The Incident (Chase Barnes Series Book 1) (33 page)

NINETY ONE

Swerving into the adjacent lane to my right of me was the best option to not get killed.  Same goes for the people that fortunately weren’t next to me that I could have side swiped and driven off the road.  I dropped my speed back down to fifty, hoping to lengthen the distance between me and the van.  Also, praying that the increased range would reduce my chances of catching one between the nostrils.  It was effective enough.  That was until I saw the van’s brake lights flash and the space in between us tightened faster than the knot in my stomach as Klein switched to my lane.  I swerved the SUV into another lane to my right.  Again, dodging the possibility of side swiping a Toyota Corolla.  Bullets pinged and panged off the entire front end of my car.  Two had blasted through the passenger side of the windshield, which could have very well ended up buried somewhere inside my flesh if I hadn’t kept the car on a constant pendulum. 

              Gunning the engine, I had no issue getting parallel with the van.  The gunfire continued and through my side-view mirror I could see one of Klein’s goons hanging onto the rear door with one hand while his other wielded a large type of handgun.  A few bullets ricocheted off somewhere in the rear of the car.  My knuckles were gripping the wheel with so much grit and force they looked transparent. 

              I was finally able to gain a glance at Klein behind the wheel.  He would periodically turn his head over his right shoulder waiting for commands from the rear of the van.  He was trying his best to focus on the road and dodge cars in front of him.  I was trying to do the same.  No sense in injuring the innocent.  I’d normally like to insert the phrase, “great minds think alike,” here but I felt it didn’t apply.  I didn’t deem Klein to be one with a “great mind.”  Evil, maybe, but not great.  And mine’s been on the fritz as of late.  Klein and I both reached for and raised our handguns at each other while simultaneously gripping the wheel. 

              “This fucking guy is out of his mind,” I said to myself.  I tapped my brakes just in time to see a wild shot whiz by me.  Klein hadn’t bothered to lower his passenger window and shot it to pieces.  We were still travelling at intermediate speeds on the open highway of Route 80 in the middle of the day where traffic normally is much heavier.  Bystanders were dropping their speeds to avoid getting caught in the middle of our action- film like car chase.  The shots from the rear of the van finally subsided.  Reloading, perhaps?  I tapped the automatic window button once and watched my driver’s side window drop down.  Was this a smart idea or was I opening myself a new window of opportunity to die?  I had no idea and now was no time to care. 

              My phone buzzed in my pocket.  Impeccable timing.  I was kinda busy.  And now was no time to wonder why I never set up the Bluetooth phone system in my car.  I saw we were zipping past the exits for Hackensack on Route 80 and estimated we had about seven or eight miles left on the highway before we ran into the George Washington Bridge.  Was that Klein’s destination?  New York?  Somewhere beyond?  If it was, he wasn’t going to make it this time.  We were fortunate to have extremely light traffic to deal with now but the closer we got to the bridge traffic was inevitably going to get thicker at the toll booths. 

              I held my gun in my right hand with my left on top of the wheel holding it as steady as I could.  The crisscrossed entanglement of my arms wasn’t comfortable and certainly unorthodox for firing accurate shots but accuracy wasn’t my concern at the moment.  Efficiency and blowing out a tire was my ultimate goal.  I fired three shots at the van.  All three peppered the side paneling.  I wanted Klein to know that I, too, came to play.  I managed to switch the gun to my left hand, placing my right on the wheel.  The car swerved a bit but I quickly regained control.  My left arm loosely hung out the window like a truck driver getting a tan.  I dropped my arm so my armpit rested on the open window frame and extended the gun as far as I could.  I blasted another two shots into the passenger window. 

There was an explosion upon impact and I kept the wheel of my car as steady as I could watching the van shimmy and shake, drifting into my lane.  I had no idea what, or who, I hit, hoping a shot caught some part of Klein’s body.  My intention wasn’t to kill him.  Just to slow him down.  And, oh yeah, prevent him from killing me in this wild goose chase.

              Klein’s van was now in the far left lane.  The center divider on his left and my SUV on his right.  I brought the car up against Klein’s window again and saw that both of my shots must’ve missed him.  No signs of blood on him or the windows around him.  There was only one thing left that would put an end to this hellish excursion.  I had to wait for the right moment to minimize peripheral damage to innocent commuters.  Suddenly, I heard more shots coming from the van.  But this time they were coming at me from the front passenger seat of the van.  One of the shooters from the rear climbed up front and took aim from the security and stability of the front seat.  I dropped my car back and swung into the left lane behind the van.  In line with the rickety pile of junk, with the doors still flailing about like a newborn baby’s neck on a roller coaster, I took aim once again.

NINETY TWO

This time I was hoping to blow out one of the rear tires. 

              I emptied my clip and missed all of the shots.  How the hell was I supposed to reload a gun while travelling at sixty- five miles per hour in the midst of a gun battle in which I was horribly outnumbered?  Where the hell were my extra clips anyway?  I knew I had a few in my closet at home, which clearly wouldn’t help my cause at the moment.  I kept driving at a safe distance while thinking of what else I could do to take out the van.  I didn’t exactly keep spiked strips in my glove compartment.

             
Wait!

             
There was another clip in the pocket directly behind my seat.  I remembered putting it there after the one time I attempted to return to the shooting range with Fitzgerald but couldn’t get myself to do it.  Dropping the clip in the rear pocket, I hoped I would muster up enough courage to load it again.  I think my original intentions were to come back to it in the controlled environment of the shooting range.  Not a high- speed car chase with my life on the line. 

              Trying to steady the car with my left hand, I unsuccessfully made a few attempts at reaching around with my right into the pocket.  The clip had sank to the bottom of the pocket and I was sure there was nothing else in there that might’ve caught it or I could use to pry it out.  My knees gripped the wheel and kept it as steady as knees controlling the wheel could do.  I lifted my torso up off the seat to hopefully give me enough leverage to reach deep into the pocket.  Keeping my eyes on Klein and the van as much as I could.  I knew I was setting myself up for target practice as I openly exposed my chest to the shooters on my left but I had to do what needed to be done.  I fingered the clip a few times before turning it upright inside the pocket, which allowed me to grab it.  My shoulder screamed in pain as I forcefully put more torque on the joints than should be allowed.  The empty clip blindly dropped to the floor of the foot well on the passenger side when I released it.  Then, I loaded the clip into my gun and brought it out of the car window again, taking aim at the rear of the van still in front of me.  I fired a few rounds into the exposed flatbed of the van and saw that at least one bullet caught one of the goons somewhere in his lower extremities.  I heard the scream. 

              Lowering my gun and finally having a clear shot, I took aim and fired off four more rounds into both rear tires of the van.  At least one must’ve caught rubber because I heard a loud whistling noise blended with wild screeches of the blown- out tire.  It was the rear driver’s side tire.  I braked my car to avoid a collision with the now out of control van.  The injured thug in the back of the van flopped around like a goldfish on a countertop and eventually rolled out of the van.  Instincts made me swerve to the right just in time, avoiding running him over, but I hoped I might have at least gotten an arm.  The van slammed into the center divider, sending sparks flying everywhere.  So many horns were blaring in my ears it sounded like I had a marching band in my back seat.  About a dozen or so cars around us were suddenly screeching to a halt, hoping to not become a part of the mayhem in surrounding them. 

I saw we had just past the exit for the New Jersey Turnpike and were continuing our approach to the bridge.  There was a left- turning bend just ahead.  With the blown tire I knew Klein wouldn’t make it there but something else worried me now.  How far exactly was Klein willing to take this useless van before giving in and letting it die out?

The van crashed two more times into the divider and caromed off another car as it crossed two lanes to its right, ripping off the front fender of the Ford Escort.  The bystander’s car spun in a complete circle and stopping just before crashing into me or any other cars.  Smoke quickly began to rise from Klein’s van and something under the hood caused the hood to become engulfed in flames. 

              Finally, Klein’s van jumped the curb off the shoulder and uncontrollably spun onto a grassy knoll.  It came to a rest against a fence about twenty- five feet off the shoulder of the highway.  The Santa Fe managed to hold up pretty well throughout the gun- battling car chase, sans a few bullet holes in the windshield and a smashed headlight on the driver’s side.  The front fender was slightly hanging off the same side.

              I glided to the shoulder of the highway and parked the Santa Fe near the location where the van drove off the road.  Sweat poured out of every part of my upper body.  And my anxiety raged out of control.  But I also felt I finally had momentum on my side so there was no time to stop now.  Toting my gun close to my thigh, I approached the van, which was gradually engulfing itself in flames.  The rear doors casually swung in the light breeze that suddenly blew through.  Smoke billowed out of the engine and I didn’t see anyone trying to escape.  I kept my distance, expecting the van to explode. 

              In what seemed like slow motion, the driver’s side door swung open and I watched Klein drop from the driver’s seat onto the grass.  From my vantage point, I couldn’t tell if he was breathing.  I figured I had a leg up on the situation and approached Klein with confidence.  His eyes were fluttering and he was bleeding from several gashes on his forehead.  He looked like a wounded ultimate fighting competitor.  The thousand- dollar suit he had on was no longer good enough to buff the scratches off the hood of my car.  The arms of the suit jacket were littered with burn scars and tears.  The left lapel was torn off, dangling by a few threads.  And the matching pants were severely stained with blood. 

              I couldn’t help but laugh at the once self- proclaimed powerful man.  Now simply crumbled into a pile of bleeding flesh.  I kicked Klein in the ribs to get him lying on his back and straddled his body at the waist.  Laughter caught in my throat again, causing Klein to open his eyes.  I couldn’t tell if he was startled to see me standing over him or by the vulnerable position he suddenly discovered himself to be in.  My thoughts told me it was the gun barrel staring him between the eyes.  Before he could squirm out from underneath me I plopped down and sat on his stomach.  Blood began to seep out the corner of his mouth.  He reminded me of a deflated water balloon.  Klein coughed what seemed like a laugh of his own. 

              “Look who’s about to go from the frying pan to the fryer,” I said. 

NINETY THREE

Esteban rang the buzzer several times without a result.  Paranoia couldn’t help but control his mind.  During the entire trip to Jamal’s apartment building, Esteban must’ve looked over his shoulder every other step he took.  He’d gotten lost twice trying to take detours to throw off those he thought might be following him.  Esteban was confident no one was behind him and he wondered how he could’ve escaped so easily.  Just as easily as he’d been taken off the streets in the first place, he thought, he was right back on them.  During his entire time in captivity, Esteban began to lose track of the days.  He had to pop into a local deli and glance at a newspaper to check the date. 

              Where the hell was Jamal? Esteban repeatedly asked himself.  After what seemed like the hundredth ring of the buzzer, someone answered but it wasn’t Jamal.  It was a female voice.