Assassin's Express by Jerry Ahern Page A

parking lot at him. Frost assumed it was the one she’d called Boronovitch—didn’ t look Russian, though, Frost thought. “Hey!”
    The man looked squarely back at Frost and Frost shouted, “Wanna play bumper tag, asshole!” Frost didn’t wait for an answer, but hauled the stick into drive and stomped down on the gas pedal. The car lurched as it dragged the trailer behind it, then roared forward along the level parking area surface. Frost cut across the unoccupied, neatly painted parking spots, aiming the hood ornament of the LTD toward the rest-area exit ramp. He shot a glance into the left-hand side-view mirror. The green car was already moving slowly, and the man he’d shouted to was jumping into it and swinging the door closed. There was a screech of tires and Frost could see the green car shoot forward. He felt the comers of his mouth raising into a smile. He was feeling alive again. He wondered, half to himself, if he were crazy—did he like this stuff?
    He cut the wheel too hard right and veered onto the exit ramp, the trailer fishtailing behind him. His left hand reached down to work manually the electric trailer brake and his right foot hammered down the gas pedal to drag the trailer straight. He released the trailer brake; as he flicked the directional signal on with his left hand and glanced into the side-view, the car suddenly seemed to lurch ahead. There was a truck, a massive eighteen-wheeler moving van, roaring up on his left; its screeching air horns were deafening.
    Frost hammered down harder on the gas pedal. The truck pulled left into the passing lane, while Frost hugged the trailer onto the right shoulder. As the truck shot past, the slipstream of the massive moving van sucked at the camper Frost pulled behind the LTD. In the mirror behind him Frost could now see the green car as well, and an object—long and thin—protruding from the passenger-side front window—a gun?
    Frost worked the trailer brake, trying to stop the sway behind him, as he cut the Ford’s steering wheel hard left and off the shoulder, back onto the pavement. The green car was coming up beside them. There was a shot, then a second and a third—a handgun Frost guessed. He cut the wheel hard right. The trailer camper’s rear end swayed left, and the green car accelerated away onto the opposite shoulder. Frost cut the wheel back left; the trailer swayed behind them as Jessica Pace sucked in her breath so hard it sounded like a scream. Frost edged the trailer left, intentionally swaying the trailer behind the Ford, keeping the green car blocked behind them. There was another shot, and Frost heard the sound of glass shattering. He glanced to his right and there was a bullet hole spider-webbed across the west-coast mirror on the LTD’s right front fender.
    â€œFrost! There’s—”
    There was another shot and Frost lost the rest of her words, feeling a bumping and lurching—the green car was right behind the trailer bumper, he realized. He craned his neck toward the center of the front seat to get a better angle out of the left-side west-coast mirror. He closed his eye, blinking it, then stared. There was a man moving on the hood of the green car. Frost tried to accelerate, the Ford and the trailer lurching ahead too little—they were entering a grade. Frost glanced to his right—the world was dropping off there, a steep drop then a void growing there beyond the road. He felt the impact again against the back of the trailer, the steering wheel of the big Ford wrenching under his hands.
    â€œFrost—one of them’s climbing onto the trailer!”
    â€œIf he shoots and gets me, we’ll go over the edge—but so will he. . . . Is it that important? To die for it?”

Chapter Seven
    He glanced to his right, his eye catching the girl’s eyes. Her voice sounded strangely sober to him. “Yes—yes, Hank, it is.”
    Frost