20. GT350

From outside the library, a squeal of brakes. The open French doors would be fast, but they're bound to be expecting that, aren't they? "Front door?" I suggest.

"Yes, I think that would be a much better idea."

As we retrace our steps through the darkened house, the only sound is the distant banging and shouting of the old woman in the kitchen. We emerge into a plaza with a circular driveway, and to our left near the French doors is a long, black limo. Its passenger door slams. Apparently there's no one left to shoot at us; we're unchallenged as we race toward it.

It's clear that the fucking thing is armor-plated - the way our bullets bounce off it, we might as well be using pea-shooters. Even several direct hits to the windows don't cause any visible damage. It accelerates with a scream of rubber. Swerving, the driver aims right for us.

George pushes me back, waiting until the last possible second to dodge, then he ducks down and gets off a shot at the right front tire. The big car spins out as the tire blows. He leaps out of the way as it fishtails and slams, sideways, into the front steps. Another tire bursts off the rim, and as the driver tries to get it moving again, George grabs the nearest door and dives in, gun drawn.

In seconds, the driver is dead, and we have the limo. George overrides the locks to the rear door, and I snatch it open. I find a girl staring back at me, wide-eyed. She's not more than fourteen, and I'm disgusted. Looking at the scrap of a dress she's wearing, I can only guess that she's one of Señor Gomez's little playmates. She's unarmed; and alone in the car.

The sudden thunderous roar of an engine and the pop and crunch of gravel divert my attention from the kid in the limo. Something red and speedy streaks around the corner of the garage and zooms away down the drive. I swear and bolt for the garage. The bay is open; there are several vehicles still there, and I discover a peg-board with keys on the wall inside the door. Guess cartel kingpins don't worry about getting jacked like peons do. Inventorying the cars swiftly, I snag a key and race for the matching vehicle as George catches up to me.

"This?" he asks in disbelief. "Why don't you take the jeep?"

"That's no fun!" I say, cranking the engine with a feral grin, "I'll match this fine American classic against any pasta rocket Enzo ever hatched. Hang on!"

I think his resulting comment translates to "Here we go again," but I don't ask him to repeat it.

The Italian car - I didn't get a good look at it - is ahead of us by maybe a minute, if that. He's more familiar with the road, but like every other thoroughfare I've seen lately, it's not much of a road. He doesn't have spit in the way of clearance; it's not going to handle worth a damn - I'm gonna catch up with him, and things are gonna get interesting. As I whip around the corner of the building and skid past the dead limo, another vehicle pulls out on the far side. I recognize RC's jeep and honk in passing.

"I always wanted to drive one of these things!" I scream as it vrooms up the drive. I slam it into fourth and rocket between the gateposts and out onto the main road. "Nineteen sixty-eight GT350 Ford Mustang by Carroll Shelby! Greatest American car ever built! Whooooeee!"

He's praying again. I don't know why; this road isn't nearly as bad as our Sunday morning slalom. Ditches, but no cliffs yet. It's twisty, but so far, no 180-hairpins. And goddam, this baby can scoot! For years, I've been saying "Drive it like you stole it" - now I am and I have, and it's even more fun than I thought it would be.

"I see taillights!" I sing out. "Come on, George, you can't shoot him with your eyes closed! Don't forget to roll down the window first."

The Ferrari ahead of us is getting closer; I can't believe what a pussy this guy is! He's driving a car than cost more than the GNP of some small third-world countries, and he's not doing more than fifty. "When I pull alongside, can you try to put one through the block?"

Eleven repetitions of 'loco' later, I'm drawing up on his rear quarter-panel and then I'm looking over at Señor Gomez, whose mouth hangs open at the sight of us. Apparently, driving requires his full concentration; he doesn't pull a gun or anything as George sights on the engine compartment and puts a round into something vital. Whatever he hits takes out the drivetrain; I throw it into neutral and hit the brakes, a series of quick taps to slow the 350 as the pasta rocket corkscrews ahead of us.

"Whoa -" I coax the muscle car as I struggle to dump velocity before we get involved in the Ferrari's crash-in-progress. "Easy, baby!"

The red nose of the Italian sports car is swinging our way. I stomp hard on the brakes and steer into the resulting skid, away from the Ferrari, feeling the old Shelby sway on its racing suspension, bucking on the rough road. It's one of those zen and the art of driving moments. Me, car, road...yeah. Coming out of the slide, I drop it into third and swerve around the red car that's now at a dead stop in the middle of the road.

Surprisingly, the other car is still upright, steam and fumes coming from under the hood as we walk toward it. Gomez has fumbled his way clear of the ruined car, and found a pistol somewhere. Of course, he's shaking so hard he can't hit anything when he shoots. The first bullet goes wild. His second shot hits something metallic. I look over my shoulder and see a round hole in the Shelby's deck.

I elbow past George and throw myself at Gomez, knocking him flat. I proceed to pound the crap out of him. "You Philistine! That's a sixty-eight Shelby! You do -not- shoot Shelbys!" I punctuate my speech with punches. All things considered, I'm more pissed at him for shooting the car than I am about being turned into a crispy critter. I'll be fine in a day or two; the car is gonna need some work.

"George," I say, straddling the cowering drug lord. "Would you be so kind as to bring me that nice big knife that's in my purse?"

Mojave Dragonfly: This is a HUGE compliment coming from the author of "Sons of Mexico"! Deepest thanks.

Dawnie-7: At the rate she's going, she's gonna throw her back out hauling them all around...then she'll need a good massage...

elaneon: Welcome to the party! Yeah, I couldn't see El/George killing some little old lady like that...I do try to keep the charecters in charecter.I'll answer your lovely detailed reviews in an e-mail as soon as I get a little time. Glad you're having fun.