Heart and Soul by Jackie May (reading list .TXT) 📗

side mirror. But that guy shouldn’t have taken his eyes off Jay, who slows down beside him and kicks the front end of the bike, sending both machine and rider into a dozen cartwheels. I barely swerve in time to avoid the mess.

It takes us several minutes to catch the trucks. The revenant drivers blow through every intersection at top speed, a couple of freight trains smashing all other vehicles aside. It’s not long before police cruisers have joined the chase, but by then the trucks are chugging up a roundabout that funnels onto the Ambassador Bridge.

A through line clicks in my brain. The Ambassador Bridge. Bringing traffic to and from Windsor, Canada. The Windsor clan master on his way over to a supposed meeting at the Grande Ballroom. This is it. This is the “negotiation” the necromancer promised would be so disagreeable to the Windsor clan. His promised “fireworks.” I recall Pinstripes’ words: We’ve got a thirty-second window to hit…

They’re going to blow up the Ambassador Bridge while the Windsor clan master is on it.

It seems like an absurd plan, even for the big-ass balls of the East Side horde. The chance of getting everything right—the perfect place at the exact time—it’s ridiculous. There’s got to be easier ways to kill somebody. On the other hand, if their goal is to send a message, this will definitely do the trick.

Federal employees scatter for their lives as the trucks plow through customs checkpoints and barge into traffic on the narrow bridge. I’m soon trapped in gridlock, but Jay shoots between lanes on the Harley.

Ditching my Tiger-Crap, I charge ahead on foot, dodging the occasional door thrown open as people begin to panic and leave their cars. “Bomb!” I shout, “Turn around! Stay off the bridge!”

There’s a great commotion of screeching tires and crashing cars as the trucks, now out over open water, suddenly jackknife, blocking all lanes of traffic. Everybody’s bailing out of their cars in a great rush my direction. I leap to the trunk of a car, then the roof, and continue my charge from car to car in what has now become a chaotic parking lot.

Automatic gunfire erupts. The Bowler Hat revenant stands on top of his box trailer and fires down at the space between the trucks. Pinstripes emerges from the truck cab closer to me, gripping a small box trailing a bunch of wires. He attaches the box to the side of the cab, then climbs on top of the trailer, running toward the back.

I have no idea what a bomb looks like, but I have to figure that a box with wires is a pretty damn good candidate. Out of breath and legs burning, I reach the box, searching it all over. I find nothing of interest—no buttons or timers or blinking lights—so I trace the wires back into the cab of the truck. They are connected to a box under the dash with an LCD screen that presents only two options: TIMER or REMOTE. I tap the screen, but that does nothing. I check for buttons or switches. Nothing.

I hear a car door opening, a man coughing. Looking out the passenger window, I see a handful of cars that have been trapped between the two trucks. They’re crushed and shot to hell. The coughing guy is climbing out of an exotic supercar in a nice suit. His eyes glow red, and his fangs grow long as he howls in rage. A Windsor vampire, I take it.

Movement catches my eye in the side mirror. I see Bowler Hat scuffling with Jay at the back end of the other trailer. A scream catches in my throat when Jay tackles him, and they both fall not only off the trailer, but over the side railing of the bridge.

In that moment of frozen horror, a beep startles me. The LCD screen just blinked to life, lighting up the option for REMOTE. I hold my breath, expecting the world to explode.

When it doesn’t, I realize that footsteps are thumping on the trailer above me. I spring into action, hauling myself to the roof of the cab, then vaulting onto the box trailer. Down at the back end, Pinstripes is tightening a harness around his waist. The harness is attached to a rope coiled at his feet.

I rush him. He spins, spotting me. That’s when I see the remote in his hand. I get two more strides before he presses the button and jumps over the side of the bridge.

There’s a muffled pop, then an ear-splitting clap that picks me up off my feet. A wave of fire engulfs me, burning the air in my lungs. The fireball dissipates as quickly as it came, but by then I already know I’ve been thrown from the bridge. I open my eyes to the sight of the Detroit River a hundred and fifty feet below, yawning open to swallow me. After a few long seconds of free fall—during which my heart forgets to beat—I collect my wits just enough to notice Pinstripes also in freefall below me.

His rope goes taut, stretching with the elasticity of a rubber band. A bungie cord, I realize with hope. It slows him down, and I nearly shoot past him before lashing out with my claws, digging into his shoulders, raking down his back. My grip doesn’t stick, but it does create enough drag for me to wrap my legs around his waist. Hanging upside down, I see the river speeding up to meet me.

Grunting with a vertical ab crunch, I pull myself up and hook an arm around his neck, piggyback style. We sweep inches above the water in a great big pendulum swing beneath the bridge. He wrestles against my grip, throwing elbows that knock the wind out of me. I choke him with one arm while searching his pinstripe coat pockets with my free hand. Growling, he bucks back, smashing me in the face with the back of his head. White dots explode