Okay. I took another deep, steadying breath. He could make claws sprout out of his hands, and I could apparently draw metal things into mine. “All right,” I said, deciding there was nothing to lose by the effort. “Let’s give it a try.”
With odd reluctance, he turned around, presenting his back once more. As I laid my palm over the second bullet wound, the muscles in his back and arms bunched and tightened. “Think of pulling it out,” he said in a voice that sounded terse and strained. “Call it into your hand.”
“Relax,” I muttered. “You seem even more nervous about this than I am.” Focusing on that part of myself, I felt my palm begin to thrum, felt it stroke his surface skin and start to reach deeper into his injured flesh. I stopped it there, holding the power, keeping it leashed close to its origin.
Not in, I told myself. Don’t go in to it. Make it come out to you.
I concentrated and fought against the pulling need of the power to seep down and in, mapping out the injury as it had before. Visualizing the hole made through his flesh, I fixed the image of the silver bullet in my mind, and the mole in my palm heated, grew physically hot against his skin.
Without warning, Dante yanked away and swung around to face me, his pale eyes glittering, his face damp with perspiration, chest moving in deep breaths.
“Did I hurt you?” I asked, worried.
“No,” he said, but he looked totally spooked. “I felt your palm grow hot.” Snatching up the knife, he slapped it into my hand. “Here, use this. It’ll be faster.”
“And much more painful. Not to mention gory and bloody. I think I almost had it. Let me try again—”
“No!”
The loudness of his voice startled me.
“No,” he repeated in a more restrained tone. “Please, just do it this way. Cut it out. Do it fast.”
Too late. The sound of a car turning off the highway. “There’s a car coming.”
“Get in the car,” Dante said, grabbing his shirt. “Drive!”
The car peeled out, spewing dirt and gravel behind us. “Is it Roberto?”
“You tell me. My senses are crap with that silver slug still inside me.”
I quieted my pounding heart and listened. Words spoken in Spanish. A voice that sounded like Roberto’s. A heartbeat that was slower than the others, like mine.
“Yeah, it’s Roberto with some of his men.”
“Shit, they’re closing in on us,” Dante said, glancing behind. “Speed up.”
“I’m already going past the speed limit.”
“Doesn’t matter. Floor it.”
Twisting awkwardly, he positioned the knife behind him, blindly probing his back with the other hand.
“What are you doing?” I asked as I zipped around slower-moving cars. Settling onto an open stretch of road, I pushed the gas down until it hit the floor. Until we were going over a hundred miles per hour.
“I’m getting the bullet out of my back. Keep it nice and steady for a minute.”
A minute, at this speed, was a very long time. With a quick, horrified glance, I saw him stab the knife deep into his back. When he pulled the blade out, fresh blood gushed out.
“What did you just do?”
He scooted over and presented his bleeding back to me. “Stick your finger in and fish out the bullet.”
“You’re crazy, absolutely crazy! You could have killed yourself!”
“I can’t die, Mona Lisa. I’m Monère. We only die in certain ways: if you cut off the head or rip out the heart, poison us with silver, or expose us to the sun for several hours. But you and Roberto are part human—you’re probably easier to kill.”
“Good to know,” I said tightly. “I still say you’re crazy!”
“Dig the bullet out before they catch up to us.”
“It’s unbelievable what you’re asking me to do! Completely unbelievable.”
“Do it—please. Trust me.”
With a curse, I eased up on the gas pedal.
“You’re slowing down.”
“Yes, I know,” I snapped back. “If you want me to grope around in your back for a bullet, I’m not doing it while going a hundred and ten miles per hour. I’m not Wonder Woman, you know.”
Amazingly, he turned his head and grinned. “You’re better than her,” he said, humor lightening the grim lines for a moment. “But don’t tell Linda Carter I said that.”
I laughed and shook my head. “I can’t believe you just made me laugh. We’re being chased by bad guys with guns, and you make a joke.”
“Do it quickly,” Dante urged, growing sober. “If I didn’t cut deep enough, just push through with your fingers—you’re strong enough. Doesn’t matter if you tear up my flesh. Just get the damn slug out of me.”
Without thinking about it, because if I did, I would scream, I stuck two fingers into his wound and pushed my way slowly down. Blood squished out, sliming my fingers and hand.
Shots sounded, thudding into the rear window. Bulletproof glass apparently. My hand on the wheel jerked in surprise, causing the car to swerve. I had to put both hands back on the steering wheel to regain control as I sped up.
Lowering his window, Dante leaned out and fired back. After several seconds of return fire, our car suddenly dropped a few inches on the passenger’s side, pulling the steering violently to the right. I knew in an instant our back rear tire had been shot out. Our smooth ride turned bumpy as we rode the metal rim of the hub.
“Good news and bad news,” Dante said, sticking his head back inside. “I shot out his front tires, but he blew out our rear wheel.”
“I can tell,” I grunted, fighting to keep our car straight without overcompensating so much that I accidentally ripped out the steering wheel. Despite the lost tire, the car was still drivable, though at a much slower speed. But with two of their tires out, our pursuers weren’t going any faster.
“Pull over,” Dante said.
“What?”
“Pull over and get out!”
I started to ask why but then glimpsed the reason in the rearview mirror. Roberto and his men had abandoned their car and were coming after us on foot. And Roberto was running with superfast speed, faster than our car was going, apparently no longer hindered by the silver bullet I’d jammed in his back, though Dante did his best to remedy that by shooting at him. But he missed. Didn’t even come close to hitting Roberto, moving as fast as he was, and with Dante slowed down to sluggish human reflexes and speed.
I jerked the car to a halt and sprang out, gun in hand. Roberto’s men were firing at Dante—not me, just Dante. Some of the hail of bullets struck our car, others Dante managed to deflect with his wrist bracelets—a pretty miraculous feat considering how much the silver slowed him. He slid back into the protection of the car, but Roberto had come close enough that he now had a clear shot at him. They drew on each other, but it was an unfair match. Roberto was much faster.
I fired before I gave myself a chance to think and watched blood blossom on Roberto’s right shoulder. He cried out, dropping his weapon.
I turned and emptied my gun, laying out a round of fire that hit the asphalt in front of the four bodyguards, making them scramble back to their car for cover. Before Dante had time to lift his gun and fire at Roberto, I yanked him out through the driver’s seat door and took off, carrying him. A quick sprint and we reached the cover of trees. I heard Roberto yelling orders at his men. No gunshots followed us, but I didn’t bother slowing down, just kept moving deeper into the forest.
“You missed his heart,” Dante said after ten minutes of running through the woods.
“Surprisingly, I hit exactly what I was aiming for—his shoulder. I guess you’re right: I do know how to shoot a gun.”
He closed his eyes, shook his head. “You can put me down now. Are they following us?”
I listened and heard only the quiet life-sounds of the jungle, no sound of pursuit. “Not at the moment.”