Storm Front

“Okay, I want you to listen to me very carefully, and follow each one of my instructions exactly,” Storm said. “And I don’t have time for you to question me. Can you do that?”

“I… yes, I… Yes.”

“Very good. Okay, first step. Take the Swiss Army Knife off the key chain.”

“What? We’re going to challenge them to a knife fight?”

“What did I just say about questions?”

“Sorry,” Cracker said, and worked the knife away off the key chain as Storm deftly picked his way through traffic.

“Now I felt some shirts in your tennis bag. Are those made of some kind of blended fabric? Something that wicks away moisture?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Cut one of them into six long strips.”

“Okay,” Cracker said and went to work with the knife on the shirts. Storm heard the ripping of fabric. More bullets were coming from the Lincoln. One shattered the right side-view mirror, evoking a yelp from Cracker. But, to his credit, he kept at his work.

“What next?” he said when he was through.

“Take those Poland Spring bottles and empty them.”

“Where?”

“I don’t care. On the floor.”

Cracker did as he was told. “Now?”

“Pour the Macallan in equal portions into all six bottles. And try not to spill any. We need those bottles as full as possible.”

Cracker apportioned the Scotch equally, filling each of the bottles roughly a third of the way. “Okay. Next?”

“Stuff those shirt strips in the bottles. Get as much of the fabric into the booze as you can, but leave some of the shirt sticking out the top.”

“Uh-huh,” Cracker said and applied himself to his task. He was apparently struggling with it: “The mouths of these bottles aren’t very big. I’m having a tough time getting them in there. Should I cut narrower strips?”

“No. We actually need a nice tight fit. Tight enough that it won’t spill if held upside down.”

“All right.”

Cracker worked diligently for two minutes, during which time Storm managed to keep the Jaguar shielded from gunfire.

“Done,” Cracker said.

“Great. Leave the bottles upright so that they lean against the back of the seat,” Storm said, then jerked his thumb toward the rear of the car. “Then go back there and unbuckle your daughter’s car seat.”

“Uh, all right.”

Storm allowed himself to feel optimistic for a moment. He was confident he would soon be rid of the Lincoln.

But the moment didn’t last. The Turnpike bent to the left, and Storm needed to make a decision: Going into the left breakdown lane would allow him to pass several more cars and reach an opening that would give him the opportunity to put some significant space between him and the Lincoln; but doing so would also give the shooter a more direct line of fire to the Jaguar’s tires for a few seconds.

Storm decided to risk it. He gunned the engine and burst into the left breakdown lane.

It turned out to be the wrong decision. The moment his tires were exposed, a burst of fire came from the pickup.

And the left rear tire exploded.

The Jaguar skidded and swerved to the left, scraping concrete. Storm fought the steering wheel to keep them from losing control altogether, engaging his triceps and biceps in the battle. There were still pieces of tire clinging stubbornly onto the rim, but they were little help. It was all he could do to wedge the Jaguar back into the left lane.

“What’s going on?” Cracker called out from the backseat.

“We lost a tire,” Storm said. “It’s not your problem. Just concentrate on what you’re doing.”

“Okay. I’ve got it loose.”

Storm was thankful the Jaguar was front wheel drive. The car hadn’t lost its power. Just its handling.

It made threading his way through and around the slower traffic an impossibility. Merely keeping the car in its lane had become a struggle. Storm was now limited to moving at the speed of the other traffic.

The Lincoln had taken advantage of this disability and had closed to within two cars. It would soon be directly behind them, or next to them, or wherever Volkov wanted it to be.

“Hand the seat up to me,” Storm said.

The car seat was a dense, unwieldy hunk of padding, composite plastic, and metal. It weighed in at roughly thirty pounds, and was bottom heavy, since that’s where the metal parts that anchored it to the car lived. Cracker struggled to get it through the narrow opening between the two front seats and into Storm’s lap.

“Terrific. While you’re back there, get that cigar case. There’s a lighter in there, yes?”

“Yeah, of course. It’s actually more like a small blowtorch.”

“Perfect. Put it behind my back in this seat. I’m going to need to grab it quickly when I turn around.”

As Cracker completed that task, Storm rolled down his window and punched on the cruise control at fifty. A small gap opened up ahead of him, but that was fine: He wouldn’t have to worry about ramming the car ahead of him while he attempted the stunt he had been planning.

There was now only one car — a green Toyota — between the Jaguar and the Lincoln.