Ahead and to his right a flash of movement caught his eye, and Shane saw a child step out from behind a parked car. The kid walked into the street without looking, directly in front of the Buick, and Shane gasped in surprise. The Buick’s driver slammed on his brakes a half-second later and Shane hit the brakes on the Granada. Both cars slewed forward, tires squealing, and Shane watched as the kid disappeared in front of the hulking mass of the Buick.
The cars shuddered to a halt, the Granada somehow stopping before impacting the Buick. Shane realized he was holding his breath and exhaled heavily. He felt a surge of relief as the kid appeared on the other side of the Buick. The kid, maybe eight years old, had darted away from the Buick and now stood in the middle of the street, head swiveling wildly. He took advantage of a small break in the opposite direction traffic and sprinted across the street in front of an oncoming yellow taxicab and disappeared.
“Holy shit,” Shane said, his voice shaking. He glanced over at Tracie just as she turned to look at him. Her eyes widened in shock as she looked over his shoulder and he whipped his head to the left just in time to see a blue pickup hurtling through the intersection’s cross street. The driver had locked up his brakes but the truck was moving much too fast to stop in time. He would T-bone them right in the driver’s side door.
Tracie lifted her left foot and slammed it down on his right, shoving the accelerator to the floor. The Granada lurched forward and smashed into the rear of the Buick, propelling it ahead a few feet, and then the pickup struck the Granada in a shower of screeching metal and shattering glass.
The car spun on an invisible axis and Shane felt his head bounce off the window and his headache exploded anew. He was aware of Tracie screaming to his right, a short, sharp sound, and then everything stopped and the interior of the car was quiet but for a faraway-sounding hissing noise. Whether the sound was coming from the Granada or the pickup truck he couldn’t tell.
Shane heard cars screeching to a halt — he knew they were in the middle of the intersection and the fear of a second car striking them flashed through his head. He tried to clear the cobwebs and was vaguely aware of Tracie tugging on his arm. “Unbuckle your seatbelt,” she said, her voice intense. “We have to get out of here.”
Shane nodded and tried his door. It wouldn’t budge.
“Not your door, mine,” she insisted. “Yours has been smashed. It’ll probably never open again.” She pulled on his arm more insistently. “Come on, we have to leave now.”
A man in a suit pulled open the door on Tracie’s side. “Are you folks all right?” he asked, his concern evident.
“We’re okay,” Tracie said, slipping out the door as Shane worked the buckle on his seatbelt and began sliding across the front seat behind her.
The driver of the pickup stumbled onto the sidewalk. It was a kid, late-teens it looked like, and he appeared uninjured. “I just looked down to change the radio station,” he said, “and when I looked up, you were right in front of me. I swear I only looked away for a second.”
“Are you okay?” Shane asked.
The kid nodded. “But my parents are going to kill me. This truck was a graduation present.”
“Come on,” Tracie repeated, her voice soft but firm. “We have to get out of here.”
The kid heard her and said, “No, you can’t leave. We have to exchange insurance information.”
She ignored him and started dragging Shane away from the two wrecked vehicles. “The police will be here any second,” she whispered, “and we can’t be here when they arrive.”
“We can’t leave the scene of an accident,” Shane said, closing his eyes for a moment against the rejuvenated pain bouncing around inside his skull.
“We have to,” Tracie insisted, speaking a little louder now that they were out of earshot of the teenaged driver of the pickup truck, who had staunchly refused to leave his vehicle. “We’re driving a stolen car, remember? I could eventually get this straightened out through CIA, but it would take hours, and we’re—” she glanced at her watch and swore softly, “—almost out of time. We might still be able to make it, as long as we disappear before the cops arrive.”
They took three more steps and then Shane froze as a DC police cruiser eased to the curb, light bar flashing, stopping almost directly in front of them.
Tracie grabbed Shane’s hand and began walking as casually as possible along the sidewalk, their path taking them directly past the police car. The patrol officer stepped out of his vehicle and she watched as his eyes bounced between the accident scene and them, then back to the accident scene.
They were almost past him when he swiveled his head and focused his gaze on Shane, his eyes narrowing. Tracie wondered what had gotten his attention. Then Shane turned and looked at her and she wanted to curse out loud. A thin line of blood had leaked out from his hairline and begun zig-zagging down the left side of his face. He must have cut his head in the accident. The injury was clearly not a bad one, but it had been enough to draw the cop’s attention immediately.
The officer lifted one arm to block their passage. “Where do you think you’re going?” he said, his natural cop suspicion evident in his voice.
Tracie took a look at the blood and said to Shane, “Oh, honey, you must have been cut by flying glass.” She drew a tissue out of her pocket and wiped the blood off his face.
She pointed to the accident scene and added excitedly, “We were walking along the sidewalk when those two cars collided almost right next to us. Someone’s trapped inside that Ford. I think they need help!” The kid who had been driving the pickup truck was still standing next to the vehicles, watching curiously.
The cop took two quick steps in the direction of the wreck and then turned back to them. He pointed a finger and said, “You’re not going anywhere. If you witnessed this accident, we’re going to need a statement from you.”
“Of course,” Tracie answered, and the cop hurried off toward the vehicles.
The moment he turned, Tracie pulled Shane in the opposite direction. “Come on,” she said. “We’ve got about ten seconds of confusion before that cop realizes we’re full of shit. This is our last chance. Let’s make the most of it.”
They melted into the crowd, trying to disappear behind the growing throng of onlookers. A few seconds later, she could hear raised voices and hoped none of the pedestrians had been alert enough to track their movement and point them out to the officer. Seconds passed and Tracie risked a look back and saw no one who seemed to be paying any attention to them.
“Are you all right?” she asked Shane.
He shrugged. “I didn’t even realize I had been cut. Smashing my head against the window in the accident didn’t do much for my headache, but the cut itself is no big deal. The more important question is what the hell are we going to do now?”
Tracie checked her watch and shook her head, frustrated. “I wish I knew,” she said. “We’ll never be able to get there in time on foot.” She looked up and down the street. “And there’s not a cab or a bus stop in sight. Goddammit.” Then she slowed her pace and watched the scene unfolding in front of them, unable to believe their good fortune.
Less than thirty feet ahead, a dirty green Chevrolet station wagon pulled to the edge of the street, almost close enough to another parked car to scrape paint. The driver leapt out of the Ford and trotted into a neighborhood convenience store, leaving his car double-parked and idling in the D.C. sunshine while purchasing his newspaper or coffee or whatever.