Free Dying Is My Business by Nicholas Kaufmann

of the middle lanes and hit the gas again while my heart tried to pound its way out of my rib cage.
    The bright lights of retail signs and enormous video billboards lit Seventh Avenue like it was daytime, illuminating the sea of shining yellow metal ahead of us. Taxicabs, a whole fleet of them, spread out over the road like an obstacle course. I cursed under my breath. Why did it have to be Times Square? Even at this time of night, the traffic was so thick it moved at a snail’s pace. I kept my foot on the gas, drove right up behind one of the taxis, then switched lanes and did it again. It was the only way to keep moving. The street was six lanes wide, though the far left lane was taken up with parked cars. Five lanes, then. Not good. Eventually I’d run out of room to maneuver, especially once we got closer to the intersection where Seventh Avenue merged with Broadway and the traffic of two major arteries was funneled into one. Then what the hell was I going to do?
    I glanced at the side mirror. The man in black armor wasn’t far behind, maybe seventy yards but gaining fast as his horse galloped through the narrow aisle between cars. Weren’t horses supposed to be spooked by traffic and blaring horns? This one wasn’t. It wasn’t even wearing blinders. The drivers, on the other hand, were plenty spooked. They swerved and collided in the horse’s wake, metal grinding against metal, glass popping. On the sidewalk, pedestrians gawked, their well-honed New York apathy momentarily shattered. Slowly, inevitably, the camera phones came out and flashes burst along the sidewalk like a chain of supernovas. I kept my focus on the road. In the backseat, Bethany and Thornton twisted around and stared through the rear window.
    “We’re screwed,” Thornton said.
    “I knew the gargoyles were going for help, but I didn’t think it would be him ,” Bethany said.
    I swerved around a cab, then another, ignoring their angry honks. “Who the hell is that?” I demanded.
    “The Black Knight,” she said. “He’s their king.”
    I glowered at her in the rearview. “The gargoyles have a king ?”
    “You definitely don’t want to mess with him,” Thornton said.
    I shifted my gaze to the side mirror. The Black Knight was still there, closing the gap between us. The neon lights glinted off his black sword, limning the sharp edge in red, blue, and green.
    “He mustn’t catch us, Trent!” Bethany said. “Do you understand me? If the Black Knight catches us, we’re dead!”
    “Speak for yourself,” Thornton muttered.
    Bethany ignored him. The look on her face was one of desperate terror. This was a woman who was brave enough to take on six gargoyles with what was essentially a long stick, yet just the sight of the Black Knight had terrified her. I didn’t want to find out why. I swerved to change lanes again, hoping to put more cars between us and the Black Knight. I glanced at the speedometer: fifty-nine miles per hour. And yet somehow, maddeningly, the horse was still gaining on us.
    A police siren cut the air, sharp and loud, but I couldn’t see the cruiser yet, couldn’t even figure out where it was. Ahead, the light at Forty-Ninth Street turned yellow, then red. I stomped on the gas pedal and blew through the intersection just as the cross street’s traffic started to flow. Cars swerved to avoid hitting us, honking and shouting. One was the NYPD cruiser with the shrieking siren, the red and whites flashing on its roof. It skidded to a halt behind us, directly in the Black Knight’s path. I figured that ought to slow the armored bastard down. Maybe even give us enough time to shake him.
    “Jesus Christ, get out of there!” Thornton shouted from the backseat. He was twisted around, staring anxiously through the back window at the police cruiser.
    I checked the mirror and saw the Black Knight’s horse run straight into the cruiser. But instead of hurting the horse, the cruiser, a couple thousand pounds of metal and