16

            In the bedroom, Lisa had dressed in a blue velour suit and running shoes, and tucked her hair underneath an Atlanta Braves cap.  She was zipping shut the carry-on that lay on the bed.

            “I’ll take this.”  He grabbed the carry-on’s side handle.  “You just bring your purse and the gun.”

            “Thanks.”  She glanced at the duffel bag hanging from his shoulder.  “I don’t think I want to know what you’ve got in there.”

            “Plenty of things I hope we don’t need.  Let’s roll.  Leave the lights on, so people think we’re home.”

            “You haven’t said where we’re going.”

            “That ‘cause I haven’t figured it out yet.  We’ll get to that.”

            The telephone rang.  They stared at the phone as if it were a detonator on a ticking bomb.

            “It’s almost eleven-thirty,” he said.  “No friend or family would call this late, unless it’s an emergency.”

            She read the Caller ID display.  “It says unknown caller.  Could it be a wrong number, you think?”

            “I doubt it.”

            She frowned.  “Come on, Tony.”

            “Listen, if it’s someone we know and it’s urgent, they can reach us on our cells.”

            “You think it’s those people Bob warned you about?”

            “It’s the only thing that makes sense to me right now.”

            “But our number is unlisted.”  For the first time, a hint of true anxiety glinted in her eyes.

            “That’s exactly why I’m worried.  Let’s go.”

            Outside in the garage, while she waited in the truck, he stored the duffel bag and carry-on in the cargo space.  As he slammed the liftgate, he heard a vehicle rumbling at the mouth of the driveway.

            He spun, hand on the pistol.

            A black Chevy Suburban crawled past the house.  The driver might have been innocently searching for a friend’s residence, but he doubted it.  It moved too slowly, too deliberately.  He scrambled behind the wheel.

            “What’s wrong?” Lisa asked.

            “A black Suburban drove by, real slowly, like the driver was casing the place.”

            “How could they know where we live?”  She looked in the side mirror.

            “I think they got my plates when I was at The Varsity, ran them against a database, got our street address.”

            “They can do that?”  Her eyes were wide, disbelieving.

            “Later.”  He gunned the engine and strapped the seat harness across his chest.  “Later, I promise, I’ll tell you everything I know.  But first, I need you to buckle up.  This might get rough.”

            She muttered under her breath, but did as he asked. 

            He shifted into Reverse and hit the gas pedal, and they rocketed out of the garage.  He spun the steering wheel, backing into the turnaround, and straightened out.  Then hit the gas.

            Apparently having doubled back, the Suburban rolled across the driveway, blocking their escape.

            “Oh, shit,” she said. 

            “Hang on.”  He kept his foot on the gas pedal. 

            The Suburban’s driver’s side window slid down.  The pale, stout man from The Varsity was perched behind the wheel, though he no longer wore the tinted glasses.  Surrounded by the darkness of the vehicle’s cabin, his face looked as if it had been carved from ice.

            He had a large pistol, and he was aiming it at them.

            “I order you to stop!” he shouted.

            Screaming, Lisa ducked in her seat.

            “Hold on!” Anthony said.

            He roared through the open gate and wrestled the wheel to the right.  They tore across the front yard, divots of grass flying, narrowly avoided an oak tree, and catapulted over the curb and banged onto the street, the undercarriage crashing against the pavement.  

            “Jesus,” Lisa was saying over and over, as she huddled on the seat.  “Oh, Jesus, Jesus.”

            Anthony twisted the wheel, floored the accelerator.  They surged down the dark street.         

            Behind them, gunfire erupted. 

            Lisa shrieked.  Anthony glanced in the rearview mirror, saw that the guy had gotten out of the Suburban and was shooting at them.  He wore a black tracksuit, as did his partner, the Latina woman.  She was out of the vehicle, too, gun in her hands.

            Sometimes, he hated when his instincts were right.

            A bullet twanged off the rear bumper.  Another round hit them, and something shattered.  It sounded like a taillight.

            “Stay down,” he said to Lisa, but he hadn’t needed to say it.  She lay nearly flat against the seat, the harness twisted around her chest.  Her eyes were squeezed shut, as if she were wishing this was all a nightmare that would soon end.

            At a four-way intersection, he ran the Stop sign and swerved around the corner, tires wailing.  He checked behind them.

            The guy and the woman had climbed back in their truck, and were coming.