Danger Close

by S L Shelton

  “Sorry,” I yelled toward the driver as I sped away.

  Note to self: Use other vehicles to avoid spinning out and losing momentum.

  I fishtailed a bit as I dodged around a slow moving car, and then had to drift onto the shoulder to keep from slowing down again. A wobble had developed in my front tires, and it was getting worse with each passing second.

  “I’m assuming this is job-related,” I said sarcastically to my phone. “Will the company pay for a new bumper and realignment?”

  “Focus!” John yelled.

  “Yes, sir,” I replied as I swerved around a slow moving sedan, only to have to weave back again as soon as I blew past it.

  I whipped past slow-moving vehicles at a frightening rate of speed and garnering startled stares and angry horn blasts.

  I checked the rearview and saw the van having difficulty making the turn onto West Ox, but it was still in pursuit. As soon as he was on the straightaway, though, he began making up lost ground. Big engine, I thought.

  Swerving through the red light at Bennett Road, I barely missed a minivan that was crossing on a turn—that slowed me down as well. By the time the pursuing van got to the light, it had turned green, allowing him to close even more distance, slipping through the intersection unimpeded.

  “I’m out matched on engine size, here, John,” I muttered.

  “Hang on,” he said. “Help’s on the way.”

  The next light would be Ox Trail. I scanned ahead, straining to see if there was stopped traffic—there was, so I had no choice but to slow down to weave my way through the crossing vehicles. The van had closed nearly the entire distance by the time I was through and other drivers were pulling over to the side, not wanting to get tangled up in the chase. That gave the van free passage as it honked its horn through the intersection.

  “Cut me some slack, people,” I muttered to myself. “Don’t help him.”

  “Nick says he can be there in ten minutes,” John said. “That’s closer than the response team.”

  “I’ll have to do something before then, John,” I said. “He’s almost got me now.”

  “Evade!” John yelled.

  The van was within ten feet of my bumper by the time I reached the cloverleaf at Route 50. I made the rash decision to try to break across the median. My idea was to cut through northbound traffic and take the exit ramp on the opposite side.

  Plans often crash and die in the face of reality—I hit the concrete curb going too fast and temporarily lost control, allowing the driver of the van to close the remaining distance, nosing into my sideways-skidding car.

  The scream of metal on metal grated against my ears as he pushed my car, slamming me into the guardrail and water barrels in front of the jersey wall. Water and metal went flying as if I had just been dropped into the middle of tornado. My car jerked me roughly to the side as it bounced into the other lane, making me very thankful I had buckled my seatbelt.

  I grunted from the impact and frustration as my body whipped sideways against my seatbelt, and the driver’s side door folded in several inches to touch my elbow. I slammed the gas down and pulled the limping vehicle the rest of the way across toward the exit ramp, but the van still had full mobility—it backed up and straightened out as I coaxed my stalled vehicle to start again.

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  “What’s going on?” John asked anxiously just as the van lurched forward again, t-boning my poor Toyota.

  “Son of a b—,” I muttered through gritted teeth as I tried to straighten my wheel to pull forward.

  “What’s happening?” John asked as the van backed up to ram me again.

  “Jesus, John,” I yelled, my body bracing for the hit. “He’s pushing me over the—”

  SLAM!

  He pounded the side of my car again, but didn’t stop this time—instead he continued to push forward, plowing my car toward the embankment. I was looking up into the cab of the van as they pushed me toward the edge of the ramp and over the side.

  “Shoot him!” John yelled.

  I pulled my weapon out of its holster and fired six shots through the windshield—at least one of them hitting the driver in the head. After splattering his brains all over the driver’s side window, I heard the engine accelerate sending the van crunching deeper into the body of my car, shoving me over the shoulder and then down the grassy incline.

  The loss of the driver also signaled the last bit of control my attackers had over the van. Its tail swerved to the side and began to tip over.

  “Keep one of them alive if you can,” John said as the car rolled sideways down the embankment, raising the realness factor of my situation markedly.

  “Not helpful, John!” I spat sarcastically as I was tossed sideways and then upside down with only my seatbelt keeping me behind the wheel. The car rolled and then slammed back down on its wheels, whipping me roughly to the side against my seatbelt again. I made a break for the passenger side door just as it tipped to take another turn but didn’t even get my restraint unclasped before I was hanging from it again.

  I looked out the window, feeling like a towel in the dryer as I was pounded against the roof of my poor car, tumbling with no control as the world seemed to spin around me.

  The van had lost control and was now turning sideways into its own roll; I saw the dead driver flopping around inside like a rag doll.

  After a second and then a third roll, my car hit the ditch at the bottom and impacted in a hard stop. I started to climb out, but the van was rolling right for me and, for a brief instant, I pictured it crushing the car like an empty soda can.

  Wait. It’s not heavy enough to do that, I thought.

  “Status update!” John yelled from somewhere in the backseat.

  “I’m alive,” I replied as I moved for the door. “I’ll have to get back to you on everything else.”

  I released my seat belt and pushed out the crushed passenger side door as the van rolled across my hood, sending it flopping to the side. It finished its tumble and slid to a halt nearly upside down; only the guard rail kept it from finishing its final flop onto its side as traffic skidded to a panicked halt in the westbound lane of Route 50.

  “Scott,” I heard John yell, but sensing a slight tactical advantage in having extracted myself before the van finished its roll, I struggled to my feet and then scrambled toward the other vehicle without replying to John.

  I leveled my gun at the driver’s door and reached up to open it but had to drop down as shots rang out from inside the van. I raised my weapon and blindly fired three shots through the window before jerking the door open again.

  I heard the van’s back door being kicked open as I climbed in just in time to see a man jump out the rear and bolt toward Route 50. I scanned the interior of the van for movement and saw nothing but limp bodies, so I turned to pursue.

  Holstering my Glock, I ran after him, raising my hand to stop the slow-moving traffic as I crossed the highway. In the far lane, after going around a tractor trailer, a pickup truck skidded to a stop in front of me, though not as quickly as I would have liked—I jumped into the air, just in time avoiding being pounded to the ground, landing instead on the hood.

  The bad guy had already crossed the highway and was making his way up the opposite embankment as I righted myself and rolled off the hood of the pickup, startled curses flying at me from inside.

  “Where’s my backup?” I muttered, suddenly feeling out of my league and slightly vulnerable.

  You don’t need them, whispered my other voice.

  Easy for you to say, I thought. It’s not your body in the line of fire…oh wait…never mind.

  I leapt the guardrail and had to stutter step to avoid the eastbound traffic. Fortunately, the rubber-neckers slowed down traffic at the accident scene, allowing me to cross with little delay.

  I struggled up the embankment, suddenly very worried about being exposed and the possibility of my quarry pulling a weapon.

  Shoot hi
m, my troublesome inner voice whispered.

  I ignored it; John had said to take one alive, and as far as I could tell, this was the only one left alive.

  He looked back over his shoulder just as he got to the guardrail and turned to fire at me. I dove to the side, rolling backward due to the incline. His two shots impacted in front and beside me before he jumped the rail on the overpass.

  Where’s my backup?! I thought again.

  I followed, hopping over the rail closer to the bridge. It was a higher jump and required pulling up on the concrete, but I gained a few steps on him.

  He ran across the bridge and down the shoulder. There, he was trapped by the sides of the bridge unless he planned on diving into the traffic below.

  As he crossed the line of traffic in the center of the bridge, which was still slowing to gawk at the overturned vehicles below, I followed, jumping across another car hood to keep my faster pace. He looked over his shoulder and turned to fire again when a car skidded to a halt directly in front of him—but not fast enough. He bounced up on the hood, smashing the windshield, and then fell to the pavement, giving me an opportunity to close more distance.

  Shoot him, my hitchhiker whispered again.

  As he picked himself up from the ground, he turned his attention back to me, leveling his weapon and firing as he scrambled back to his feet. I dipped to the right and used the shift in momentum to leap, kicking off of the bumper of the car in front of me—it was like Mimon again. In slow motion, details of the scene filled my mind as the sound of my heart filled my ears.

  I came down solidly on his chest with my knee.

  “No!” I yelled as I connected, though I'm certain my attacker didn't realize I was speaking to my own internal nag and not him.

  He grunted from the assault, crashing backward to the ground, but still, amazingly, had enough wits about him to throw his gun arm at my face. I pushed it away just as he pulled the trigger.

  CRACK!

  I felt a sting on my cheek as the blast assaulted my eardrum.

  Kill him! Kill him! Kill him! My other voice chanted intensely, almost as if it thought it could get me to pull the trigger from the incessant repetition of the frenzied command.

  I frantically and angrily punched down, thinking for a terrifying split second that I had been shot. As my fist connected with the side of his neck, I realized the burning sensation I felt was simply a powder burn.

  Why? I asked my inner voice. Why do I have to kill him?

  He threw a punch with his other hand and tried to kick up with his knee, sending me flying—but I was able to grasp his wrist. As I fell, his arm twisted with me, rolling his body to the side.

  “Not today, pal,” he grunted as he flipped to his right side, thinking he had dislodged me—but I saw my opening.

  Still holding his arm, I pulled him toward me as I dropped my right leg heavily on his chest. I heard the air leave his lungs as I tried to kick my left foot under his shoulder.

  He used the momentum to bring his gun arm back up toward me. There was a reflexive tensing in my chest as it swung in my direction, but I drew my knee up quickly, pushing the gun away, sending his shot far wide of me—unfortunately, my defensive move had freed him momentarily. He brought his elbow down hard into my thigh, though I’m certain he was going for my groin.

  Anger welled up in my throat like a knot. “No—fighting—dirty!” I grunted, punctuating each word with a punch to the side of his head.

  I still had his arm in my grasp, and my knee still held his gun arm to the side, but he tried to use his leg to push it away; that was my break. As his shoulder lifted from the pavement, I kicked my leg around beneath him and threaded my other over his shoulder, freeing his gun arm for a split second.

  See! I’ve got this!

  As soon as I had his upper body scissored between my legs, I released his arm long enough to grab his gun hand. I reached down with both hands and latched on to his wrist, bending it and prying my thumb between his finger and the trigger. My legs closed on him like a two massive boa constrictors, crushing his neck, shoulder and chest.

  “Now, bitch!” I hissed as I crushed down with my climber’s grip and locked my heel over my other foot. “Drop it!”

  He screamed out as my fingers dug into the tendons of his wrist. The pain forced him to release his grip on his weapon, sending it clattering to the ground.

  He flailed as I crushed down on him with my legs and my hands. The pop from his shoulder, followed by the high-pitched scream, told me I had separated his shoulder; that was my signal to move.

  I rolled him onto his belly with my legs before pushing myself up on his back, roughly pulling his dislocated arm behind him and eliciting another loud howl of agony. I could only imagine how painful that must have been.

  Kill him!

  That was disturbing. I had the man down and under control, and yet my inner voice was screaming for me to kill him. I began to worry.

  I took a few seconds to try to gain my breath as he continued to scream in pain. After several deep breaths, I leaned forward and slipped my arm under his neck.

  “As soon as you calm down and some help gets here, we’ll take care of that shoulder,” I said, panting into his ear, though I tugged on the arm once more to encourage him to stop resisting.

  “Fuck you,” he rasped, his face contorted in agony. “I’ll kill you before they get here.”

  I chuckled through my ragged breath. “Not today, pal,” I snarked, using the same words he had only seconds earlier.

  Now, why the hell am I supposed to kill him? I asked my schizophrenic, and now apparently psychotic, inner voice.

  Because he’s not alone and you need to be ready for the next assault.

  My heart jumped in my chest.

  A sudden shot sent asphalt exploding next to us, flinging debris into my face. I rolled to the side just before the second shot was fired, still holding onto my prisoner tightly. I felt a thud and looked up just in time to see the would-be-sneak-assassin—the third man from the van—crumple to the ground on the other side of the highway, his body arched in pain.

  My backup must be here, I thought and then focused on my other voice. Didn’t we already have a talk about you giving me more complete information?

  Pay attention, it replied bitterly.

  I was about to up the ante on my chastisement when my prisoner began a mild convulsion and then slumped against me in my arms. I looked down and was distressed to see a hole had appeared in his chest, oozing dark red in spurts with each heart beat. I immediately released his neck and used my finger to plug the hole in his chest, but blood was coming out of his nose and mouth as well. He looked up at me with dying eyes and sputtered, coughing blood on the both of us.

  “Ha,” he spat.

  Ha?

  “Dude, you’re dying!” I said in disbelief as his eyes closed.

  I looked up and saw Nick pop up over the embankment. He reached down to check the pulse on the other one’s neck.

  “Is that one dead?” I yelled as he got a little closer.

  Nick nodded as he approached. When he was close enough to be heard in a normal speaking voice he pointed at my guy.

  “How about him?” He asked.

  I looked down, but I could already tell he was dead as his last long, bubbly, breath hissed out of his mouth. I put my bloody fingers to his neck to check for a pulse but didn't find one.

  “Yeah,” I grumbled as I shoved him off me in frustration. “His buddy got him.”

  The sirens had been getting closer for some time. As I freed my legs from my dead prize, the source of the noise finally appeared in the form of the Fairfax County Police pulling onto the scene, tires screeching to a halt on the shoulder. They emerged from their cruisers, weapons drawn.

  “Drop it! Get on the ground!” they yelled over each other as even more police cars approached from the other direction, announcing their arrival with high-pitched whines of their engines and screeching tires against pav
ement.

  Nick had already holstered his weapon and held his hands high as he extended his ID in front of him. “Federal agent!” he yelled as they approached.

  Two cops approached cautiously and checked his ID before lowering their guns.

  “Would somebody like to tell me what the hell is going on?” one of the cops asked as he holstered his weapon—a Glock like mine, I noticed.

  “These guys were trying to kill a federal witness,” Nick lied—No, wait…actually come to think of it, that wasn’t a lie.

  “There was a call about a motorcycle unit,” the cop continued.

  I stood, touching my fingers to the sting on my cheek. “You’ll find the motorcycle on Franklin Farm Road—along with the guy who stole it,” I said, drawing their attention to me. “But I’d be very surprised if he’s alive.”

  I wanted to make it very clear to the police that the rider wasn’t a cop and that I wasn’t a cop killer. He called into his radio asking for a unit to go to Franklin Farm.

  “I don’t know what happened to the officer it belonged to,” I added as I joined them, “but the guy riding it was wearing his uniform.”

  “How about telling me what happened,” the cop said.

  “Not until we get clearance,” Nick said, heading off any unwanted interference. “That van down there needs to be roped off as well. I don’t want anyone touching it until our forensics team can go over it.”

  The cop squinted at Nick as if he were about to protest, but then seemed to think better of it. He turned his back on us and called over his radio.

  “—multiple fatalities but we have feds on the scene making demands,” I made out some of what he said to his dispatcher before he was too far away.

  “—federal officers are in charge.” I heard part of the response over the radio. “Assist as requested.”

  I saw his shoulders slump forward in acceptance, realizing the decision was above his pay grade. Nick didn’t wait for him to relay the news of their cooperation.

  “We can move this guy off the road and cover him, but the van stays put until our guys get here. No one should touch it,” Nick commanded, pointing down the embankment.