Emily Kimelman - Sydney Rye 04 - Strings of Glass by Emily Kimelman Read Free Book Online

frozen in space as I raced by them. The main road was too
congested and I knew they’d be on us in seconds. Taking a chance I turned into
one of the narrow alleys lined with shops. Merchants selling sarongs, elephant-
patterned bedspreads, and long-strapped bags dotted with
mirrors jumped out of my way as I barreled down the alley.
    I felt
the woman look behind us. “We lost the van,” she said.
    I turned
again and the woman yelled, “No, it’s a dead
end. Go back!” I didn’t hesitate, braking hard and reversing at full
speed. When I backed out a scooter was right there. I turned hard and
accelerated away but he pulled up alongside us, reaching
out for the woman on the back of my bike.
    I
steadied myself and then concentrating hard, kicked
out with my left leg hitting the front of his bike. He disappeared, the back
tire was by our heads, and then we raced ahead as the scooter tipped over, sliding
behind us on a bed of sparks. We sped out of the town and into the fields. 
    Two
scooters pursued us, one with two guys on it.  I took off down a dirt ridge
that ran along a culvert which brought water
out of the town. The stench of sewage was ripe as we roared through the open
space. When we reached the river the woman said, “That
way, towards the highway.” I turned the bike at the top of the hill, my
bare leg glowing in their headlights. On my thigh the thick ridge of a scar
from the last time I got shot stood out puckered and pink.
    I wanted
to send the three guys into the sewage that sulked by but there was no way… unless
I got off the bike and faced these ignorant fucks right there. I revved the
engine watching their approach.
    “What
are you doing? We need to go!” the woman
said,
squeezing me around the belly.
    “Do
they have guns?” I asked.
    “Yes!”
she squealed. “Come on.” She pushed me. “What are you
doing?”
    I revved
the engine and this time let it catch, sending us shooting along the dirt road
past
the neatly lined crops. I sped up headed for the tree line, my engine roaring.
We hit a bump and got some air; I felt the breath rock
in my lungs, my heart jump in my throat.
    We
entered the highway at full speed. I let my instincts take over and followed
the flow of traffic, feeling my way through its slippery fingers. Honking
sounded on all sides of us. I ground my teeth, sick of running. I braked hard,
sticking out my foot to steady us as I burned a circle in the road. Smoke
billowed behind us as I raced back toward our attackers. I reached into my
jacket and pulled out my pipe, keeping it low and out of sight.
The first scooter only had the one guy on it. He saw me coming and pulled a
gun, sending himself a little off-balance.
I flew by him sticking out my pipe as I went, taking the mother fucker off his
bike. The impact ricocheted down my arm, shooting pain through my shoulder
blade.
    His
scooter crashed hard, sending his body flying, limp and helpless under the
wheels of a truck. My heart raced and I took a deep breath. Darting through the
traffic I looked for the other scooter.  “Where are they?” I yelled
over my shoulder.
    “I
don’t know,” the woman cried. “I don’t see them.”
    Fine, I
thought, and pulled over. There was gridlock from the “accident” behind
us. The woman stayed locked onto me. I scanned the thickening crowd. Scooters
were eking by the mess but vans, trucks, and
cars lined up behind the spill. Honks rose from the crowd like a Greek
chorus.
    “Maybe
they ran,” the woman suggested.
    “Yeah,”
I said. “Do you want to go to the police?” I asked.
    “No,”
she answered.
    I pulled
back into traffic, maneuvering past the accident. A girl on the back of her
father’s scooter pointed at me. I put a finger to my lips and her hand dropped
by her side, a look of terror on her face. The distant sound of sirens wailed
as we pulled by the accident: a smear
of slick blood lit by bright white headlights; men
standing around with their palms pressed against the