your vehicle and go. Now.”
“Claire, this is—”
“I can’t explain it! Go! Please!”
The way she screamed the words, it sounded like she was begging. Like she was kneeling beside a ditch with a pistol to her head. The sound of it pierced Dryden—a needle into the deepest part of his brain, the reptile complex where fight-or-flight decisions were made in thousandths of a second.
He decided.
He reached for the door handle.
But before he could pull it, everything changed.
A hundred yards away off the vehicle’s left side, far from both the Land Rover and the police cruiser, a pinprick of light flared. A millisecond pop, like a flashbulb—but it wasn’t a flashbulb.
The windows on both sides of the Land Rover’s middle bench seat shattered, and Dryden heard the buzzing whine of a bullet cutting the air, passing through the vehicle maybe a foot behind him.
On instinct, Claire took her foot off the brake and shoved the accelerator to the floor. The Land Rover lurched forward into the dark, its headlights still doused.
Way out in the night, the muzzle flash came again, followed by others in unison, like spastic fireflies. Three shooters, maybe four, clustered tightly together, all firing at once.
Claire had the SUV doing 40 now, jostling over the scrubland. She was driving by the indirect glow from the police cruiser, still a couple hundred yards behind them. All at once the cruiser’s beams swung sharply away. Dryden turned in the passenger seat and looked back. The patrol car had jerked sideways and stopped. In the faint interior glow of its dashboard equipment, Dryden could see that its windows had all been blown out. As he watched, one of its headlights burst. The cruiser was taking the brunt of the rifle fire; the cop was almost certainly dead.
Claire cursed under her breath, pushing the Land Rover to 50. Without the patrol car’s headlights, the desert surface was nearly pitch black. The only visible detail was the road, a faint asphalt ribbon reflecting the predawn sky. Claire veered toward it across the hardpan but had gone only a few hundred feet when another bullet hit the Land Rover, punching through metal somewhere toward the back. A second later the concentrated fire from all the shooters began to rain against the vehicle, blowing out the rear windows, punching through the panels of the body. Clearly the shooters had night-vision scopes of one kind or another.
A tire blew; the vehicle slewed violently to the left before Claire got it back under control. The road was close now, fifty feet away as she angled toward it.
Then the driver’s-side window shattered, and Claire gasped, losing hold of the wheel. The Land Rover pulled hard left again, much too sharply for this speed. Dryden reached for the steering wheel, got his hands on it in the darkness—
Too late. The world heaved sickeningly beneath him as the big vehicle pitched onto its side and then its roof, tumbling hard enough that he had to hang on to keep from being thrown clear. He felt the strange machine in its plastic case, his own body pinning it to the console as he leaned across and clung to the steering wheel. Then the rolling vehicle came down on its roof for a second time, and Dryden’s head smacked against something, and all sensation switched off.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“She’s breathing. I think she’s good.”
A man’s voice, somewhere in the dark and the choking dust. No concern in his tone. Just flat assessment.
Dryden cracked his eyes. He was lying in the half-crushed cab of the Land Rover, which lay on its roof. Claire’s midsection was beside him; someone had dragged her halfway out of the wreck. Flashlight beams cut through the dust—a talclike powder in the air, probably from the air bags. Ragged scraps of plastic hung from the blown-open steering wheel and the passenger-side dashboard.
The hard plastic case with the strange machine inside it lay next to him. Through the closed lid he could faintly hear it
“Claire, this is—”
“I can’t explain it! Go! Please!”
The way she screamed the words, it sounded like she was begging. Like she was kneeling beside a ditch with a pistol to her head. The sound of it pierced Dryden—a needle into the deepest part of his brain, the reptile complex where fight-or-flight decisions were made in thousandths of a second.
He decided.
He reached for the door handle.
But before he could pull it, everything changed.
A hundred yards away off the vehicle’s left side, far from both the Land Rover and the police cruiser, a pinprick of light flared. A millisecond pop, like a flashbulb—but it wasn’t a flashbulb.
The windows on both sides of the Land Rover’s middle bench seat shattered, and Dryden heard the buzzing whine of a bullet cutting the air, passing through the vehicle maybe a foot behind him.
On instinct, Claire took her foot off the brake and shoved the accelerator to the floor. The Land Rover lurched forward into the dark, its headlights still doused.
Way out in the night, the muzzle flash came again, followed by others in unison, like spastic fireflies. Three shooters, maybe four, clustered tightly together, all firing at once.
Claire had the SUV doing 40 now, jostling over the scrubland. She was driving by the indirect glow from the police cruiser, still a couple hundred yards behind them. All at once the cruiser’s beams swung sharply away. Dryden turned in the passenger seat and looked back. The patrol car had jerked sideways and stopped. In the faint interior glow of its dashboard equipment, Dryden could see that its windows had all been blown out. As he watched, one of its headlights burst. The cruiser was taking the brunt of the rifle fire; the cop was almost certainly dead.
Claire cursed under her breath, pushing the Land Rover to 50. Without the patrol car’s headlights, the desert surface was nearly pitch black. The only visible detail was the road, a faint asphalt ribbon reflecting the predawn sky. Claire veered toward it across the hardpan but had gone only a few hundred feet when another bullet hit the Land Rover, punching through metal somewhere toward the back. A second later the concentrated fire from all the shooters began to rain against the vehicle, blowing out the rear windows, punching through the panels of the body. Clearly the shooters had night-vision scopes of one kind or another.
A tire blew; the vehicle slewed violently to the left before Claire got it back under control. The road was close now, fifty feet away as she angled toward it.
Then the driver’s-side window shattered, and Claire gasped, losing hold of the wheel. The Land Rover pulled hard left again, much too sharply for this speed. Dryden reached for the steering wheel, got his hands on it in the darkness—
Too late. The world heaved sickeningly beneath him as the big vehicle pitched onto its side and then its roof, tumbling hard enough that he had to hang on to keep from being thrown clear. He felt the strange machine in its plastic case, his own body pinning it to the console as he leaned across and clung to the steering wheel. Then the rolling vehicle came down on its roof for a second time, and Dryden’s head smacked against something, and all sensation switched off.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“She’s breathing. I think she’s good.”
A man’s voice, somewhere in the dark and the choking dust. No concern in his tone. Just flat assessment.
Dryden cracked his eyes. He was lying in the half-crushed cab of the Land Rover, which lay on its roof. Claire’s midsection was beside him; someone had dragged her halfway out of the wreck. Flashlight beams cut through the dust—a talclike powder in the air, probably from the air bags. Ragged scraps of plastic hung from the blown-open steering wheel and the passenger-side dashboard.
The hard plastic case with the strange machine inside it lay next to him. Through the closed lid he could faintly hear it
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