Nickel City Crossfire by Gary Ross (children's books read aloud TXT) 📕

into the skid but was going too fast to keep the car on the street. Both back tires blew out when we swung into and past the curb. The back end slammed into the street sign and one-way sign on the corner, shearing off the thin posts that held them. The explosion stunned us. We stopped in a snowbank.

The front airbags hadn’t deployed. But the left side impact had caused the driver’s side airbags to go off like mortar shells. My hearing gone, time seemed to slow even more, seconds stretching forward until the numbness in my body began to recede and my vision to sharpen. I felt pain in both shoulders. Brushing off bits of safety glass and fumbling with my seatbelt, I saw my gun was not in Phoenix’s hand or on the seat beside her. Somewhere on the floor? Panic set in that I would not find the Glock in time. I looked up, saw the Caddy barreling down the access road straight toward us, picking up speed, fishtailing as it came.

“Get out!” But even as I screamed I knew there wouldn’t be enough time.

Tito must not have anticipated that this adventure would damage his automotive inheritance. I had no way of knowing just then whether his car was badly scraped by our contact with it or how many bullets had struck it. But he must have decided his classic had suffered enough insult and injury for one day. Rather than ram us, he turned the wheel slightly to avoid us—planning, I was sure, to stop so the shooter could get out and finish us. But the Caddy hit more ice, at a faster speed than I had reached. The rear-wheel-drive must have thrown Tito off just enough that in attempting to straighten out the car he jumped the curb and shot straight into the abutment of the pedestrian bridge past the corner.

The crash was deafening.

Gun or no gun, I had to move fast if I wanted to stop them from killing us. I got out and stumbled through the snowbank and then through the Caddy’s tracks to the wreck. The driver’s side back door was jammed shut. The shooter was in a heap, his legs up and his head in the footwell. He was still. The front end was crumpled against the concrete, steam rising from within, the hood now shaped like a tent, antifreeze melting snow near the flat left front tire. There were no flames. The windshield had rained inward, leaving bits of safety glass everywhere. The side window had disintegrated, its door hanging by a hinge. Tito was inside, unmoving, covered with glass, his large body enveloping the steering wheel as if shielding it. His head was still attached to his neck but at a sickeningly unnatural angle.

Presently, pounding drew my attention back to the rear. The door began to move with each thump as if the shooter had righted himself and was trying to kick his way out. An instant later the door squealed open wide enough for him to begin to work himself free. I didn’t know whether he had his gun, but I knew I didn’t have mine, so I threw myself against the door when his legs were halfway out. He howled and swore at me. I slammed the door against him again. Then I jerked it open and grabbed him by the front of his studded leather jacket. He was even bigger up close, and heavy. With both shoulders hurting, I had a tough time dragging him out. When, finally, his huge head cleared the door, I let him go. He slumped onto his back in the snow, blinking, chest heaving. Blood streamed down one cheek from a gash in his forehead.

I glanced into the Caddy and saw no gun.

Intending to pat him down for the gun, I dropped a knee into his chest. That knocked wind out of him but not enough to keep him from swinging on me with his left fist, weakly. If he hadn’t just been pulled from a totaled car after being battered by the door, he might have knocked me cold. His glancing blow to my chin had enough behind it to rattle my brain. Something cut me at the point of contact. Twisting my head away, I pushed his arm down across his belly and held it there with my left as I poked him in the eyes with my right. He screamed, whipping his head from side to side, free arm flailing as he tried to grab me. Then he began to buck as adrenalin kicked in, but he couldn’t throw me off. Calling me a cocksucker and threatening to rip my balls off, now he tried to work his free right hand down his side—maybe in search of his gun or a knife. When I reached for that arm, he wrenched his pinned arm free. I pushed myself up just enough to drop my knee into his chest a second time. Then I snatched a handful of beard and punched him squarely in the face. Again. Again, cracking his nose. Still, he struggled, snarling, spitting blood at me. His rage seemed to grow with each inhalation. Both arms now free, he went for my neck.

Just then a leather boot came down hard against his cheek and a 9mm muzzle pressed into his temple. Breath ragged and eyes wet as she bent over him, Phoenix held my Glock with both hands, the left gripping and steadying the right. “Sneeze,” she said in a hollow whisper, “and I swear to God your brains will decorate the snow!”

Sliding off the shooter, I stood and took the gun from her, carefully.

39

Are we gonna find bullets from your baby Glock when we go through this wreck?” Piñero asked as we walked away from the Caddy. Tito’s body had been removed from the car but not the scene. Having been examined and photographed in situ, it was now in one of the ambulances on