No Shelter (Holly Lin, No. 1)

by Robert Swartwood

  I stuff the flash drive in my pocket, pat it once to make sure it’s secure. Then I work my way forward, grab onto the rope, pull it until it grows taut.

  “Yeah, I’m ready whenever you are.”

  “What side?”

  “The left-hand side.”

  “My left or your left?”

  “Your left, Nova! Now come on, I’ll hold the BMW off.”

  With both strands of the rope in one hand, I grab my gun and fire at the unit’s car with my other. Again I don’t try to hit the passenger or the driver but I want to slow them down, force them to swerve away, give Nova enough time to swing around them and come up the left side.

  Which he does, the black Dodge Ram coming on strong, speeding directly at me, and as it comes right up to the trailer I hear Nova’s voice in my ear—“Do it now!”—and I fire off one more round and drop the gun and reach into my pocket for my knife and then start running, sprinting forward toward the left of the trailer, the rope now in both hands, sprinting as fast as I can, until I reach the doors and gripping the rope as tight as ever I jump and hold on and swing out toward the last BMW, the rope catching at the top and the momentum forcing me again like a pendulum toward the left-hand side of the tractor-trailer, where Nova is now, riding as close as possible to the tractor-trailer, making sure I have enough space, and I’m over it for just a second, just an instant, and in one deft motion I flick my wrist and extend the switchblade and slice the rope until nothing more is keeping me up and I fall.

  60

  The Dodge Ram has a nice open bed. Normally it’s empty, but just an hour ago Nova went to Walmart and stocked up on every single pillow and comforter they had. He loaded up the pillows in back of the pickup and placed the comforters on top of them, and while it’s not the most ideal thing to land on when just jumping out of a speeding tractor-trailer, it does the trick.

  I lay there staring at the empty sky for a couple seconds. My heart is pounding. My body is shaking. I’m half aware that both of those things have been going on this entire time but what matters is that I realize it now and that I’m happy to be alive.

  The Dodge Ram has a partition on the cab’s rear window. Nova slides it open and shouts out at me, “You okay?”

  I open my mouth to answer but can’t speak. I try again and realize that I’m holding my breath, that I’ve been holding my breath. I release the breath and take a few large gulps of air before telling Nova that yes, I’m okay.

  “Good.” He slides an AK-47 through the partition. “Mind taking care of our company?”

  At once I’m back into autopilot. I sit up and grab the rifle and turn just as the tractor-trailer’s driver lowers his window and sticks out a handgun. I can’t tell what kind of gun—it looks like a .38 or a .45—but that doesn’t matter; what matters is that he has a gun and is now firing at us, a few random shots in the pickup’s direction, Nova swerving to the farthest lane and then back to fake him out.

  I lean forward and prop my weight on my knees and raise the rifle, holding it as steady as I can. I aim not for the driver but for the empty passenger seat and I let off a few rounds, the windshield cracking and then shattering, the driver pulling back in the gun so he can grab the wheel with both hands.

  The BMW has swung around and is headed up our lane, directly behind us. The passenger is still hanging out his window. He’s not firing because he’s not at a good angle and right now the driver is trying to do that for him, veering to the left as quickly as possible.

  I turn the rifle toward the car and let off a few more rounds, the bullets tearing up the grille and the hood, the BMW swerving back and forth, giving me enough time to swing the barrel back to the tractor-trailer, at the front tire, and flicking the rifle to automatic I let loose on that front tire, not letting go of the trigger, a steady stream of the bullets wearing away at the rubber quick enough that it blows.

  The tractor-trailer doesn’t explode or flip like it would in the movies. Instead the wheel goes flat. The tractor-trailer tilts with a jerk. It’s already going about eighty miles an hour, and now with the flat the driver slams on the brakes, something he shouldn’t do, not at that speed, because by jerking the wheel and slamming on the brakes it causes the momentum of the trailer to keep going, sliding toward the left, right at where the BMW is, the trailer moving and moving toward it and the BMW unable to get out of its way in time that it keeps veering right into the median.

  I’ve exhausted the clip. I lean back toward the partition and ask Nova for another. He hands me one. I replace the clip and then just sit there, the wind howling around me, the destruction already a quarter mile behind us.

  Despite the fact we’re hooked up by transmitter, Nova shouts out through the partition: “So you got it?”

  I pat my pocket, smile and nod at him.

  “Good. So now what?”

  Before I can respond, a bright ray of light hits me. I’m not sure where it’s coming from at first—the only traffic is on the other side of the highway, headed south—but then I hear the approaching chuck-chuck-chuck-chuck of a helicopter.

  I look up and see it there, what looks like a modified Blackhawk hovering above us. I can’t make out if there’s anyone hanging off the side with a weapon because the damned spotlight is in my eyes, but I know it’s a safe bet to assume there is one, probably with a sniper rifle, aimed right at my head.

  Nova increases the Ram’s speed even more. He shouts back at me to watch out and cover my face. Next thing I know he smashes the window with a hammer, shards of glass flying everywhere.

  He shouts, “Hurry! Get in here!”

  I climb in just as the Blackhawk swoops down and opens fire on the bed of pillows and comforters.

  61

  Nova hunches over the steering wheel, pressing his foot hard on the gas pedal. As I snap in my seatbelt I glance over and see the speedometer rising, going from ninety to ninety-five to one hundred. There are cars ahead of us and Nova starts swerving around them, the sniper in the helicopter pausing in his gunfire so no civilians are harmed.

  “Atticus,” I say, “we’re not going to be able to shake this Blackhawk.”

  “I know, I know. I’m thinking.”

  Nova says, “Well fucking think faster.”

  We’re on the Capital Beltway now, heading east toward Maryland. In another mile or so will be the Woodrow Wilson Memorial Bridge. In another couple miles will be Andrews Air Force Base as well as more backup.

  Nova jerks the wheel hard, taking us around a tractor-trailer—this one with domino’s printed on the side—and ahead of us there is a straight stretch of no traffic and after a moment more bullets rain down on us and Nova swerves the wheel again and again and again.

  Despite clipping in my seatbelt seconds ago, I now undo it. I bring my foot up on the seat and lower my window and lean out, bringing the AK-47 with me.

  Nova takes us from the far left lane to the far right, and I aim the rifle up at the sky, at that little bright circle of white, and pull the trigger only two or three times, enough to send a few bullets back at them, just warnings, a fruitless attempt because it only provides maybe a second or two of relief until they return fire.

  We speed under an overpass, an exit flashing past us, Nova cursing and saying, “I should have taken that.”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  He gives me an angry look, says, “I’m a little fucking busy right now in case you haven’t noticed.”

  Another straight stretch, another opening of no traffic, and the Blackhawk dips lower, the spotlight moving back and forth on the highway directly in front of us.

  Atticus says, “I’ve looked over the upcoming highway exits and tried calculating a proper escape, or at least someway to ensure you more time.”

  “Yeah,” Nova says, “and?”

  “And I’m sorry to say right now it doesn’t look very good. Tell me, Nova, what kind of soldier are you?”

  “What the hell kind of question is that?”

&nbs
p; “A simple one. Would you consider yourself selfish or selfless?”

  We’re out over the Woodrow Wilson Memorial Bridge now, right above the Potomac, passing cars and trucks and motorcycles, Nova leaning on his horn when he has to. The Blackhawk is still on our ass but it isn’t shooting, at least not yet, and right now I know we’re sitting ducks, out here on this bridge, nowhere to go but straight.

  “Well?” Atticus says.

  We swerve around another tractor-trailer and there is yet another open space ahead of us, enough for the sniper in the Blackhawk to try again, some of the bullets this time striking the top of the cab, whizzing down between me and Nova into the bench seat.

  Cursing, Nova says, “Just get on with it. What’s your plan?”

  “The objective here is saving Walter’s children, isn’t it? And the only way to do that is ensuring Holly can get away safely with the flash drive intact.”

  Nova glances at me. I glance at him. We stare at each other for a moment. Then Nova nods and says, “Screw it, what’s your plan?” and when Atticus tells him he says okay and presses the gas down even more, speeding us across the bridge, the speedometer going up to one hundred and five, one hundred and ten, one hundred and fifteen. Seconds later the Maryland side of the bridge appears and for some reason I’m expecting there to be an army of police cars. There isn’t though, and Nova veers us off the exit, the Blackhawk having to pause in midair to follow our progress, sections of 95 and 495 above us, casting shadows everywhere. Nova leans to his left as he veers us around the off-ramp, passing a few cars in front of us, the pickup feeling like it might tip over at any time. Then we’re around the entire way and entering the Anacostia Freeway, the spotlight finding us again, the Blackhawk dipping low, and Nova punches the gas, increasing the speed again, pushing it, pushing it, pushing it.

  The highway is two lanes now, making it more restrictive than before. Trees stand tall on both sides of the freeway. We pass over another bridge and the sniper fires at us again and some of the bullets strike the hood of the pickup, Nova cursing and clenching his fingers around the steering wheel.

  Driving faster, swerving from lane to lane, he says, “Holly, can I tell you something?”

  He says, “If we both make it out of this alive, you’re buying me another pickup.”

  He says, “A new pickup too, not some used piece of shit.”

  He says, “Got it?”

  “Yeah,” I say, as the freeway splits with a large divider, trees everywhere, “I’ll buy you the most expensive one. Satellite radio and GPS and everything.”

  “Good,” Nova says, moving over to the right lane, “just so we’re in agreement,” and then he cuts the wheel hard to the left, taking us across the two lanes, taking us over the grass of the median and into the stand of trees, Nova’s headlights picking out an open space, and as he goes between them he has to slow, the terrain here rocky, and that’s when I unclip my seat belt and open my door and start to open it but only pause when Nova says my name, Nova now pulling out one of his Berettas, handing it to me, and I take it and push open the door and jump out and a tree slams the door shut again, all the trees really tearing the pickup apart as Nova continues to the other side of the expressway, the Blackhawk’s spotlight trying to follow his progress, until he reaches the grass and the gunfire starts again and he punches the gas and heads back in the direction he started, the growl of his engine massive until it fades away into a whisper and then gone.

  62

  For the longest time I don’t move. I just stand there in the shadows of the trees, traffic speeding back and forth, the chuck-chuck-chuck-chuck of the Blackhawk fading away just like Nova’s pickup. I still have the transmitter in my ear and can hear Nova, cursing, talking to himself, cursing some more. Then, suddenly, his voice cuts off.

  “Atticus, what just happened?” Thinking that the sniper finally got him.

  “I severed the connection between your transmitters.”

  “Why?”

  “The last thing you need right now is more distractions.”

  Right, so now instead of knowing what’s happening to Nova my imagination is making it up, creating different scenarios that all end with Nova taking a bullet in the head.

  “I will keep you informed,” Atticus says.

  I still have Nova’s Beretta in my hand. I drop the clip, make sure it’s fully loaded, slap it back in. I holster it and ask Atticus what time it is.

  “Four-twenty-seven.”

  Which means I have almost an hour and a half before Zane’s deadline. Which really shouldn’t be a problem, now that I have the flash drive. But which still is a problem, because I have no way of contacting Zane and can only wait for him to contact me.

  “I need transportation.”

  “Yes, I know.” Pause. “Do you know how to hotwire a car?”

  At this I can’t help but smile. “After everything that’s happened so far, you still underestimate me, don’t you.”

  “I was just asking for clarification, Holly. I would never underestimate the daughter of Kenji Lin.”

  The mention of my father wipes the smile off my face. I start walking toward the highway going south-bound, stepping over roots and rocks.

  I ask where Nova is now.

  “He will soon be headed back over the Woodrow Wilson.”

  I wait for a lull in the traffic before running out across the asphalt to the trees on the other side. My body is sore, my muscles tight. Maybe I’m not in as good as shape as I think I am.

  I enter the trees and work through them. Atticus doesn’t speak. Neither do I. I try to keep my mind clear. I try not to think about Nova and the Blackhawk with a sniper. I try not to think about Casey and David and how they might already be dead. I try not to think about what my father and Zane have become, how it must have been so easy, so simple, that it could happen to anyone.

  Through the trees I come out into a residential area. Houses are spaced apart along the tree line, almost all of them with their lights off. A few cars sit in driveways but I don’t want to chance it. What I’m looking for now is a parking lot, something with a dozen cars, a half dozen cars, something that won’t quickly go noticed.

  As I walk I pull out the cell phone. I hit a button to illuminate the screen. 4:30. Now exactly an hour and a half. And still no call from Zane.

  “Talk to me, Atticus. What’s happening with Nova?”

  No answer.

  I stop, place my finger to my ear, make sure the transmitter is still there. “Atticus?”

  He clears his throat. When he speaks, his voice is barely a whisper.

  “A few minutes ago his pickup went over the Woodrow Wilson. I’ve lost complete contact.”

  63

  By the time I find a car and hotwire it—a ’99 Ford Taurus, parked along the street, its doors unlocked—the time is almost five o’clock and Zane has yet to call.

  I drive north on 295, passing Bolling Air Force Base, the Anacostia Naval Station. I think about Nova taking on heavy gunfire. About losing control of the pickup. About driving over the bridge into the Potomac.

  I want to believe that he’s safe. That he somehow got out of the pickup in time. That he somehow didn’t drown.

  And if he didn’t drown (God please be the case), then what happened? They probably took him into custody. I know he won’t say anything. Not a word. They can torture him all day and night, he won’t make a peep. It won’t matter though. They know at least one other person is involved. And if the tranquilized agents come to, or the tractor-trailer driver is still conscious after his collision, one of them will be able to give a description of me. Which means right this second, this moment, half of Washington will be looking for an Asian-American woman in her twenties.

  And stupid me, I’m heading right back into the lion’s den.

  The owner of the Taurus seems to be a big Rolling Stones fan. Every single album of theirs is scattered across the backseat. I punch the power button on the CD player and, I guess appro
priately enough, “Sympathy For the Devil” starts up.

  I punch the power button again, let the silence take over. I lean over, pop open the glove box, am rewarded by a pack of Parliaments that I immediately light up with the help of the car’s cigarette lighter. I take a couple long drags, relishing the taste, then clear my throat.

  “Atticus.”

  “Yes?”

  “What do you think?”

  “What do I think about what?”

  I consider taking the South Capitol Street Bridge into the city but decide to keep driving up 295.

  “About this whole thing. I mean ... it’s fucked up, isn’t it?”

  “Why do you use that word?”

  “What—fucked? Because it is.”

  “No, I agree with you that this situation is not ideal. In fact, if things turn out well, I will have to relocate myself as it seems I’m not as well hidden as I had thought. But what I mean is why do you use those vulgar words?”

  The Taurus’s owner also seems to have a thing for Hawaii. Three of those hula-hoop girls are stuck on the dash, shaking their things in rhythm with the road.

  “I’m sorry, Atticus. I didn’t know you’re religious.”

  “I’m not religious, Holly. And based on your judgment there, it’s clear what one of your biggest problems is.”

  The last thing I want to do right now is discuss what my biggest problem is. Still, I ask, “What’s my biggest problem?”

  “You assume too much. You don’t take time to assess people properly. You might think you’re not making snap judgments, but you do, and because of that you are disadvantaged when it comes to truly reading someone.”

  Irritated now, I say, “You mean someone like you?”

  “And the vulgarities?” Atticus says, ignoring me. “That is simply a lack of self-control on your part.”