A Fistful of Trouble (Outlaws of the Galaxy Book 2) by Paul Tomlinson (books on motivation TXT) 📗

suddenly stopped moving forward and started moving downward. Bogged down in the loose sand, its wheels were spinning, sending up a thick spray of sand like a dog digging for a bone.

A road chase is all about straight-line speed and keeping your car stable in the turns. Out here in the desert, you need different tactics. There are no straight lines. But there are sudden dips and lumps of rock that look the same colour as the sand. Sudden changes of direction and other unexpected manoeuvres can mean the difference between happy ever after and a lifetime of prison food. That’s assuming the desert doesn’t throw up something that wipes you out.

The desert is contemptuous of anyone who underestimates it. If you don’t come prepared, you have only yourself the blame. As far as possible, the Trekker was prepared for desert racing. The same couldn’t be said for the rusty sedan that was coming up behind us on the left. I sent the Trekker up a slope and we bounced down the other side. The sedan shot up the same incline at speed and launched itself into the air. It came down nose-first and the car buckled, bending in the middle like a banana. As we drove away, the sedan sat grounded, rocking on its newly curved middle section, with none of its wheels quite touching the ground.

“Coming up on the right,” Harmony warned, “they’re going to try and head you off.”

“I see him.”

One of the deputies in a shiny 4x4 with a Sheriff’s Department badge on the door. Its lights were flashing and the siren was wailing and he was probably grinning like a loon because he was in ‘hot pursuit.’

“I could shoot his tyres,” Harmony said.

“No need. Brace yourself.” I wrenched the steering wheel around and headed straight towards him. I expected him to veer away, but instead he stayed on course. I didn’t want to hit him head-on. His car had bars on the front the same as mine and the impact wouldn’t do much more than rattle everyone’s teeth. I needed him to change direction. I’d have to fake him out.

I turned suddenly. The Trekker lurched sideways, all of the weight shifting onto the wheels on the right-hand side. As the deputy swerved to try and match our new course, I slammed on the brakes. The wheels locked, sliding across the sand and sending up a thick cloud of dust. I flipped the lever into reverse, hoping the deputy wouldn’t see my lights until it was too late. We flew out of the dust cloud backwards and the bars on the back of the Trekker smashed into the side of the deputy’s car, caving it in. I braked and pulled away from him and then selected reverse again. Before the deputy could recover, I slammed into him again. The 4x4 spun, the nearside wheels digging in to try and find some grip, and the vehicle tipped over onto its side.

Harmony had her window open. She leaned out and shot two of the deputy’s tyres before I could reach over and pull her back in.

“No shooting!” I snatched the pistol out of her hand and tossed it in the back seat.

The last of the civilian cars was an old pick-up truck. It was faring better than the others had because its wheels were all driven by motors. But the after-market raised suspension and super-fat tyres had messed with its centre of gravity. Hitting a hump with only its driver-side wheels, the pickup flew into the air and began to roll sideways. It landed on its roof with its wheels spinning, looking like an angry upturned rain beetle.

“Where are the others?” I asked. All I could see in the mirrors was a dust cloud.

“Sheriff’s way off to the left,” Harmony said. “The other deputy is...” She twisted around in her seat, trying to find the other car.

It found us. The deputy’s car smashed into the back of the Trekker. I felt my teeth clack together as my skull was thrown backwards into the headrest.”

“He’s behind you,” Harmony said.

No kidding. The deputy fell back, preparing to ram us again. I waited until he began his run and then stepped down hard on the ‘go’ pedal. The Trekker shot forward, kicking up sand.

“Quin!” Harmony shouted. “We’re running out of land!”

She was right. The ground disappeared just ahead of us and beyond there was just blue sky. It was a lovely bright morning. I kept the Trekker on a straight course. The deputy’s car was close behind me. Only at the last minute did I brake and turn.

It wasn’t a vertical cliff face, but the drop was an incredibly steep incline. The Trekker’s wheels came to rest on the very edge and Harmony had a clear view of the valley below. The deputy behind us saw the danger and stamped down hard on his brakes. His wheels locked and the 4x4 slid towards the edge.

“He’s not going to make it!” Harmony said.

The deputy’s vehicle came to rest balanced on the brink. Its front wheels were over the edge and its back wheels were suspended over land. It sat rocking gently.

“I hope the sheriff’s got a winch,” I said.

We moved off.

“The sheriff,” Harmony warned, pointing to the right.

Sheriff Galton had stopped his car and had the door open. He was standing beside it pointing a rifle at us.

“Fire a shot over his head,” I said.

“You took my gun.”

“Scrack! Keep your head down.”

“What?”

I drove straight towards the sheriff, leaning out of the side window to yell at him. “Duck, you sucker!”

“Are you crazy?” Harmony wailed, hunkering down below the height of the dashboard.

“I hope he thinks so.”

The sheriff was pointing his rifle directly at me through the windshield. If I blinked, he’d shoot. He must have felt sure that I’d stop because he didn’t move until it was almost too late. He threw himself over the hood to get out of the way. The Trekker’s impact took his door off as we passed.