Free The Blood Guard (The Blood Guard series) by Carter Roy

fingers.
    Me, I kept my leg stiff against the gas, my shoulders braced against the backrest, and looked right.
    There was no sign of Dawkins. Everyone else was motionless, staring at the Cadillac: Truckers at the diesel pumps, parents with their kids, the gas station attendants in their pale-blue work shirts, and Greta and Mr. Clean. The SUV was more than a hundred yards away, parked between the fueling stations, but I could see their faces easily. Which meant, I guess, they could totally make out my face, too.
    Mr. Clean recognized me and began walking my way, his arm outstretched, aiming the blunt end of the Tesla gun.
    I didn’t hear the first shot because the noise of the metal undercarriage scraping the concrete was so loud.
    But I saw it.
    A jagged beam of bright-purple electricity stretched through the air from the gun, crackling past the front of the Caddy’s grill like a sideways lightning bolt. It left a bright afterimage in my vision.
    I blinked then looked back in time to see Mr. Clean aim again. Right at my face.
    I ducked. The inside of the car filled with light and a smell like burnt wiring, and all the hair on my arms and head stood on end. A smoking hole as large as a grapefruit appeared in the passenger side window.
    Without lifting my foot from the gas, I slid all the way down in the car seat. Now I couldn’t see where I was going. The car kept up its lurch-and-stop progress across the lot, and I peeked up above the door just as Mr. Clean, still walking my way, lifted the weapon for a third shot.
    This time the bolt of electricity came sweeping across the hood, sawing through the space where my head would have been if I’d been sitting up. The windshield shattered, showering me with little cubes of safety glass, and where the bolt hit metal, it threw off white-hot sparks.
    I screamed, sure I was going to die.
    The Caddy was too slow. There was no way I was going to get away from Mr. Clean and his blonde boss, not without back wheels.
    I risked another glimpse over the door and saw a dark blur behind the gunman: Dawkins on the mechanic’s creeper, speeding across the open lot to the SUV.
    And then I had to duck again.
    Tendrils of lightning crackled around the Cadillac’s passenger side. Thankfully, the massive door held against whatever the Tesla gun threw out.
    The next time I looked, I saw Dawkins and Greta pile out of the SUV. Dawkins grabbed the mechanic’s creeper, threw it to the ground, and then leaped atop it like a skateboarder.
    He rode it straight into Mr. Clean’s back, and they both went down. Greta ran past them, toward the Cadillac, waving her arms and shouting.
    I turned off the ignition in time to hear her say, “ — o h my god turn off the car before you set everything on fire!”
    I pulled the strap of the satchel over my head and pushed open the door.
    The Caddie had left a trail of deep gouges in the pavement, and wide streaks of oil and gasoline. They stretched all the way to the garage, where Albie was still standing, looking dumbstruck, the tire iron dangling from his limp hand. I had driven less than a hundred feet.
    “Sorry!” I shouted to him.
    Greta ran up, panting. “Are you out of your mind? What kind of fool drives a car with no back tires?”
    There was a scorched hole through the door where the bolt of energy from the Tesla gun had struck. Another minute and it would have cut all the way through.
    “Let’s grab Dawkins and get out of here,” I said.
    But he and Mr. Clean weren’t done with each other.
    Dawkins was sitting on Mr. Clean’s chest and throwing punches, but the guy took them in stride. He curled his legs up, hooked a knee around Dawkins’ shoulder, and with a twist, wrenched him off.
    “We’ve got to get that gun,” Greta said, running toward something glimmering on the pavement.
    She reached it just as Mr. Clean and Dawkins rolled right up to where the truck-stop entrance met the ramp from the highway.
    I took a quick glance around for