Instinct by Jason Hough (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

to reload I chance a reach for the visor, swing it down, and catch the keys just like Greg always did.

Bullets flying all around me, I push the key into the ignition and twist. The engine starts despite all the rounds slamming into the radiator up front.

Grunting with effort, glass in my hair, I shove the fire extinguisher between the base of the driver’s seat and the gas pedal. The engine roars. Ignoring the thuds as the car is turned into Swiss cheese, I back out of the vehicle and, once my knees are on the floor of the garage, I stretch for the gear lever and shift the car into drive.

It lurches forward, tires screeching. At the same instant I throw myself the rest of the way out. My body slams into the black sports car beside me at the same time Greg’s cruiser rams straight into the fountain in the middle of the circular driveway.

There’s a thunderous crash. The car heaves upward, front wheels off the ground and spinning, the hood crushed. Water pours from the smashed side of the fountain. The two killers lie on either side, having dived out of the way. One seems to be hurt, but I don’t wait around to find out.

I crawl backward, and at the rear of the sports car I dart toward the small side door I’d entered through, keeping low, hoping no one sees me. With any luck they’ll assume I was in the vehicle, and waste time searching it and then the driveway beyond.

At the door I almost crash into Captain Tweaker. He’s managed to get to his feet and is stumbling into the garage. Without breaking stride I ram my fist into his nose for the third time that evening, and this time the blow makes his eyes roll back and all the life goes out of his legs. He drops like a puppet with its strings cut. With a single long step I’m over him and rounding the side of the house, darting across the lawn while, I hope, all attention is on the driveway. I pass the dormant shape of the sleek helicopter, ringed by still-flickering fake candles resting on paving stones. Grass crunches under my feet as the house falls away behind me. Ahead is that big garden shed, its doors open. Inside I can just make out the shape of the ATV, and next to it, a red Harley-Davidson that is most definitely familiar. I assume neither will have keys, so I keep my focus on the wall instead.

Too high to reach the top. I cast about, then spot a small trestle table beside the ATV’s shed, with some empty planting pots atop it. I brush them aside and move the iron table a few feet until it’s wedged in the corner between the wall and the shed. The thing may be old and disused, but it’s sturdy as hell and holds my weight just fine. Reaching the top of the wall is easy, hauling myself up not so much.

Perched there, I ready to leap down to the other side. If this were an action film, I think, that mansion behind me would be exploding right now. I pause, there, unable to let go of the image of the mansion exploding as I remember Ang’s lab in the basement, likely full of his research. Not to mention their equipment. The machine producing pills.

I should go back. Destroy it all. End this right here, right now.

But I only manage to turn toward the mansion before Conaty’s voice erupts from the intercom again. Shrill words, yet loud and clear even from a hundred yards away.

Her orders to the Broken Nose Gang have changed in a rather critical way.

“You will kill Mary Whittaker!” she shouts.

Over and over and over again.

By the time I reach the river my nose feels like it’s on fire. Pain throbs through my head, pulsating behind my eyes.

At the edge of the water I allow myself a chance to rest. There’s a boulder the size of a shopping cart, about the only cover here, so I put my back against it and fill my cupped hand with some of the cool babbling water. This I trickle down the back of my neck and across my forehead. Tentatively I probe my nose under the bandage, and my fingers come away red. That entire area of my face itches like a dozen mosquito bites, but the cool water helps so I drip more onto the bandage and let it soak in.

Once my breathing is under control, I take a tentative look behind me. The first glance back I’ve made since scaling the wall perhaps fifteen minutes ago.

The hillside leading up to Ang’s mansion is quiet. But then it would be, I suppose. From just about anywhere up there one could see this entire river. Me crossing to the other side would be a sniper’s dream. Easy pickings.

There’s really no choice, though. I have to keep moving. Every second I sit here is a chance they’ll think to look this way, and post someone with a rifle up there. Crashing Greg’s car bought me precious time, and I’m wasting it by resting here.

But God the water feels good.

I gulp some from the stream, not caring if it’s polluted from the old mine. The icy liquid makes me gasp, burning like whiskey, but I take three more swallows all the same.

Then I’m up and trudging through the water. With each step I expect the light inside my head to go out as a sniper round rips through my body, but no shots ring out. There’s only the sound of my soaking wet boots smacking on the rocks as I pick my way up the opposite bank, back onto the mountain that is my home.

At the tree line I stop and look behind me one last time.

No one has followed. At least, not that I