Free Suicide Mission by William W. Johnstone Page A

Catalina. Along this stretch, U.S. 90 was a divided highway but not a freeway with entrance and exit ramps. There were crossovers where major side roads came in.
    â€œYou want me to turn?” Catalina asked.
    â€œCan you make it without hittin’ your brakes until we’re right on top of it?”
    The disdainful snort she let out told him what she thought of that question.
    Bill gestured toward the Colt on the seat and said, “Mind if I borrow your gun?”
    â€œAll right, but I don’t have any extra ammunition for it,” she said. “Just whatever’s in it.”
    â€œThat’s all right. I’ve got ammo, once we’re somewhere I can get to it.” The crossover was coming up fast. “You always go around gunned up?”
    â€œNo, I took it off one of the men trying to kill me last night . . . after I killed him.”
    Before Bill had time to digest that, Catalina slammed her foot on the brake pedal, spun the steering wheel, and skidded into the turn at the crossover. For an instant Bill thought the truck was going to roll over, but its superior suspension did its job and kept the tires on the road.
    â€œBrake!” Bill shouted.
    Catalina hit the pedal again. The pickup’s tires screeched as it slid to a stop in the crossover. Bill twisted around on the seat, reached up to throw the sunroof open, and stood up on the seat with guns in both hands.
    In the eastbound lanes of the highway, the black SUV that had been pursuing them slowed violently in an effort to make the turn, too, but it had been going too fast and slid past the crossover.
    As it did, Bill saw that the rear window was down and the barrels of two weapons protruded through it as the men inside tried to get a shot.
    Bill opened up first. The Browning and the Colt both roared and bucked in his hands. Glass flew as bullets smashed the driver’s window. What was left of the window was suddenly covered with crimson as slugs pulped the driver’s skull.
    The automatic weapons disappeared from the rear window. Bill knew that his slugs must have smashed the gunmen back across the seat.
    With no one controlling it, the SUV went into a wild spin. One of the wheels dipped into a drainage ditch at the side of the road, and suddenly the vehicle was airborne, flipping over and over until it crashed on its top in the median between the eastbound and westbound lanes. The SUV rolled a couple of times before it came to a stop, still upside-down. Flames licked up from its undercarriage.
    The silence that followed the crash was broken by the wail of sirens not far off. Citizens would have reported all the shooting going on as the chase stretched across Del Rio, and now the cops were closing in.
    â€œGo,” Bill told Catalina as he dropped back onto the seat. “Get off the highway onto the side roads. Keep turning every couple of blocks.”
    â€œI’ve run from the cops before, you know,” she said as she drove out of the crossover.
    â€œI’m not surprised, what with you stealin’ cars when you were twelve.”
    â€œWell . . . I didn’t actually steal any of them. I was just the lookout. But my friend who did boost them taught me how to hotwire an ignition.”
    â€œSome friend.”
    â€œYou don’t know,” she snapped. “You weren’t there.”
    â€œYeah, I reckon that’s true.”
    Bill reloaded the Browning, then checked the Colt’s magazine. He was pretty sure he’d emptied it, and sure enough, he had.
    Catalina made a right after going a couple of blocks, then a left after two more blocks. She kept up that pattern, working her way north and east of the highway, and after a while Bill couldn’t hear the sirens anymore. He was confident they had given the slip to any law enforcement pursuit. That was good; he wouldn’t have wanted to waste hours trying to get everything straightened out. Not to mention the very real danger that