Doc's Orders by Quin
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Chapter 4 "Mayhem in Manhattan"
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Out on the highway, I had chance to relax. Ironically, if you stick
to the speed limit there is actually *less* chance of being pulled
over on the Interstate than on some side road. Highway Patrol
officers and State Troopers assigned to major routes never have
problems making their quotas, so random checks are less frequent.
Gradually, my mind turned back to the delivery. It seemed fairly
straight forward -- the club the girls would be performing at had a
swanky Manhattan address. Their act lasted about twenty minutes,
leaving us exposed for less than an hour. Still, no matter how I
looked at it, something about this deal stank. It wasn't the rush to
get Myra away; we'd taken similar risks before with slaves that
weren't completely ready. I think the things ringing alarm bells with
me were the details. Why do this shit with Myra? Kitten had proved
Doc could extract almost anything, given time, and those millions of
dollars Myra was supposed to have stolen had to be somewhere. Our
client could be the big hero and have Doc recover the money for the
bank -- hell, I'm sure Doc wouldn't mind extracting a few million for
himself. So why have Myra humiliate herself on stage when you could
get a more tangible revenge? For that matter, why have them perform
at all?
Furthermore, it had taken all six weeks to break JoJo. That made her
an exceptional individual in my book -- I doubt I could resist Doc
that long. What was such a person like that doing working as a PA?
Question, questions everywhere, and not a fucking answer in sight.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
About a half hour from Manhattan, I stopped at one of my usual rest
stops and did my final preparations. Myra struggled a little as I
gave her the will suppressant, so I sat and watched her for a few
minutes. Doc's drugs were extremely experimental, as they had to be;
it's hard to get FDA approval for drugs designed to enslave the user.
Doc's lab is of pharmaceutical quality, however, so there aren't the
same risks as with street drugs.
Slowly I began to see the light dimming in her eyes. Then I noticed a
stray tear as it trickled down her cheek. Taking a compact from her
purse, I attempted to fix it -- after all, it wouldn't do for her to
look bad on her big night. Once the suppressant was in force, I felt
better. Whatever we were getting ourselves in for, at least I didn't
have to worry about Myra doing anything stupid. Relieved, I hit the
road again.
Eventually, we crossed over the Hudson Bridge into Manhattan. The
Blue Note Club was on West 28th, just a few blocks from the Empire
State Building. Back in the Thirties, this had been a major business
district, and had somehow avoided the redevelopment of the Sixties.
Now the area was a little rundown, but it was still close enough to
Broadway to be inside the party district.
I was over an hour early, so I cruised around for awhile, mainly for
safety reasons. If Myra was going to go apeshit, I'd prefer to have
her do it in the limo. But I had to admit that Doc's drug seemed to
be working. By now, she looked like a big plastic robot, to the point
where I could get her to look left or right on command. The next time
I passed the club, though, I was relieved to see the side entrance
was clear. Robot or not, if there was going to be trouble,
it was likely to be here when the slaves smelled freedom for the first
time.
From what I could see, the club used seedy and bohemian as a motif.
The windows were painted over with stylized representations of jazz
musicians and their instruments, so it was impossible to see inside.
I circled the block again, mildly surprised at my instincts telling me
to run. There used to be a time when I'd listen to them, but tonight
I ignored everything, rationalizing it with Doc's generous delivery
bonus.
*Yeah, and what good would a bonus be if you weren't alive to spend
it,* a little piece of my mind spoke up.
Okay, fine. I've got too many unanswered questions to pull out now.
*Curiosity killed the cat.*
Better to be a dead tom than a live pussy.
My instincts shut up with that. I looked at my watch again -- still
an hour early. The lights were on in the club, but the place itself
looked pretty quiet. Probably wasn't open yet. I imagined trying to
get the girls inside when it opened up and the alley was full of
people, and winced. Getting them inside now while the joint was quiet
seemed like the best thing to do -- I was sure our clients could find
us someplace to hang out until show time.
Finding a quiet spot, I parked and turned back to the girls. Myra sat
like a zombie, next to a slightly livelier JoJo. I gave the smaller
woman a long look -- unlike Myra, she seemed firmly under Doc's
conditioning. That nagging sensation was back, stronger than ever. I
thought about it, then decided to palm an ace just in case my
instincts were right.
Reaching into my overnight, I recovered my spare 9mm and a second
magazine. "JoJo," I said quietly, "lift up your purse and open it."
She did. "Now, I want you to listen closely to me."
JoJo looked at me, all subservience. "Yes, Master?"
"I'm going to put these in your purse." She glanced at the gun and
magazine I slipped into her handbag. "They're quite heavy, so you'll
have to compensate a little for them. As far as you're concerned,
though, the purse is light. You will carry it as if it's just part of
your arm. If someone asks you if you're carrying any kind of weapon,
you'll tell them no. If anyone asks you for the purse, you check with
me -- if I'm not there, you'll tell them no. You will only give your
purse and the gun to me. Is that clear?"
"Yes Master."
"Good girl." I chucked her under the chin. "Now, Myra, I need you to
do something, too. . ."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The side door of the Blue Note Club was in a quiet alley off West
28th. I figured enough players came to the club that the security had
to be pretty good, so leaving the Lincoln parked there was safe enough
for now. Doc had given me a cloak for JoJo, something to cover her
kinky costume until show time. I was fairly confident that the purse
would go unnoticed under it.
We left the car and headed to the side door. I knocked once, and
found myself looking up at this large animal, about seven feet tall
and just as wide, who answered the door. White, with brown hair
flecked with gray and shaved close to the skull, he had no neck, no
teeth, and looked like he'd been an enforcer in kindergarten. I felt
better about slipping the gun to JoJo.
"Yeah?" he grunted.
I indicated the girls. "I brought the special act?"
It took him a minute to find enough brain cells and process this, then
he stepped back inside. "Toby. They're here."
Toby turned out to be a willowy black guy in his early thirties.
Compared to his friend on the door, he was a stick with muscles. But
I could see those muscles were in excellent condition, and I noticed
the way his eyes seemed to be in constant scan mode. There was no
comparison -- this was the one I had to worry about.
He looked me over, presumably doing the same calculation I was. "You
carrying?" he asked, pleasant.
"Shit, yeah," I said. "This is New York, friend. If you don't have a
gun, the police stop you and give you one."
Toby smiled, showing a perfect set of white teeth, and held his hand
out for it. When I paused, his face stayed pleasant, but I could feel
the temperature drop. "Look, 'friend,' it's early and I don't feel
like cleaning your brains off my shoes tonight, so I'm gonna cut you
some slack. The boss is a little nervous tonight, so you hand over
your little peashooter and everything'll be cool. If you don't, in
the words of the master, we'll have to get medieval with your ass."
The grin cocked up a notch. "Don't worry. I give you my personal
assurance you'll get your popgun back when you leave."
Reluctantly, I reached into the holster and withdrew my .38.
"Thank you kindly. Now up against the wall."
I knew the drill. He frisked me expertly, finding the holdout in my
ankle holster straight away. "Naughty, naughty -- carrying a pocket
rocket and not telling me," he mocked.
"Can't blame a guy for trying," I muttered over my shoulder.
"Wanna bet?" But he straightened up and nodded to the animal. "He's
cool."
JoJo almost made it through. She was right between them when Toby
stopped her. "The chicks, too," he snapped.
I felt my heart sink. "Fine," I agreed, thinking fast. "But you
won't find anything. We don't let our slaves carry."
Toby smirked and reached for JoJo's purse, and at that moment I
could've kissed Myra. She did exactly what I'd told her -- a light
clicked on in her eyes and she took off like a stripe-assed baboon,
running down the alley on those impossible heels. Toby went after her
with a snarl, with me right next to him. Luckily, I reached Myra
first, bringing her down in a flying tackle. She opened her mouth to
scream but Toby's hand covered it. Together, we managed to drag her
back inside before anybody noticed (not that many people would've
given a shit -- this WAS New York, after all).
"Shit, man, I was told these whores were trained?" he panted,
scowling.
"In her case, *partially* trained," I panted back. "Your boss wanted
them before this one was fully finished. The only thing we can rely
on her to do is her act."
We took a minute to get our breath back, and my earlier suspicions
came back in force -- whatever he was doing now, my new friend Toby
had also been Special Forces at some point. Not a marine -- we can
generally spot each other in a crowd -- but he'd been something, maybe
Green Berets or Airborne. If the shit hit the fan tonight, that was
going to make things a little difficult. Still, it made me feel
better that he'd missed one trick. Thanks to Myra's diversion, JoJo's
purse and its precious cargo had made it through the perimeter.
"Follow me," Toby commanded, heading off towards the front of the
house. I herded the girls in front of me, taking a good long look
around as we walked. This definitely wasn't the backstage of a
thriving nightclub, even one that wasn't open yet -- the air smelled
stale and dusty, like no one had been here in a while, and I noticed
posters and bits of old tickets littering the corridor. Most were
dated about three months before, about as long as a prime location
like this could remain unoccupied. This seemed confirmed when we
entered the main room. Most of the tables were covered with dust
sheets, but at the back there seemed definite signs of renovation. As
far as I could tell, the club's last makeover seemed to have been in
the Eighties. It had that Yuppie Club Tropicana look, all bamboo
furniture and plastic rubber plants. I started to think that the Blue
Note Club was what the place was becoming, rather than what it had
been.
One of the more annoying Eighties features was a small raised island
just large enough for a couple of tables that had been built to one
side of the dance floor. Back then, it was a place where the
beautiful people could sit so that everyone could admire them. Now, a
large comfortable couch had been placed on it at an angle facing the
stage. On the couch sat a man and a woman, relaxing with a drink.
The guy was dark, mid to late thirties, well muscled but nothing to
write home about. He was dressed in a simple tux and looked like he'd
just stepped out of a James Bond movie. The woman was more exotic,
maybe ten years younger than her partner. Long, blonde hair fanned
over an expensive leather dress, the type that had a slightly ribbed
bodice like a corset, seriously showcasing her figure. But the most
extraordinary thing about both of them was that they were masked. He
wore a little burglar type that covered part of his upper face, while
she preferred this large leather affair with sections that extended
down to her cheekbones. In addition to the masks they were both
wearing gloves, he an open backed driver's pair, she had long black
leather opera gloves. A careful pair, not taking any chances on being
identified.
"Ah," the man said as we entered. "You're early." His voice had an
educated Boston twang that covered something else -- if I had to
guess, I'd have said California but educated at Harvard. "Would you
care for some champagne?" He recovered a bottle from a strategically
placed ice bucket, offering it.
I smiled. "Thanks, no -- I have to drive later. But I wouldn't turn
down a Coke."
Mister Yuppie seemed confused. I think he'd expected white slavers to
be like the gangsters you see in movies -- quiet, tough and
hard-drinking. "Toby?" he asked.
The black man headed over to a cool box hidden behind the couch and
returned seconds later with a can of Diet Coke. He tossed me the can,
and a brilliant idea hit me. Usually I open a can by just cracking
the poptop a little and letting the gas hiss out, but this time I
ripped it open. A gush of foam spilled out onto my hand. Cursing, I
crossed over to JoJo and dried it on her cloak.
"Sorry, man," Toby said insincerely.
"No problem," I replied. Thank you, schmuck, I added. Now I was
close enough to grab her purse if anything went wrong.
In the meantime, I eyed our hosts. At first they looked like a pair
of yuppies on some wild power kick, but there was something else,
something disturbing about them I couldn't quite put my finger on.
The hairs on the back of my neck tingled as adrenaline started pumping
through my system. "Uh, I was told that the girls were to perform at
a party?" I said, nodding at Myra and JoJo. "Is there somewhere we
should wait until the others get here?"
"This *is* the party," the woman answered, a leather-gloved hand
caressing the glass as she sipped her wine. Her accent was pure
Mayflower, each word rolled in two hundred years of privilege until it
seemed to drip money. "A very. . .private party."
"Shall we begin?" the man asked, clearing his throat. "After all,
you have such a long way to go."
I glanced towards the stage. On it were a chair and a desk complete
with telephone and intercom. I also noticed a small 8mm video camera
on a tripod. If I could get this over with quickly, I'd have another
few hours' safety margin on Myra's will suppressant.
"Why not?" I said. "If you're ready?"
The man nodded, and I directed the girls towards the stage. I was
going to follow, but Toby stopped me and pointed to the camera. I
could only watch as JoJo and her purse got further and further away.
Once they were in position, the woman snapped, "Begin."
On cue, they started the dialogue as corny as before, then went into
the lesbian scene. The drug seemed to have drained some of Myra's
drive and the teasing and stroking was not as one-sided as it had been
before. Both girls got as far as being bottomless and a small
struggle started as each fought for time on the other's clit. Myra
started to make significant headway, if you'll excuse the pun, and her
tongue danced over JoJo's slit. The blonde girl tried to fight but
the battle was lost. She started into her orgasm with a squeal of
disappointment.
With effort I dragged my attention away and back to our hosts. The
man was turned on, no surprise there, any man would be. The woman's
look was more indescribable. I could see her gloved fingers buried
deep in her pussy from here, but there was something in that look,
some form of pure hate too intense for me to comprehend. All of a
sudden, I knew this was going to end badly, and all I wanted now was
that gun.
With a scream, Myra came. I noticed the woman shudder and knew she'd
gotten off too.
I signaled the girls to come down and turned to the audience. "Madam
et Monsieur, that completes our feature presentation. May I please
remind you that we are available for club dates in the greater
Manhattan area. I thank you and goodnight."
Yeah, I know it sounds stupid, but JoJo had fallen behind as she left
the stage, so the gun was still just out of reach. I was stalling for
time. She was just starting to catch up, when--
"Wait!" the man said. "The party isn't over yet. Joanne, come over
here."
JoJo happily complied -- fuck toys will respond to anyone with a
commanding tone. I could only watch as she and her purse headed
towards the couch. I noticed that Toby had positioned himself
strategically to the right of his boss. The white guy who I'd started
to think of affectionately as "Ugg the Barbarian" stood near the door
to backstage. Over by the renovations I caught another movement. It
was a classic encirclement, and the fact they were doing it now
implied things were coming to a head.
The man undid his fly. JoJo needed no further explanation, sinking to
her knees and taking his cock tenderly in her lips. Like all Doc's
girls, she had a wonderful technique using tongue, suction, pressure
and friction to best effect. She was doing it slowly, building the
sensation. The woman watched enviously then hitched up her leather
skirt.
"Myra. Over here," she cooed.
Myra started over, but the guy pushed JoJo away with a groan. "No,
that bitch is mine!" he muttered, shoving JoJo roughly towards the
woman, "take this one." He beckoned Myra over, and finally noticed
that I was still standing there. "Hadn't you better be going?"
"I have to return the girls," I said. "Company rules."
"We've changed our minds," he replied, his voice hardening. "We were
so impressed with their performance that we've decided to keep them."
He turned to his date. "Haven't we, my dear?"
The woman just groaned. Her head was thrown back, eyes closed. She
had pulled one tit free of the leather bodice and was rolling the
nipple between her gloved thumb and forefinger. Down at waist level,
JoJo's face was buried deep in the woman's pussy, the slave's talented
tongue gradually building an explosive orgasm.
"We paid for them," the Yuppie continued, a hard edge to his voice.
"I don't see any problem."
I tried to look sympathetic while I worked out who was where around
us. "But they're not finished -- your time scale was too short. If
you want them, neither myself or my associates have a problem but you
must give us a month or so to finish the training." I knew as soon as
I said it that he wouldn't agree. I had been tempted to call Toby as
a witness of Myra's instability but a quick glance had shown him
mesmerized by the sight of the two women getting it off. That was an
advantage too good to miss.
Myra had started work on the guy's cock and his ability to focus was
starting to go. He sighed in pleasure. "I had hoped not to have to
do this here. Too many links back to the bank. . ." He groaned as
Myra upped the sensation. "But as you insist -- Toby, dispose of our
annoying little friend."
Bingo. I moved fast, avoiding a direct beeline for the purse in favor
of an angle about six feet to the right. Ugg could still shoot at me,
but if he missed the couple on the couch would take the bullet (of
course, this assumed that Ugg was smart enough to realize that). I
was closing in on JoJo when Toby finally broke his gaze and started
reaching for his gun. I knew that in seconds I would be a dead man,
and suddenly understood all that crap about curiosity and cats.
Then Myra bit down hard.
Even I didn't expect that. Tool-biting was a major no-no, something a
slave simply never did. The man screamed in agony, a sound almost as
bad as Kitten's sonic disorientator. Toby shifted his attention
instantly as my danger potential plummeted, replaced by Myra and her
pearly whites. That was all I needed. I vaulted over one of the
covered tables and pushed it over, pleased that it seemed more
substantial than the bamboo chairs.
"JoJo," I yelled, "come to me *NOW*" The slave had been too intent on
licking slit during Myra's performance, but she heard the order and
broke away. The woman tried to grab her, in an attempt to stop her
escape or to continue the pussy licking I couldn't say. In the
meantime, Toby had just managed to pry Myra off his boss's dick when
the shooting started, wild shots from the guys at the back of the
house. He must've realized that he was in a potential friendly fire
situation, and screamed at them to stop. Seizing the opportunity,
Myra made a break for the backstage door.
By now I'd recovered the gun from JoJo's purse. In my professional
opinion, Toby had been too relaxed about the entire situation, relying
on the fact that he had at least four armed guys against an unarmed
man and two slaves. It was time to shake that complacency.
My first shot took Toby in the leg. I had considered killing him, but
the rest of the goons were probably even more dangerous without a
leader. The next I planted between the two on the couch. Despite his
pain, Toby reacted like a professional -- he leapt and used his body
momentum to push the couch backwards, causing both himself and his
employers to fall behind the island and into cover. It also upset the
cooler, spilling crushed ice across part of the dance floor.
Moving fast, I scoped out the room. The two guys at the back were
closing fast, but the ice would slow them down a little. Toby was out
for the moment. I shot Ugg, a head shot in case he wore a vest. As
he fell back I yelled at the girls to run and laid down a little
covering fire, then raced after them. Shots whistled around in
confusion as I heard the woman screaming:
"Ignore him, you idiots! Shoot the women, _shoot the women!_"
Then we were out. I glanced down at Ugg as I ran over him. Single
shot just above the right ear. Not bad for a guy with a handgun in
this light. As we cleared the stage door I found the limo keys and
pressed a button on the fob. With a click, the car doors opened and
the engine started, a little James Bond trick I'd had done. The girls
threw themselves in the back as I dove into the driver's seat -- if
they'd decided to run at that moment I admit I couldn't have stopped
them, but they must've realized that the only safety was in the limo.
We were almost out of the alley when a shot shattered the rear window.
I groaned. Of course the limo wasn't bulletproof -- if you're not the
President or Al Capone you don't need it to be -- but it still came as
a hell of a shock. At least two more bullets slammed into the car
before we were clear.
I did a couple of quick turns, sweating the traffic. I hadn't seen a
car in the alley, so with luck it would take them a while to pursue.
In the meantime, we were in a bitch of a situation -- I was in a limo
very obviously damaged by gunfire, ferrying two not always cooperative
sex slaves around New York, and I had some weird oversexed yuppie
couple and their private army after me. Yeah, this was special.
Of course, Doc and I had arranged a standard procedure in case
something like this happened. What I should do now was simple: find
a quiet alleyway, shoot the slaves and set the limo on fire. I had ID
on me, not my own but good enough to hire a car and get out of town.
I could then arrange for Doc or Kitten to pick me up. That was what
I'd agreed with Doc, since no slave was worth compromising the whole
organization.
But. Yeah, there was always a 'but.' I glanced in the rear view
mirror. The girls were curled around each other, more like kids than
sex slaves. Part of me grudgingly accepted that I'd be dead without
these two, which made it difficult to off them. Besides, the bad guys
had wanted them dead, and the last thing I wanted was to do those
bozos any favors.
One thing was clear. We had to get off the island. By then it was
pretty late and the Manhattan shift had taken place; most businesses
were closed, most shows and bars open. This was as quiet as the roads
out of town were likely to get before three. There wasn't much of a
choice, so I headed for the Holland Tunnel. I'd have preferred a
bridge, since tunnels are too well lit if you're this badly damaged
and I knew it would be a miracle if I wasn't pulled over on the other
side, but my only other alternatives were to stop and get another car,
or drive through downtown Manhattan to the Queensboro Bridge. Neither
of them were very appealing right now, so I took the turnoff for the
tunnel.
"How's it going back there?" I asked.
"I'm fine, Master," JoJo said, "but Myra seems a little odd."
"Damn." I checked the mirror again. Myra was gently rocking
backwards and forwards mumbling something under her breath. "Was she
hit?"
"No, Master, I don't think so."
I grunted. Doc's will suppressor should have been good for another
hour or so, but then I doubted a drugged Myra would go around biting
cocks either. "JoJo, listen to me. The restraints you were wearing
this morning are in the small cupboard on your side. I want you to
take them out and cuff Myra's hands and feet, OK?"
Obediently, JoJo opened the cupboard and started to cuff Myra's wrists
behind her.
"Good girl," I praised her. "Now make them good and tight." Myra
didn't fight, although I wasn't clear if this was because JoJo was
doing the tying or because she was too far out of it. "Okay, now take
the gag and put it into her mouth. Strap it tight as well." Myra
protested a little at this but it was a little too late by then. And
the rear footwells were probably covered in glass, but I couldn't help
that now. "Push her on to the floor and cover her with your cloak. .
.good. Now put your feet on top of her and push down a little.
Listen to me, JoJo -- you must keep Myra covered and on the floor, is
that clear? If she tries to get up, push her down."
JoJo smiled at the mirror. Doc's slaves get a slight sexual thrill
when they obey orders. "Yes Master," she said in a husky voice.
In my mind I thanked simple, loyal JoJo a thousand times. So far she
hadn't failed me once. I made a silent pact that if we survived this,
I would find a kind master who would take good care of her. Table
dancing in Juan's Mexican brothel was not going to be her future.
I took a fairly eccentric route to the tunnel entrance. I admit that
it was a gamble because it gave Toby and the boys chance to get in
front of me, but the same factors of good light and surveillance would
stop them doing too much on the Tunnel approach road. I hoped.
I was passing a building site when something caught my eye. It was
one of those transparent plastic sheets they use to keep out the rain.
Suddenly I had an idea. Stopping the car, I climbed out and cut a
section off with my knife, then headed for the limo's trunk. I carry
supplies, anyone in my business would, and as it would be hard to
explain handcuffs and collars to the cops the most useful thing a guy
like me can carry is duct tape. For a slaver the stuff is just so
versatile. As a friend of mine says, it's like the Force: it has a
light side, a dark side, and it holds the universe together. I always
make sure Doc's vehicles carry two rolls, one white, the other black.
White is good for gags, it isn't nearly as obvious as the usual silver
type, while black is good for bonds since in a darkened car it isn't
that obvious.
Taking the black tape, I stuck small sections over the bullet holes.
It looked like shit, but it was better than the obvious rings of bare
metal. Next, I taped the plastic over the broken rear window. It
also looked shit, but with car crime like it is how many cars do you
see in a day with temporary patched up windows? Satisfied that we
looked more like the victims of a smash and grab than of a drive-by, I
got back in and headed for the tunnel.
We were on the approach ramp to the toll booths when I saw the car.
At first I thought they were cops -- the car was a tan colored Taurus,
and the FBI buys those in fleets. The aggressive way they wove
through the traffic behind me suggested it, as well. Then I took a
closer look at the mirror. The two in front I didn't recognize, but
in the back was my old buddy Toby with a pained look on his face.
Shifting my gaze forward, I checked out the massed cars in front of
me, and saw the danger. If I stopped for the toll, I would leave
myself in the perfect position for a drive-by. If I didn't stop, the
cops would be waiting for me at the other side.
I only had one chance. Slowly, I made my way towards the barrier,
aiming for the right-hand lane. As I expected, the Taurus started
edging towards my left side. Timing was going to be critical. As the
cars paused to pay the toll they could just reach out and shoot me.
Unless. . .
Then I saw what I wanted. A Volvo in the lane to my left slowed a
little. Perfect. I placed my gun on the window ledge, concentrating
on my target. Distance was all important. I fired, taking out the
Volvo's right rear tire. The car stopped, which meant its lane
stopped, and because it was in that lane the Taurus stopped. The car
ahead of me cleared the gate and I jumped forward, grabbing a handful
of change and hurling it into the toll basket. Probably paid the toll
for fifty guys, but I didn't care. For the moment, I was still alive.
We was almost out of the tunnel by the time the Taurus caught up. I
wasn't too worried, since I figured Toby was smart enough to know he'd
get better chances later, and there was a fair-to-middling chance that
I could shake them. The limo was a large, heavy Lincoln with poor
acceleration, but the top speed compared favorably with the Taurus.
The faster I could go, the better chance I stood. Assuming I didn't
get pulled over.
I had some idea where I wanted to go. Doc had another staging area on
an industrial lot just off I-280, and I was hoping I could find a new
car and maybe some backup there. Of course, all this assumed Toby
would let me get that far. Surprisingly, he didn't bother me as I
slipped through the minor roads needed to change onto the 280.
Perhaps he was following me, or he was after a place quieter than
I-78. Or maybe he just didn't like Newark
In any case we were on a fairly quiet stretch of 280 when he made his
move. At the first clatter of automatic fire I started swearing. Car
to car with handguns is tricky even if the other guy isn't dodging.
Throw enough bullets around, however, and something -- or someone --
is going to get hit.
"JoJo," I yelled, "get down on the floor with Myra _now!_"
Seconds later, one of the side windows exploded into a shower of
glass. I checked the mirror. The Taurus was coming up fast. I tried
to swing my rear end out and sideswipe him, but he was too quick. To
make things even more fun, a truck was chugging along ahead of us.
Wonderful.
The next time I looked at the Taurus, the guy in the passenger seat
was taking aim at us with what looked like a MAC-10. I had no
intention of finding out if it was. I hit the brake. The other
driver was good, but not _that_ good -- he shot by me and the bullets
missed by a mile. We placed musical lanes for a minute, then I
decided to push it and shot past him. Somehow, the gunman managed to
lock onto the limo and fired off a few rounds. My engine noise stared
to change, and I hoped to God it was just the muffler.
Time for something completely desperate and stupid. It could just
work if I was in a sports car; as it was, I had a better than even
chance of getting us all killed. As I drew level with the truck, I
checked the make -- Peterbilt, just what I needed. Beneath the main
container was a little metal tank with a gauge on the side. That tank
was the reservoir for the air brakes. Putting my foot down on the
accelerator, I inched past the truck, aware all the time that Toby was
right behind me. When I felt I'd got as far ahead as I dared, I hit
the button for the passenger window. The sudden gust of cold air
didn't even faze me as I emptied my gun into the tank.
It helped that the trucker was doing a minor correction at the time,
but the effect was still stunning. The tank exploded, and immediately
the trailer brakes came hard on, clamping down on those wheels like
the hand of God. The tires smoked and the trucker fought to control
his bucking, squealing trailer. He failed, and the trailer whipped
round, glancing off the back of the limo. Even so, it nearly sent me
off the road. I never saw what happened to the Taurus, but I could
imagine the reaction as the truck slid sideways on the tarmac,
effectively blocking the road. Crash city.
As soon as my breathing returned to normal, I started looking for the
next exit. From the way it was handling the limo was just limping
along -- I could probably nurse the car a few more miles. As it was,
we broke down less than a mile from the exit. Fortunately there was
some cover nearby and I was able to push the car behind it. I just
prayed Toby and his buddies were in worse shape than we were.
After making sure the car was hidden, I popped the hood latch and
uncovered the engine, swearing at the foul cloud of greasy smoke that
whooshed up at me. It was pretty obvious from the black slick over
everything that one of the shots had either cracked the block or blown
an oil seal. I figured another few miles and the entire engine would
seize. The hard decision I'd been putting off since Manhattan now
seemed my only choice. Pushing my last clip into the gun, I walked
around to the back of the car and opened the door. Incredibly, the
slaves were both asleep, curled up together like children at a slumber
party.
"Aw, hell," I muttered. Myra was still bound, of course, so the
kiddie illusion wasn't perfect, but after all we'd been through
together I just couldn't kill them in cold blood. One way or the
other, I was going to get them back to Doc's alive.
I had to laugh. Getting back to Doc's on my own was going to be
enough of a challenge as it was, considering that we were in a
near-dead car with no backup or even regular clothes for the girls.
Heading back to the driver's seat, I rustled up a map and scoped out
where we were. An idea started to form when I realized we were close
to a residential area. It was a fairly desperate plan, and it got Joe
Q Public more involved than I'd have liked, but I didn't have much of
a choice. Glancing back at the girls, I started the engine up and
headed towards sanctuary.
