Free Year One by Nora Roberts Page A

street.
    â€œIgnore it.”
    As he wrenched the door open, the roar of an engine broke the silence. “Get in!”
    Lana had to step through blood and over death to throw herself awkwardly into the car. She couldn’t block the short scream at the thunder of gunfire and sat trembling as Max launched himself behind the wheel, heaving the bag into the back. She watched the bag slap then bounce onto an empty car seat.
    A line of colorful plastic rings jingled as he held a hand out to the starter. A motorcycle streaked around the corner, racing toward them. The girl rode pillion behind a man whose red-streaked black hair flew in the wind.
    â€œGet the Uncannys!” she screamed. “Kill them!”
    A group of four, possibly five, people swarmed after them, firing at the SUV. Sweat shimmered on Max’s face as he clenched his jaw. “Come on, come on,” he urged.
    Thinking of the life they might have had, the world that might have been, Lana closed her eyes. At least they’d die together, she thought, gripping his arm.
    The engine sprang to life. Max shoved it into Drive, stomped on the gas.
    â€œHold on,” he warned and, wrenching the wheel, steered away from the mob, tires screaming.
    Lana jolted when the side mirror exploded from a bullet, and the SUV bumped hard over the curb, banged back. It kissed the side of another wrecked car before Max floored it.
    They streaked down the street with the motorcycle in pursuit.
    Max didn’t slow when they came to more wrecks, more abandoned cars, but threaded through them at a dangerous speed. Sparks flew when he veered close enough for metal to skim against metal.
    She risked a look behind. “I think they’re gaining. My Jesus, Max, the girl—that same girl—she has a gun. She’s—”
    Bullets singed the air. She heard glass breaking.
    â€œTaillight,” he said grimly, cut the corner at Fiftieth Street and had the SUV rocking, pushed east. “I might have to slow to get across town, Lana, to get through abandoned cars. He’s got more maneuverability. Do what you did back on the street.”
    In full panic, she pressed her hands to the sides of her head. “I don’t know what I did. I was terrified.”
    He spun the wheel, spun it back, bumped over an already flattened messenger bike. “Scared now? Knock them back, Lana. Knock them back or I don’t know if we’ll make it.”
    A bullet hit the rear window, shattering glass. Lana threw out her hand. Threw her fear with it.
    The front wheel of the bike shot straight up; the rear lifted. As it began to flip, the girl flew off. Lana heard her screaming before she slammed onto the hood of a car. The man held on, fighting for control. But the motorcycle tumbled, flipped, and then both it and its driver skidded and rolled over the street.
    â€œGod, I killed them! Did I kill them?”
    â€œYou saved us.”
    He slowed a little, weaving across town. He had to take a jog north at Broadway as a clog of wrecked cars blocked the east-side route. Behind them, Times Square, once a crowded, chaotic world of its own, stood silent as a grave.
    He slowed at every intersection, checking to see if the way held clear. Turned east.
    How many times, Lana wondered, how many times had she taken a cab or the subway to Midtown to shop or have lunch or go to the theater?
    A sale at Barneys, a hunt through the shoe paradise of Saks’s eighth floor. A stroll in Central Park with Max.
    Over now, only memories now.
    Of the few signs of life she did see, people moved furtively, notwith that brisk, I’ve-got-places-to-go New York pace. No tourists with their heads tipped back marveling at skyscrapers.
    Smashed windows, overturned trash cans, broken streetlights, a dog, so thin its ribs showed, hunting for food. Would he go feral, she wondered, hunt for human flesh?
    â€œI don’t know the population of New York.”
    â€œIt was closing in on