what do we do about it?
"Mom, are you carrying?"
"Don't you know me any better than that?" she asked. "Check the side saddle."
John opened one of the straw baskets attached to the side of the bike. There, wrapped in a red-and-white-checked napkin, he found a micro-Uzi and three spare magazines, plus a stun grenade.
"What about you?" he asked, flicking the napkin back over the gun.
"I'm covered," she said grimly.
They rode on in silence for a while as they'd come to a more populated area and the traffic was thick and deadly; you got a license here by paying the jefe a small bribe, if you bothered to get a license at all. Fortunately the limo had to slow down as much, if not more, than their little moped; there were trucks, gaudily painted and often crammed with crates of poultry.
Once Sarah had to stop lest she risk coming up right behind them.
"Mom," John suddenly said. "I've been thinking, and we need to stop them before they get to Garmendia's yacht."
Sarah said nothing as she concentrated on the traffic but turned her head slightly to show she was listening.
"If we could take out a tire they'd have to stop."
"Yes," she agreed. "But we'd still be five to two with Dieter in their hands."
John blew out his breath. "Yeah, anyway your micro-Uzi wouldn't do it." Sarah was silent a little longer, then John felt her relax..
"It's not the best idea in the world," she said, "but it's the best we've got. Look in my other saddlebag."
Leaning back, John rummaged in the basket for a moment.
"Cool!" he said, "One of those collapsible shotguns." He hugged her one-armed as he examined it. "I might have known you'd have one of these. And explosive shells! Neat!"
Sarah smiled. "Yeah, I'm always on the lookout for something practical that will fit in my purse."
She sped up as they came into the riverside area of town, deserted this time of the year, drawing even with the limo's back end. Sarah felt like she had a target painted on her chest, even though the limo's blacked-out windows made it impossible to tell if they'd even spotted her yet. She felt John adjusting his weight as he prepared to bring the shotgun up from the side away from the limo.
Suddenly the huge black car sped up.
"They've seen us," she muttered.
"C'mon, Mom, we're losing "em," John said.
Sarah gunned the throttle; unfortunately, that didn't mean much on a moped.
"Mo-om!"
"This is our top speed, John! We're on a moped, for God's sake, not a chopped Harley!"
He let out an impatient breath. "Gee, this situation seems weirdly familiar."
"No. That would be them trying to run us down while we're in a vehicle that seems to be standing still." She grimaced; her life was probably going out of control again if she was measuring positive and negative by such bizarro standards.
John kept his gaze focused on the limo as though he could slow it by sheer will.
Up ahead the road curved sharply and the limo slowed. Sarah maintained her speed, leaning into the curve like a racer, and they quickly gained back lost ground. Buildings reared on either side, huge decrepit warehouses—from the rubber boom, or perhaps one of the seventies megaprojects gone bust.
"Go, go, go," John urged, barely above a whisper. He automatically shifted his weight to balance his mother's and his eyes sought out his target.
"Now, John," his mother said. "This is as good as it's gonna get."
He brought up the shotgun, aimed, and fired. A brief spurt of fire from the dusty, potholed street; a miss. The limo slammed on the brakes, fishtailing slightly, and the moped shot ahead of them, turning down an alley.
"MOM!" John shouted in protest. "What the hell are you doing?"
Sarah didn't answer; she was too busy trying to get them away from potential disaster. What was I thinking? she berated herself. This is John I've got riding behind me! Riding behind her pitting a shotgun against a carload of demented goons. Nothing was more important than John. Nothing! Not even Dieter von Rossbach, who should have known better than to pit himself against a rottweiler like Garmendia. Especially armed with nothing better than a secret he didn't even know.
How could she forget that even for a second?
"Mom," John said, leaning close. "You remember how a minute ago we were talking about them chasing us? Well, they're doing it!"
Shit! she thought.
Up ahead there was a burst of debris from a wall.
"And they're firing at us," John added.
No kidding.
"They've got automatic weapons," he went on, as something—somethings—
went whackwhackwhack through the air far too close. She began to sway the moped back and forth. That's not going to help for long, she thought. The limo was already gaining.
John risked a glance behind them. There were gunmen leaning out of the car windows, all of them firing. "Mom?" he said, his voice quavering a little. Bullets whizzed by, spanging up dirt and bits of building around them.
Sarah saw a dark space up ahead that warned of an alley between the tightly packed buildings and she turned into it. Unfortunately it was wide enough for the limo and she knew they'd follow. It wound on and she looked desperately for side alleys, finding none, as they came around a curve only to find a dead end.
The moped fishtailed and almost went over, but she managed to bring it to a skidding halt, sideways to the main road. The limo came on and Sarah gasped in horror.
The gunmen, intent now on capturing their targets, ceased firing, but leaned farther out, shouting insults and threats. They came on fast and Sarah wondered if the goons intended to smash them into the wall.
"John!" she said, and hopped off the moped, readying herself to jump onto the limo's hood. In a second her son stood beside her.
The alley narrowed almost imperceptibly just beyond the deceiving curve.
Before the driver could stop, the momentum of the car forced it tightly into the alley; the gunmen disappeared and the glossy sides of the vehicle screeched as they were crushed against the stone walls of the surrounding houses.
"Whoa!" John said, wincing. "That's gotta hurt!"
Blowing out her breath, Sarah let her head hang for a moment. Then there was a tapping sound from the limo. They, whoever had survived, were trying to break through the windshield. Thank God for bulletproof, shatterproof glass, she thought.
"C'mon," she said to her son. "Let's get out of here before they manage to break
out."
John snorted in amusement and took hold of the bike. Together they lifted it up onto the hood and rolled it onto the roof. Within the car they could hear them screaming and pounding on the windshield and roof. When John and Sarah stepped up onto the roof shots rang out, followed by screams and curses as the bullets ricocheted around the armored interior.
It's like they're the Keystone Kops, Sarah thought, shaking her head in disbelief. I know Garmendia's men aren't the brightest tools in the shed, but John knew better than that when he was seven!
They got down off the back as silence fell within the limo. Sarah glanced at the blank glass and opened her belt pouch. She pulled out a set of lock picks and got to work on the trunk lock.
There was a sudden series of blows on the back windshield.
"I'd just like to remind you, Lazaro," Sarah said, her voice mild in spite of her having to speak loudly enough to be heard in the backseat, "that that glass is the only thing between you and me." She looked up at the window. "And you've been shooting at my son."