Split Second

“What do you think my first experiment should be? Should I shoot you, and then undo it? You won’t know, but I will. And when I tell you that you were dead eight seconds before you died, you will believe it.”

Yes, she would, indeed. Lucy swallowed. “Why not try another experiment, Miranda? Like crashing that clock to the floor and saying ‘SEFYLL,’ and then see if it’s back on the nightstand again?”

“Shooting you would be such a glorious proof.” She sighed. “But all right, it’ll be my first time, best try something easy. All right, the bloody clock.” She threw it to the floor and yelled, “SEFYLL.”

CHAPTER 69

North Carolina

She’d shot him. Coop yelled with the shock of the sharp punch of pain in his side. He lay there panting, trying to get hold of himself. He felt blood spreading over his side, through his shirt, onto his shearling coat. He had to slow the bleeding or he’d die, since he couldn’t picture Kirsten hauling him to an ER.

Kirsten was smiling down at him. “Not such a big mouth on you now, Mr. Agent. All laid out and bleeding. Here, get the bleeding stopped, I don’t want to drive.” She threw him a black T-shirt from a pile of clothes she’d heaped on the backseat. “Lucky for you I kept some of Bruce’s clothes. That T-shirt ought to do it. It’s clean enough. Too bad. I was going to keep that shirt.”

Coop pulled up his shirt, eyed the wound. Thank God it was through and through, and shallow, but it was still bleeding. He folded the T-shirt, pressed it over both the entry and exit wounds, and fastened his belt around himself. That should hold it. He drew a deep breath, getting his brain to accept the pain and set it aside. There was blood on the inside of his shearling, but somehow no bullet hole. Realizing he’d even thought about his coat made him smile.

“What are you smiling about? I shot you, you moron! Come on, move! You don’t drive, then you die here, your choice.”

Slowly, Coop got to his feet. He could function, but he knew it wasn’t enough. At least she’d proved she didn’t want to kill him yet; she wanted to use him as a hostage, or at least as a driver. But it was up to him to stop her, there was no one else to do it. “I’ll drive.”

“Thought you would. Let’s go, haven’t got all day, now, do we? In a couple of hours, we’ll stop at a motel, get some sleep.”

When they reached the highway again, Coop saw a flash of black. It was a Porsche, Savich’s Porsche.

CHAPTER 70

Sherlock saw them merging into traffic ahead of them. “That’s Coop. In the Dodge!”

Savich quickly eased the Porsche behind a big SUV. “I see them. We’ll hang back, wait for Coop to stop again.”

Suddenly a silver North Carolina Highway Patrol cruiser, with its distinctive wide black stripe and State Trooper logo, pulled out around them and sped forward.

“Not good, Dillon. I’ll bet they’ve spotted Kirsten.”

The cruiser was a missile headed right for the Dodge. They saw the officer holding his radio in his hand, speaking into it, his partner, his head out the window, probably shouting back that the license plate was too dirty to read.

Savich accelerated. Drivers all around them were staring now, rubbernecking, and traffic was slowing down.

The cruiser’s siren came on.

Sherlock got on her cell to the North Carolina Highway Patrol.

They watched, helpless, as the Dodge sped up, weaving in and out of traffic, trying to lose the highway patrol. Good luck with that. They could see Coop clearly now, and Kirsten, looking back at the cruiser, then at Coop. They saw her waving a gun, pointing it back toward them. Then, suddenly, the highway patrolman in the passenger seat began shooting.

CHAPTER 71

Kirsten slid down in the seat and shoved her gun hard into his ribs again. “Those idiot cops are shooting at us! How did they know about this car? You get us out of here, now! Move!”

Coop pressed his foot on the gas pedal. He saw Savich coming up behind the highway patrol cruiser, both of them closing on the Dodge, and all the while Kirsten screamed curses. Suddenly, a bullet struck the back window, shattered the glass. Another bullet, then another, striking the rearview mirror on the passenger side. They were aiming at Kirsten, not at him. He prayed they were good shots.

Coop saw her twist around, get her window down, and then she was leaning out, firing back at them.

He’d never have a better chance.

Coop jerked the car hard right, skidded across the shoulder gravel, and rocketed through a fence into a tobacco field, plowing through the harvested stalks. The impact sent Kirsten flying backward, striking the back of her head against the dash. It didn’t knock her out, but she was dead silent for a moment, her face a white mask, her eyes glazed, and then she was up and firing, not at him but out the window again at the highway patrol car that had followed them into the field. She grabbed the chicken stick as they bumped and tore through the wide rows. She realized he kept mowing through the stalks on purpose to slow them, not letting the car pass between the rows, and she turned toward him, his SIG leading. Where was her gun? He shot out his fist and struck her jaw with all the strength he had.