt. Just like he knew all along he wasn't going to push the chicken game.

Not an inch of my body escaped bruising as I clawed my way back into the seat, taking a nice jolt to my head from the door support as the car hit a rut that must've exited in China. Instead of stars, I saw one of those long flat-bottomed fishing boats. And, thankyouJesus, it had a motor. A trolling motor.

C) "I'm pretty sure it's not a game."

That's when I noticed the blood on the steering wheel, seeping through the cuff of his shirt to drip on his leg. Most of his left sleeve was wet with blood.

"I'm really sorry, Cara mia." He slumped.

D) His equally snappy reply was cut off by the sick cough of a dying engine.

I sputtered right along with the car. "You have got to be kidding me."

"I rarely joke. Jump!"

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