Red half-hung out the ruined window for at least a quarter mile, ready to throw more fire, but there were no shots, and no pursuit. She collapsed back against the seat. “What’s wrong with your leg?” she asked.
“What’s wrong with your arm?” He risked a glance and saw that she was working at the cuff with her left hand. They weren’t police issue: thicker than normal, with no visible clasp, eerily smooth and close-fitting. Her fingers came away bloody, and that was when he saw the tinyspikeson the inside of the thing.
“Holy shit,” Rooster hissed. “Is itstabbingyou?”
Her fought the impulse to jerk the wheel and pull over. They were in the outskirts of town, houses giving way to fields and clumps of low forest. But they were still too close; he had to keep driving.
“I don’t know how, but it’s…” Her voice was strange, too slow, slurred. “I can’t use my fire with my right hand. It…I think it’s…” She trailed off, fingers still fumbling for a latch that wasn’t there.
“Shit,” he whispered. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“Your leg,” she said.
It trembled now, his foot shaking so badly that the car’s acceleration lurched and stuttered. The pain was terrible, but manageable; he’d lived with worse. The problem was the blood loss. He needed to apply a tourniquet. He was already dizzy and clammy, bile pushing up his throat. He didn’t have long before he passed out, he knew, and then he’d be of no use to Red at all. But they were still too close. He just needed to get a little farther…
If he hadn’t been bleeding to death, he imagined his reflexes would have been quicker. Because as it was, he didn’t see the spike strip until it was too late. He hit the brakes, but the front tires skidded over it.
There was a deafeningpop.
And they were fucked.
~*~
The moment the cuff clicked into place around her wrist, Red felt its bite. The literal sting of the spikes, and the way, from first touch, it seemed to sap her strength. She couldn’t conjure fire in her right hand. A slow numbness was steadily creeping its way up her arm, like when she fell asleep on it wrong and she lost circulation. She kept tracing its smooth contours with her fingertips, scrabbling at it with her nails. She had to get it off. The stink of hot, fresh blood filled the car, and she knew that she was their only real defense against their pursuers. The bulk of Rooster’s arsenal was split between the truck and the hotel, all of it beyond reach. On top of that, the car was stolen, and would be reported, which meant local law enforcement would get involved. An untenable situation.
If she could just get the cuff off–
She had to fling up a hand and brace herself against the dash as Rooster hit the brakes. She heard what sounded like twin gunshots…and then a hiss that definitely wasn’t.
The car came to a shuddering halt.
“Spike strip,” Rooster said, voice detached in the way it got when he was in battle mode.
“We can’t stay in the car,” she said, and a second later, the windshield exploded in a spiderweb of minute cracks. The bench seat jumped, and Red saw that there was a hole in the windshield, and a matching one in the center of the seatback between them. The crack of the rifle came a fraction of a second later, after the shot was already buried in the upholstery.
Rooster pulled her down below the dash, a hand cupping protectively around her head. Both of them were panting, their breath loud and quick in the close confines. When she turned to him, she saw that his face was pale and clammy.
She started to reach for him with her left hand, to heal him, unsure if she could even conjure the necessary power with the cuff on her wrist, but he caught her hand with his own. “No, not now,” he said. “I want you to open your door, and when I say ‘go,’ we’re gonna go down the shoulder and into the trees, okay?”
Another shot pierced the windshield above them, and she heard shatter-proof glass rain down onto the dash. A few pieces landed in her hair.
“We can’t make it,” she said, stomach cramping with panic.
“Yeah, we can. Throw up a little fire screen, and I’ll lay down cover fire. Okay?” When she didn’t respond: “Red, I need confirmation.”
“Okay,” she breathed. “Okay, okay.”
“Alright. Get the door open, then wait for the next shot, then go.”
“Okay.”
When she pushed the door open – right arm numb, heavy, pained – a rifle round went through it; she thought she heard the quiet click of it ricocheting off the pavement somewhere beyond the car.
“Go,” Rooster said, and she went, bringing up a fistful of fire and pushing it out, out, out, the screen Rooster had asked for.
He kept one hand on her shoulder, his steps stumbling and uneven as he followed her. His Beretta cracked out shot after shot.
Red tripped on the edge of the pavement, and then skidded down the embankment into the little patch of forest, dragging Rooster along with her.
