Evan thought of his Ford F-150 as a war machine.
Kevlar armor reinforced the door panels. Laminated armor glass composed the windows. He’d disarmed the safety systems, removed the air bags, and knocked out the inertia-sensing switches that shut down power to the fuel pump in a collision. A built-to-spec push-bumper assembly up front shielded the vulnerable radiator and intercooler. A special adhesive compound in the tires sealed most bullet holes, a support-ring “second tire” waiting inside the core as a backup.
All these contingencies were required now.
As Evan peeled backward, the tires smoking, divots spiderwebbed the windshield. Max was shouting hoarsely as lead dented the body of the Ford, a deafening series of clangs.
Over the din Evan noted the cadence of the bullets, the muzzle flash, the operators’ SWAT-light attire—golf shirts and khakis.
The bullet-resistant glass would last only so long when confronted with an onslaught of 5.56 rounds, so Evan locked the wheel to the left and fishtailed around in a J-turn, barely slowing momentum.
The rear window went opaque beneath the bursts of rounds. Evan cut right hard and then right again, gunning up an alley and screeching through a red light, slewing for the on-ramp.
He ran the freeway a few exits, Max white-knuckling the passenger seat and breathing hard. And then Evan exited, burying the truck in traffic.
The Ford F-150 was the most common truck on the road, as well as the most stolen. People tended to look past it—when it wasn’t riddled with bullet holes. It drew a few stares now, but not as many as it might in another city, one that didn’t host countless film and TV shoots that required countless stunt vehicles. Even so, he’d have to get it off the street soon if he didn’t want to tempt fate. Pulling up an alley, he coasted to the curb and killed the engine.
Max had finally caught his breath. “Who the hell are they now?”
“My guess?” Evan said. “Dirty cops or contract washouts. Former operators, probably SWAT.”
“Sent by?”
Seven endless days ago, Max had come to Evan with one problem. It had turned into two problems, which had turned into three. The fourth problem—Bedrosov—had now led to a fifth. At this point, despite Joey’s assurances, it was barely worth getting surprised over.
Before Evan answered, Max said, “What’s to say the guys who just shot at us weren’t real SWAT?”
“The carbines,” Evan said, rubbing his head. “The muzzle flash looked to be from a sixteen-inch barrel. That’s an M-forgery, designed to have the look of an M4 without all the features. The legit select-buyer models have fourteen-inch barrels. Plus, the forgeries have only two positions—safe and semi. They were firing at us a round at a time. Federal- or state-acquired weaponry go to full auto, which, if they’d had, believe me, they’d have used.”
“You noticed all that? In the middle of everything?”
But Evan was already dialing his RoamZone.
Tommy answered immediately. “I knew you’d come to your senses about that Ballista.”
“It’s not about the rifle.”
“Well, fuck a duck,” Tommy said. “Why do I get the sense you’re about to do that thing you do? An urgent need followed by an urgent request followed by an urgent timeline.”
“You said you’re in L.A. today. I need to see you.”
Tommy sighed, cigarette smoke blowing across the phone on the other end. “I’ll text you times.”
“Oh. And I might need to swap out trucks.”
Evan disconnected before Tommy’s cursing could pick up steam.
He texted Joey: NEED ADDRESS FOR BENJAMIN BEDROSOV.
He hopped out, dropped the bullet-scarred tailgate, and retrieved another set of license plates from one of the flat rectangular vaults overlaying the bed. After swapping out the plates, he climbed back into the driver’s seat.
Max was leaning forward onto the dashboard, resting his forehead against his hands. He seemed to be catching his breath. He looked over and noticed that Evan was in the same posture—face to his knuckles, hands gripping the steering wheel, trying to breathe. The adrenaline spike had receded, the headache returning angrier than before.
“What’s wrong with you?” Max sounded genuinely worried.
“I’m okay. Just need to close my eyes for a sec.”
“Bullshit.”
When Evan let his eyelids fall, it felt so good he thought it might be nice to never be awake again. “Concussion,” he finally said. “Just … haven’t slept in a while. So.”
“Let’s get you somewhere you can rest.”
“No time.” Evan used his arms to shove himself back in his seat.
“Why?” Max said. “What are we doing now?”
Evan forced his eyes open. “Going fishing.”