School of Fish (Fish Out of Water #6) - Amy Lane Page 0,120
the giant knob on the steering wheel that was probably illegal and spun it, giving the modified SUV enough gas to rip it off the grill of their attacker’s car.
“You steer, I’ll shift,” Jackson commanded, and Ellery stomped on the brakes, letting Jackson shift into Drive. “Go!”
And he shot forward, squinting through the cracks in the front windshield that blocked their vision.
“See the bus?” Jackson asked tersely, making muffled grunting sounds as he unhooked his seat belt and webbing so he could rummage on the floorboard at his feet. “Fuck!”
“I’m going right,” Ellery told him, spinning the wheel hard and pumping the brakes. The brakes barely responded, and the Tank screamed in pain—much like Ellery’s entire body, head, spine, arm, wrist, leg…. What in the fuck had he done to his left leg?
It was not his imagination. Jackson was whimpering, bracing against the dashboard with one hand while clutching at his phone.
“Are you okay?” Ellery asked, keeping the bus in sight. “Oh fuck! Did you see that?”
He couldn’t see where the car came from, but the third SUV full of Ziggy Ivanov’s men turned right from the outside lane, cutting off two lanes of traffic and diving after the bus. Ellery groaned and dove right, following the bus and the bad guys.
“Are you okay?” Jackson asked irritably. “We’re not okay. Catch them!” His phone started buzzing, and he looked at the face of the thing. “Well, shit.”
Ellery spared a glance at it and saw that it was cracked beyond all use, except for answering a call.
“How you guys doing after that?” Burton demanded over speaker.
“Peachy! Going skydiving next,” Jackson lied, his voice cracking a little.
“Fabulous. Okay, the cops caught up with the car that hit you. They’re taking down idiots with guns and attitudes as we speak.”
“The third SUV is right on Jason’s tail,” Jackson told him. “We’re doing our best, but this thing’s wobbling like a motherfucker, and something keeps screaming—”
“Brakes,” Ellery said shortly. “Feels like the axle’s bent.”
“Yeah. Big car no-go pretty soon. Where are you?”
“Passing on your left,” Burton said, and to Ellery’s surprise he heard a motorcycle buzzing past. Burton didn’t slow down or even wave, but the bike was scary impressive—streamlined, shiny, and the helmet obviously had some sort of state-of-the-art com link in it. No wonder they hadn’t been able to spot him. He could have been anywhere.
“Nice ride,” Jackson said sourly. “Do we have a plan?”
“I’m going to try to take out the driver,” Burton told him. “If you two can pull alongside him when I do?”
“He’s going to be shooting through a moving vehicle in our direction,” Ellery said, feeling the blood throb in his forehead. “How can this possibly go wrong?”
“School bus full of children,” Jackson reminded him tersely. “Besides, your windows are pretty intact.”
Ellery made a sound in the back of his throat like Snoopy getting a titty-twister. “Great. We’re solid. We can do this.”
“Was that a go from Ellery?” Burton asked over the phone. “Because they’re turning left onto the Mall. Can you see them?”
“We can see them,” Jackson ordered. “Stand on it, Counselor.”
It was like Ellery’s gas-pedal foot was a completely different creature than the rest of him, because it obeyed without question.
To say the Tank shot forward was an overstatement, but the engine made growling, screeching noises, and they lurched ahead, taking the turn onto the Mall about two car lengths behind the SUV as Burton pulled up next to it.
They were in a perfect position to watch as he pulled out a gun with a silencer on the end and shot. And shot. And shot again.
Ellery practically stood on the accelerator, and they were just starting to draw even with the SUV as it leaned to the side, slowing as it did. Ellery drew up so he could look into the passenger window, and he and Jackson made the same noise.
The car had carried four men. The driver, the passenger, and the guy behind the passenger were all dead, neat holes in their foreheads, their brains splattering the armrests and windows around them.
The guy behind the driver was screaming, terrified, no gun in his hand at all, fumbling with the door lock with fingers clumsy from panic.
“Shit,” Jackson muttered. “Ellery can you roll down your window?”
Ellery made a sound like a hurt kitten, and Jackson shifted in his seat and gasped.
“Oh, baby—baby, don’t worry about it. Here.”
Oh God, Ellery couldn’t even look at his left arm. It hurt, it hurt it fucking hurt, but Jackson was