Page 22 of Mastermind

“They must have got him when they were leaving,” one American says. “What’s that down there?”

“Cop car,” says his partner. “Looks like they took these assholes’ car and bailed. Let’s go. Tell Woody to stay with Viper. Check?”

“Affirmative.”

Footsteps start jogging down the hill. From the distance comes the sound of more sirens. That would be backup police. I’m not sure what’s going to happen when they collide with this group.

“Now.” Blackwood motions for me to follow her.

We emerge from the tight alley and onto a street. Two SUVs are parked in front of our hotel, blocking traffic.

Blackwood holds her hand down low, signaling for me to hurry as we cross the street.

I don’t hear anything, but suddenly she says, “Damn. We’ve been spotted. Faster!”

We leap down the broken steps of a staircase and come to another road. Blackwood moves toward a tiny Honda that should be in a children’s amusement park, not on the street.

“Get in.”

She starts the car with a key from under the floor mat. I don’t ask how she knew. She knew because she put this car here. She planned everything, down to this detail.

Tires squeal behind us, and I spin around to see the SUV racing down the street in our direction, ready to ram us.

Blackwood guns the tiny motor of our car, and it leaps forward. We narrowly scoot out of the path of the truck before it can knock us into the nearest building. She moves our little car up the road at top speed, but the truck’s engine is too powerful. It’s almost on our bumper. In a moment it’s going to slam into our rear and drive us into a telephone pole.

“We’re not going to—”

“Shut up,” she says.

The truck gains and is almost touching our back window when Blackwood jerks the wheel to the left and sends us down an alley. Garbage bags and newspapers go flying as we hurtle downhill.

I turn back and see the SUV trying to figure out how to solve the physics problem of squeezing between concrete pillars spaced too narrowly to accommodate it.

Blackwood catches the action in the rearview mirror. “Good luck with that,” she says as we hit a bump and the car goes flying through the air. I smack my head against the roof and see stars for a moment.

“Seat belt,” says Blackwood.

I look down at the two pieces of rope on either side of my seat. “Uh, I don’t really have a seat belt.”

“Then hold on.”

We smash through a fence and cross a road before going down another hill, bouncing around like coins in a dryer. We’re heading for a soccer field, it seems.

The car hits the grass, and Blackwood doesn’t stop accelerating. I’m afraid our car’s going to fall apart around us at any moment. The radiator is already sending out steam, and I can smell burned oil.

We reach the end of the field as scattered players watch us in either confusion or delight.

The car stops, and Blackwood bails out. “Move it,” she orders.

She runs and I jog across the dirt lot to another car parked at the edge, near the exit to the playing field. She climbs in, picks up another key from under the mat, and pushes open the door for me to get in.

We’re on the highway a minute later, weaving between all the other insane drivers.

Even now, Blackwood doesn’t relent. She keeps going, coming close to bumpers, getting yelled at by other drivers. Not caring.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Airport.”