Thanks for your patience, folks. Am slowly getting back to the usual schedule, and will soon get better at reading/ reviewing. Lots of weirdness, these days.

37: Parting Shots

Somewhat earlier-

Matters had developed very quickly, in the sort of jolting blur that made the universe seem to flicker and blink like a badly scratched DVD. But NASA had trained him (and so had IR) to keep his head in the most extreme circumstances; hand on the controls, no matter what happened, guiding his craft to the end.

After that first gunshot, he'd floored the green Range Rover's accelerator pedal, juddering backward at top, roaring speed over shattered concrete, twisted metal and splintering wood. In the scarlet glow of his own taillights, he'd glimpsed a man's silhouette and caught a brief flash, as of bloody red light stroking metal.

Backed into him… it… whatever or whoever had fired that booming handgun. Felt the bump, heard a crunching noise and metal-on-metal screech, and then got shot at again. Close, too; the bullet flattened itself like a road-killed bug against the company vehicle's armored glass, directly in front of his head. Nice shot, for someone hit by a car, facing a hurricane glare of headlights and dust.

John had a near photographic memory for events, timing and details. His mind snapped a picture, recorded the location, made note of all variables, even as he was backing away from the scene at the best speed that a Range Rover could manage.

Physically, his throat had closed up, his hands were clenched on the wheel like hooked, painful vises, and his heart was battering along at a very dangerous rate. But his mind was rainwater clear, and the body would do as he bade it, thrusting terror aside to be examined and poked at, later. To put it more simply, he filed all sensation away and drove off.

The engine roared. He backed, hard; hitting tunnel walls on the way and damaging the Rover's left taillight, but getting his hide out of Dodge in one un-punctured piece. Up a steep concrete ramp that probably wasn't as long as adrenaline and vivid red lighting made it appear. Then crashing out through a set of locked storm-cellar doors that were torn from their hinges and hurled through the air by the force of his sudden exit.

Not one notion… not a clue… where he was, but the Range Rover's GPS system would soon peg a satellite for him and figure things out. For the moment, it hardly mattered. All that John wanted was safely gone and away.

Outside on the surface, he found himself backing along a rutted and little-used track through overgrown weeds whose bent stalks and spilt sap were raggedly sharp as vegetable murder. Recently, then. He'd been brought here not long ago by someone who wanted him out of the way, but not dead. Yet.

Late afternoon sunshine flicked and stabbed through scrubby, waving brush… Queen Anne's lace, blackberry brambles, and the like. A few young trees whipped past, only just not getting mown down by the lurching Rover.

After a few wild yards of this, John executed a very nice 3-point turn, getting his vehicle pointed and moving in the same direction. Once, on Mars, trapped in a crumbling, ice-riddled gulley… And that time on the Moon, with Pete beside him cussing like a beaten and hung-over sailor… Well, driving through hell was sort of a John Tracy specialty. This kind of thing, he could handle (as opposed to, say, females).

Air conditioning felt like ice on his sweat-dampened forehead. As John shifted the dashboard vents, the vehicle's smart-system clattered and chirped, renewing contact with the world around it. A map flickered up on the small GPS screen, his phone came to life, and all at once he was back in business.

Main road wasn't far off as the crow flies and the Range Rover bashes, and he still had nearly an eighth of a tank… but no money or identification. On the bright side, he was armed and able to make cautious contact with the family. There was still an enemy cyber-attack to shield them from, and basic whereabouts to conceal, though. He'd have to be careful and keep the conversation short.

Alan seemed like the safest bet, because there'd be less security to wade through in reaching him, and fewer tough questions. Sometimes, self-absorbed was a good thing. So, John picked up his phone and called his younger brother, driving with one hand and keeping half his attention on the rear-view mirror, just in case.

Only later, once he'd arranged funding and fuel, did the astronaut notice those handprint dents and deep finger-scrapes on his vehicle's hood.

XXX

South Carolina, at a remote roadside exit-

Some people didn't like traveling by car, but Alan Tracy had always loved it. Loved the shifting sights, the off-beat, middle-of-nowhere roadside attractions (See the World's BIGGEST Lint Ball!) and even the crazed local food.

With tires singing on pavement and nothing but a ribbon of highway stretching ahead of him, Al was a happy young man. Probably came of spending half his life stuck on an island. If he could have, he'd have spent each waking moment in his car, regarding it as sort of a combination dining room, love-nest and ticket to freedom. In fact, right after all that messy business with TinTin, Alan had shaken his heart out of his pants' leg, hopped into his Mustang and hit the road.

Still... a guy had to fill the tank, stretch and visit the potty… not to mention clean up after his weird older brother… so Alan pulled off the highway at an exit advertising clean restrooms, pecan logs and relaxing massages. Cheap fuel, too.

A few hundred yards of driving brought him to a single-light intersection, where he had a choice of Amoco Station, Stuckey's Truck Stop or (farther down the road) Ma's Good Eats.

Naturally, with his usual sense of bullet-proof fun, Alan chose the more distant, oddball destination, and that was what saved his life.