According to Amir, I’ve got a better chance of catching them if I head back upstairs to the street. The bad guys are deep in both parking garages and have to wind their way out.

  So, I haul ass.

  The remaining Sidorovs in the restaurant are hopefully confused, and I’ll get the drop on them before they can shoot me.

  I really don’t enjoy getting shot, but it could be worse, and a small price to pay if I help Monica. If it weren’t for the practitioner enhanced medicine and physical therapy of this world, I’d probably still be walking around with a goddamn cane.

  “The FBI is two minutes out,” says Amir as I knock the kitchen doors open with my shoulder. “The locals are closer, but you’re closest. They’re getting a helicopter in the air. I’ve got drones following both groups of Sidorovs.”

  “Yep. Good.”

  “You sure Mo’s not there?”

  “Nope.”

  “Shit,” breathes Amir. “I was half-expecting her to be having drinks at the bar, dead kidnapping assholes all around her, complaining about you being late, despite what Mr. Beck said.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  The cloudscape of the lower floor is still brightly lit and empty. I step back onto my board and zip over to the stairs, where I hop off.

  Dark, unmoving shapes huddle in a heap midway up, a spreading dark lake flowing down beneath them. I don’t look too close.

  No movement upstairs until I’m almost at the doors. I hit them, hard, before remembering that I came in through the window. I rebound off those locked sons of bitches and fall down on my ass. Glass shatters all around me. I didn’t think I hit them that hard. Then the second set of doors collapse into tiny cubes too, and I know that I’m being shot at again by one of those soundless guns.

  I roll and Push, firing behind me without looking. Grabbing my skateboard, I duck through the wreckage, hurry down the stairs, and then into the street.

  Soon, I’m flashing through Akron on my deck toward the highway.

  ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

  “How’m I doing?”

  Amir says, “You’re ahead of them.”

  “Ahead of them? How am I ahead of them?” I mean, yeah, I’m bent low, thumb on the accelerator, leaning around cracks and potholes and the odd rock, going as fast as my suped-up board can go. Still, I figured the bad guys would be faster.

  “They had the parking garage and hit every light.” Amir laughs. “Gee, I wonder how that happened.”

  I snort. “Did you hack them?”

  “I would never!” says Amir. “Now. I mean, I probably couldn’t. That stuff’s wildly protected, dude. From, like, terrorists. I guess I could test it or something? But I’d never ever do that for real. Or for free. With the FBI paying, you know? No, I figured that was you.”

  I want to tell him I was teasing, which I was, but I shouldn’t be joking around. I said it more out of habit than anything. Monica’s in big trouble and I have to get her out of it.

  What if she’s in the other group of vehicles? I picked this one because it’s larger, increasing the odds she’s here, and odds are my thing. Except when they’re not.

  I can’t think like that. I need to get her.

  She hasn’t told me why she’s mad at me. I need to know. I need her to tell me, and I’ll by God ask her when I see her.

  If I see her. If she’s able to talk. If she’s—.

  “They’re coming up on you, Ben. You’d see them, but their lights are off,” says Amir.

  Ahead, the highway exit ramp comes into view. This part of town is residential. Looming Victorian houses in varying states of repair line both sides of the road. The early morning gloom making them look like church ladies in pointed hats waiting patiently in their pews for the sermon to begin.

  It’s trash night and bins of big plastic garbage cans stand out in front of the sidewalk for morning pickup. I slow, hop the curb, and I’m riding low behind them when the first black SUV passes me, its lights still off.

  I pop my head up and count five.

  “Five of them,” I say. “Confirm?”

  “Confirmed.”

  The second SUV goes by, then the third. When I see the fourth appear between the cans, I Push and veer back out into the street just in time to catch the last one’s bumper with my hand.

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  “Nice!” says Amir. “Crazy, but nicely done, dude.”

  I’m probably safe if I keep my head down below the edge of the windows.

  We make a slight right turn, the road dips, and we’re on the on-ramp to the highway.

  “Can your drones get close enough to tell who’s in each SUV?”

  “Naw, man. Not really. They got their glass tinted. Kind of cliche’ if you ask me. Why don’t you, um, fuck them up and use your luck to keep her safe or something?”

  “I’m trying to be careful.”

  “Noted,” says Amir. “Noted. These fuckers deserve it, though. Mr. Beck went on and on, Ben. I’m gonna have nightmares for years.”

  “Me too.”

  ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

  I guess I’m hanging out, kind of drifting along, holding onto the trailer hitch too long because Amir says, “So, um, what are you going to do now? Knock?”

  “I’m thinking. This is still new to me.”

  Amir barks a laugh. “The luck thing or your sanity thing?”

  “You’re not helping.”

  “Helicopter will be on scene any minute. The FBI is waking up the local police. Roadblocks will be in place pretty soon, though my guess is that these psychos have planned for that and aren’t gonna be on the highway long.”

  “Any idea where they’re going?”

  “South. Your assholes are south on Seventy-Seven. The other group is moving in the same direction on… Arlington, kinda parallel to you, heading the same way.”

  Where could they be going? On my planet, the space between Akron and Canton, its southern neighbor, is largely commercial and residential. Wealthy suburbs pockmarked with strip malls, a big dinosaur of an old-fashioned indoor mall, and enough restaurants that you could eat in one for every meal for a year and never revisit the same spot twice. It’s about the same here. Including….

  “The airport.”

  Amir says, “Sorry?”

  “I’d bet they’re heading for the airport.”

  I hear the rapid fire clacking of computer keys. Then, “That tracks, Ben. I’ll get them alerted. Hang on.”

  There’s a soft plosive, and he’s switched off to another channel to make some calls.

  If we’re on our way to the airport, that’s maybe two or three exits away from here. It’s time to move and do something before it’s too late. Only, I don’t know what to do. How do I check if she’s inside one of these?

  I go hand over hand along the bumper toward the passenger’s side of the vehicle, my skateboard rumbling and bumbling beneath my feet. I really doubt they have Monica driving, right? So if she’s here, she’s in the other seats or in the wayback. The windows back here are so darkly tinted that, combined with the slight tint of my helmet’s visor, there’s no way I can see inside. I figure it’s worth a look. The FBI trains us to be thorough.

  I get to the end of the bumper and see that the only thing I’ll have to hold on to is the goddamn wheel well. The nearest door handle is too far for me to reach and its recessed into the body, anyway. Even then, the well doesn’t give me a lot to grab. Maybe if it were rusted out or something, there’d be some holes I could jam my fingers into, but no. Despite this being Ohio, notoriously rough on undercarriages, these guys keep their rides clean and in excellent condition.

  The fuckers.

  Any moment, I’m going to get spotted. The side-view mirror is right there, my tiny figure, dim as it is in the light just before dawn, clearly reflected, smaller than I appear.

  It’s getting light outside, but still dark enough that I risk a peek at the back window.

  No, I can’t see anything through the glass.

  Okay. What now?

  Oh, that’s a bad idea.

  You know what? Why not?

  I have to reach under the SUV for something to grip, which is scary. I’m bent double, my knees almost up to my ears and my ass near my heels, as I pull myself forward. One good bump or a rock in the road and I figure I’ll go backward to turn myself into black-clad salsa all over this stretch of highway.

  As soon as I’m able, I grab the front wheel well and drag myself even with the window, its featureless ebon expanse appears vast and menacing, like the cold pupil of a sniper’s eye that’ll pick me out, then pick me off with no more thought or trouble than scratching an itch on his nose.

  Making sure I’ve got a good hold with my left hand, I reach up and tap a knuckle on the glass.

  When nothing happens, I do it again, keeping my helmet below the frame, out of sight.

  This time the window comes down and I see a man, dark hair blowing, frowning down at me. I found the grip of my gun. The aethings around me grow darker and I Push a little harder than I’d been doing.

  “What the fuck?” he says. Or I think he does. I can’t hear him too well, what with the wind and helmet.

  I shout, “You got a tiny FBI agent in there with you, by any chance?”

  His face disappears for a moment. When it returns, it’s preceded by the barrel of his pistol.

  I fire a round up through his chin, coating the interior with what looks like barbecue macaroni. It’s horrible, and I know I’ll be seeing it again and again.

  Something hits me in the chest.

  A glance down reveals an exit hole in the door. I’ve taken a bullet to my vest. It hurts and I wonder what it would have done to me if it hadn’t traveled through all that metal, glass, and plastic first.

  I get moving forward as more holes blow through, and I see the rear window coming down. Probably on the other side too, so the men in the back seat can join in on killing me. Despite what I’ve seen on television, I know from personal experience that the only cover a car offers you is the tires and its engine block.

  The angle of the frame between the windshield and the hood provides enough of a grip to get me to the headlight, which I use to swing me over in front of the grill.

  The firing stops. I guess they don’t want to damage their motor if they miss, or take out one of their front tires. Then there’s the risk of hitting their buddies in the SUV ahead of us.

  I’ve got no such limitations.

  I level my AR-15 as best I can with one arm, and fire two shots into the windshield, aiming at head height, hoping these aren’t bulletproof like their other vehicles. Monica is short, so if she’s in there, she should be safe.

  My first bullet is low, blowing a hole the size of my head through the glass. The second hits above, right where I wanted it, but the SUV stays steady, so I figure I missed the driver.

  I duck down and listen. It’s loud with the engine, the wind, but I don’t hear any screaming. Monica would let me know she was in there. Unless they have her gagged. Yeah. But would they put her in the last car, anyway? Does that make sense? They’d want a rear guard, wouldn’t they? A buffer between the high value captive and whoever might be following?

  I look around at the SUV ahead.

  There’s a man standing up through the sunroof drawing a bead on me with some kind of high-powered rifle with a scope. If he takes out my board, or my knee, or my lower spine, I’ll become a big dead bump in the road.

  I Push and fire at him.

  He disappears.

  The engine roars against my chest. I can feel its heat through my vest and in my hands. They’re speeding up. Going to smash me into the vehicle ahead.

  I have a split second to consider, then Ollie up on my skateboard. My luck and adrenaline prove up to the task, and I’m still on my deck when all four wheels dent the hood.

  But being airborne caused me to lose speed. I fall forward.

  My right hip collides with the roof, the board gets stuck in what’s left of the windshield while I roll up and over.

  I’ve just managed to grasp the lip of the sunroof and stop myself when we hit the SUV in front of us and I go flying.