throaty engine. I scrambled up to the backseat and clawed at the seat belt, but Mouse was sitting on the other side of the buckle, and before I could get it out from under him Murphy screamed, “Hang on!”
Collisions are always louder than I expect, and this one was no exception. The pursuing car smashed into the rear of the Saturn at maybe forty miles an hour.
Metal screamed.
Fiberglass shattered.
I got slammed back against my seat and then whiplashed into the back of the driver’s seat.
Mouse bounced around, too.
Molly screamed.
Murph swore and wrenched at the steering wheel.
It could have been worse. Murphy had gained enough speed to mitigate the impact, but the Saturn went into a spin on the snowy streets and revolved in a graceful, slow-motion ballet.
Slamming my nose into the back of Murphy’s seat didn’t feel very good. In fact, it felt so not-good that I lost track of what was going on for a few seconds. I was vaguely aware of the car spinning and then crunching broadside into an enormous mound of snow.
The Saturn’s engine coughed and died. My pounding heart sent thunder to my ears and agony to my nose. I barely heard the sound of a car door opening and closing somewhere nearby.
I heard Murphy twist around in her chair and gasp, “Gun.” She drew her weapon, unfastened her seat belt, and tried her door. It was pressed into a solid wall of white. She snarled and crawled across a stunned Molly’s lap, fumbling at the door.
I lurched to the other side of the car and clawed at the door until it opened. When it did I saw a slightly smashed-up car in the middle of the street, idling with both doors open. Two men stalked toward us through the snow. One was holding what looked like a shotgun, and his partner had an automatic in either hand.
Murphy threw herself out of the car and darted to one side. It wasn’t hard to figure out why—if she’d started shooting immediately, Molly would have been in the line of any return fire. Murphy moved swiftly, crouched as close to the ground as she could get, but to do so cost her a precious second.
The shotgun roared and spat fire.
The blast smashed Murphy to the ground like a blow from a sledgehammer.
At the sight my scrambled brain congealed. I drew up my will, flung out a hand, and screamed, “Ventas servitas!”
Wind roared forth from my outstretched fingers. I directed it at the snow-covered ground in front of our attackers, and a sudden storm of flying bits of ice and snow engulfed the gunmen.
I kept the pressure on them, maintaining the spell, as I shouted, “Molly! Get to Murphy! Veil and first aid!”
Molly shook her head and gave me a glassy-eyed stare, but she climbed out of the car and staggered over to Murphy. A second later both of them vanished from sight.
I let up on the wind spell. Moving enough air to keep a gale-force wind going is a lot more work than anyone thinks. The air went still again except for swirling eddies of wind, frost devils that danced about in half a dozen whirling helices of snow. The two gunmen were revealed, crouching low, their arms still upraised to shield their eyes from the wind and stinging flakes of ice.
I missed my staff. I missed my duster. But I wasn’t missing the .44 revolver I drew from my coat’s pocket and aimed at the bad guys, while I raised my left hand, shaking the shield bracelet there out from under the sleeve of my coat.
I recognized one of the two gunmen, the one with the brace of pistols. His name was Bart something or other, and he was muscle for hire—cheap muscle, at that, but at least you got what you paid for. Bart was the kind of guy you called when you needed someone’s ribs broken on a budget.
The other guy was familiar, too, but I couldn’t put a name to him. Come on, it wasn’t like I hung around in outfit bars, getting to know everyone. Besides, all I really needed to know was that he’d shot Murphy.
I started walking forward, straight at them, and stopped when I was maybe fifteen feet away. By the time I got there they were finally getting the ice and snow out of their eyes. I didn’t wait for them to get their vision back. I aimed carefully and put a bullet through shotgun boy’s right knee.