I’d taken a beating during the bull-pen fight, but I made my legs churn as fast as they could as I raced through the rows of cars. I must have been in the junk section because all I saw were rusted-out rattletraps that should have been compacted years ago. I stopped at the first decent-looking ride I came to—a late-model Dodge Charger—grabbed a metal pipe that was sticking up out of a nearby trash can, and used it to shatter the driver’s-side window. A second later, I was inside the vehicle, ripping into the wires under the dash.
It took me longer than I would have liked, since I wasn’t as good with cars as Finn was, but the engine finally rumbled to life.
Good thing, since the cops had arrived.
They poured out of the hole in the wall, all of them drenched by the still-gushing water, but all of them still clutching guns. Dobson was leading the charge.
I snapped the seat belt into its buckle, then shoved the gearshift into reverse and slammed my foot down on the gas, peeling out of the parking space and steering straight for the wall.
The cops realized that I was zooming toward them, and they all yelled and scrambled to get out of the way. I was hoping to pancake Dobson against the stone, but he threw himself to one side just before the rear bumper of the Dodge Charger slammed into what was left of the back of the station.
The impact jarred me, but I threw the car into drive and stomped down on the gas. Directly across from me, five hundred feet away, lay the main gate that led out of the impound yard.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Crack! Crack! Crack!
More and more bullets zipped in my direction as the cops got back onto their feet and fired at the vehicle. The back windshield busted out, the driver’s mirror flew off the side of the car, and gray stuffing puffed out of the passenger’s headrest, but I didn’t care. I was only using this vehicle to get out of the impound yard and then as far away from the station as I could. After that, I needed somewhere to regroup, at least for a few minutes, and I needed to find some way to let my friends know what was going on. I had no doubt that they had been at the station all day long, trying to get me released, but the information coming out of there would be garbled—if the cops didn’t cover up my escape completely.
But where to go? Madeline had done her homework on me, so she knew all of my friends and family. A fact that she’d demonstrated over the last two days as she’d screwed with their businesses, jobs, and more. She’d be expecting me anywhere I went, and she had enough men at her disposal to follow and track me all through Ashland.
The Pork Pit, I finally decided. I needed knives, fresh clothes, money, a burner cell phone, and some tins of Jo-Jo’s healing ointment, at the very least, if I was going to survive the rest of my escape, and that was the closest place to get them. It was a calculated risk, and I was sure that Madeline, Dobson, and the rest of the waterlogged cops would be right on my heels, since that would be the first place they would look for me.
But since the restaurant was closed, courtesy of Madeline and her machinations, none of my friends, family, or employees would be there. I didn’t want any of them getting caught in the cross fire if Madeline and the others did catch up to me.
While I was mulling over my options, the impound gate zoomed up to meet me. A cop was stationed in a white guard shack to the left of the entrance, and I could see his mouth hanging wide open as he watched the car approach. He wasn’t used to people driving out, only those going in.
I pressed my foot down on the gas as far as it would go and reached for a bit of my Stone magic, preparing myself for what was to come—
CRASH!
The Charger ripped through the metal gate as if it were paper, since it was just shut, instead of being padlocked. I lost control for a moment, the wheel whipping back and forth under my hands, and the vehicle careened out onto the street, sideswiping a parked patrol car.
I fought the wheel and wrenched it back into place. Above the roar of the engine, I could hear more crack-crack-cracks of gunfire, along with the wail of sirens. Dobson wasn’t wasting any time dispatching his men to hunt me down.
So I put my foot back down on the gas, blew through the red light at the end of the block, and made the sharp turn toward the Pork Pit.
* * *
The restaurant was only a few blocks away, so it took me less than five minutes to get there. I didn’t know if I had enough of a head start, but I didn’t waste any time trying to hide my stolen car. Instead, I parked it right in front of the Pork Pit and left it running so I wouldn’t have to hot-wire it again. Besides, if the cops found it before I was done inside and I had to ditch the car, I could always go out the back and disappear into the alley and the maze of side streets behind the restaurant.
I didn’t have time to be subtle, so I put my hand against the panes of glass in the front door and then froze and shattered them with my Ice magic. I hated desecrating my own restaurant—Fletcher’s restaurant—but I didn’t have a choice. Time was the most important thing right now. Not feelings.
I reached through the opening, turned the lock, and stepped inside. Then I sprinted through the storefront and shoved through the double doors. The back of the restaurant was pitch-black, but I’d long ago memorized the layout, so I was able to slap on the lights with no problem.
I went over to the freezer in the back and dragged a black duffel bag out from behind it. I stopped long enough to open the top, feel around in the bag until my hand closed over a knife, and slide it up my sleeve. The second thing I rooted around for was the burner phone tucked away inside. It took the phone far too long to light up and even longer still for my bruised, bloody, damp hands to punch in his number, but I managed it. He answered on the first ring.
“Gin!” Owen’s worried voice filled my ear. “Is that you?”
“It’s me,” I said, zipping the bag back up and slinging the strap over my head and across my chest.
“Where are you? What’s going on? I’m at the police station. There’s been some sort of explosion, and now the cops are yelling and running around everywhere.”
“I’m at the Pork Pit,” I said, opening one of the double doors and peering out into the storefront. “I busted my way out of the station, and the cops are searching for me.”
I paused a moment to listen, and the wail of sirens got closer and closer and louder and louder. Too risky to go back for the car now, not with the cops so close. Besides, it would be too easy for them to track me from behind, shoot out the tires, and close in for the kill. Out to the alley it was, then.