Strike walked away from the burning wreckage, almost in slow motion. He stood in front of a bewildered Heat, who was shaking his head in disbelief.
"Are you done, hermano?" asked Heat, very carefully.
Strike turned around slowly to look at his handiwork, and casually lit another cigarette. He then turned back to his friend, and said tersely "What was her damn problem?"
"She was freaked out because she was alone," replied the Fireboy.
Strike heaved an exasperated sigh. Damn it, why hadn't he destroyed that fucking cell phone?? He'd thought about it, but something told him to save it. Kinoshima knew that people would be after his little girl… so perhaps there could have been some kind of tracking device in the phone.
"Are you mad at the kid or are you mad at yourself?" Heat asked. It was freaky how he knew what Strike was thinking sometimes.
"A little bit of both," Strike admitted. "Shit, there's too much riding on this whole operation for me to fuck up on some miniscule details. How in the fuckin hell did she free herself?"
"I don't know, but she's still a little blitzed from the cocktail, and I suspect she caught a buzz. Maybe we should have given her a little more…"
"That shit don't matter now," uttered Strike. He looked back at the blazing wreckage. "Is she getting ready? 'Cuz now we gotta blow this joint. Get on your cell and see if you can find another place for us to lay our heads for the night, and then make a call and see if you can trade that vehicle in at the rental place for another one. Now we have another bit of business to handle."
Heat pulled out his phone. "Cool," he said. "Look, not that I'm going soft or anything, but go easy on that kid."
Strike threw his cigarette down and headed for the door. When Heat had made the comment, he turned his head in his direction with a facial expression of 'Damn, could I care less right now'. Then he went into the room.
Shorty had changed back into her school uniform; it was all she had clean. She almost messed herself again when she saw Strike.
"Kid, you got your shit together?" he asked.
Shorty nodded.
"Answer this; did you talk to your pops or what?"
Shorty shook her head.
Strike turned up his nose. "You were talking a shitload more earlier. Fuck it, get your damned rat and your other shit and let's bounce. You are treading on very thin ice, so I suggest you behave yourself from here on out. Another stunt like that and I'll make sure your dad gives birth to a duck. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes…" replied Shorty, like she wanted to shrink into a little ball and bounce away.
Strike hurriedly walked around the room and collected his and Heat's items, flushed a few bags down the toilet, and gave it a double check. Everything was working out okay to this point; now he felt like he was going to have to tiptoe across the edge of a razor blade.
He looked at Shorty, who was really starting to remind him of Sherry from Resident Evil 2. Slow, and sitting down every two seconds.
"You ready?" he asked impatiently.
Shorty put her backpack on and carefully cradled her mouse. "Yeah," she said.
"… Get the fuck out. Go, move, to the damn car," Strike barked.
The little one ran as fast as her legs would carry her out of the door.
Strike growled angrily. First, he lost his temper, and now he was just plain pissed. He shook his head and left the room, wiping the doorknob upon his exit. The main thing that clicked in his mind was that Shorty's cell phone frequency hadn't been scrambled yet. The second she cut it on, her signal was probably loud and clear. Kinoshima may have been afraid to call the authorities, but Strike had no doubt that he had recruited a few others to find his daughter.
As soon as the trio was in the car (Strike was driving), fire truck sirens blared nearby. That meant pigs were on the way, too. Good thing that he knew a lot of back streets, most of which he observed from Heat.
The Fireboy was making cell phone calls, and Shorty sat quietly in the back seat, still cradling Columbo. Why had Strike been so mean to her? She didn't do anything wrong, or so she thought… Her family's psychologist always made mention to her parents about Shorty's low self-esteem… right now, she felt extra-low.
As Strike was speeding away from the scene, he caught a glimpse of Swine Car in the rear view. The lights began to flash.
"Heat, we've got company. Should we handle this your way or my way?"
Heat disconnected his call, and looked at Shorty. "Can't do it my way with her in the car. Your way, ese."
"Take the wheel," replied Strike. Heat grabbed the steering wheel with one hand, and put his foot on the accelerator. They'd done this maneuver so many times before that it was almost second nature. It wasn't that Strike didn't know how to handle this situation, but he knew these things were best suited for his boy.
Once they got readjusted in their seats, Strike pulled out a blunt and lit it. "Did you handle the license plate already?" he asked.
Heat nodded, with a far away determined look, as if though he were driving on the track. He was getting in his zone.
The police officer made demands over the speaker, and Heat started to slow down… slightly… slightly… Once the police car slowed, Heat gunned it, peeling rubber.
Shorty screamed… what on earth was happening?!
"Keep it shut, little girl! Get on the muthafuckin floor unless you want to fly out this bitch by mistake!!" snapped Strike, passing the blunt to Heat. Shorty obeyed. Casually, Strike pulled out his Desert Eagle and removed the clip. He looked in his left pant leg and pulled out another clip, filled with bullets he'd made himself for situations like this.
The cop was trying to keep up. Heat was making hairpin turns, swerving like a maniac, and still maintaining complete control of the car. As he smoked, his nerves were calmed more and determination blazed in his already fiery eyes.
The police officer kept hollering over his speaker, and finally decided this driver was too much of challenge for him. There was no plate on this vehicle, no signs of stopping… he blared his siren and started to call for back up.
Strike nodded to Heat, and the racer steadied the control of the car. Usually, the nod meant 'no unexpected turns'.
Since Strike had just let the top down on the car (hell, it was a rental… not like he'd do it in his own car, whatever!), he took a precise aim for the police car's dashboard. When he fired the shot, the entire control panel went haywire. The sheer power of the gun was incredible; the cock back alone could break one's arm if they weren't prepared for it. As the bullet exploded from the chamber, a large blast of fire accompanied it.
"SHIMATTA!!!" the officer screamed, and inadvertently swerved out of control, only to quickly get himself together. How in the hell did a bullet get through?!? The siren was still blaring and he threw the radio down.
Heat immediately made a sharp turn down a desolate alley. The cop was on them still!
"Persistent little piece of bacon," snarled Strike. Under any other circumstances, he would have aimed for the engine, but he'd already made big enough of a scene at the hotel. Something told him to avoid another one, but this cop wasn't giving them that option.
Heat continued to drive down back streets and alleys to avoid any more cops. This one was challenging. He almost liked the rush…
…Until the cop started firing back.
"SHIT!!" Strike and Heat yelled, ducking down. "LOCO CABRON!!!" continued Heat.
Shorty was on the floor, cowering and covering her head.
The cop was firing recklessly, and Heat made crazy zigzags to keep the car from getting too much damage.
Strike counted the shots. The cop was using an automatic weapon, probably a Smith and Wesson from the sounds of it, which wasn't a standard police-issued gun in that area. After he counted the 15th round, he immediately rose up and fired two clean shots; one through the passenger side of the windshield, and the other to the top mounted sirens and lights.
Once again, the car swerved, and the entire windshield was destroyed.
Adrenaline was crazy- the cop still managed to say on them.
"Strike, what are you doing?" hissed Heat.
"Trying not to blow the damned car up…" growled Strike. "Fuck it!"
"Wait 'til I make this turn, homes," said Heat. "This coming up is extremely secluded!"
"Got it."
Heat made THE most wicked turn of his life, handling the steering wheel like it wasn't nothing! His eyes were narrowed as the speedometer slowly climbed back up to 50, 60, 70, and shot to 90MPH. His pulse was racing like crazy!
During the turn, the cop couldn't reload his gun. Just who the hell was he chasing, anyway?!? A racecar driver or something?! When he looked up, he saw the man in the passenger side aiming… right at him! He was struggling to see, as 90 mile plus winds were whipping in his face, debris from the outside and dust bombarding his vision. He was a sitting duck. It was either keep getting his car destroyed by these insanely powerful bullets, or bail out. He chose the latter. The cop threw himself out of the vehicle, and it continued to lumber out of control.
Strike saw the cop jump out. He made a final shot to the engine, and the car went up in a blaze of glory.
The two heaved a slight sigh of relief, but they weren't out of the frying pan yet. Now, they had to get rid of the damned rental car, and not the legal way, either…
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