Hot Ice

trends,” she told him.
    Doug shot a look over his shoulder. The street was clear, but it wouldn’t be for long. He jumped in and slammed the door. “Drive.”
    “Forget it. I don’t drive around with guys who wear last year’s clothes. Take a walk.”
    Doug stuck his hand in his pocket, using his forefinger to simulate the barrel of a gun. “Drive,” he repeated.
    She looked at his pocket, then back at his face. On the radio the disk jockey announced a full hour of blasts from the past. Vintage Stones began to pour out. “If there’s a gun in there, I want to see it. Otherwise, take off.”
    Of all the cars he could’ve picked… Why the hell wasn’t she shaking and pleading like any normal person would’ve done? “Dammit, I don’t want to have to use this, but if you don’t throw this thing in gear and get moving, I’m going to have to put a hole in you.”
    Whitney stared at her own reflection in his glasses. Mick Jagger was demanding that someone give him shelter. “Bullshit,” she said, her diction exquisite.
    Doug gave a moment’s consideration to knocking her cold, dumping her out, and taking the car. Another glance over his shoulder showed him there wasn’t much time to waste.
    “Look, lady, if you don’t get moving, there’re three men in that Lincoln coming up behind us that’ll do a lot of damage to your toy here.”
    She looked in the rearview mirror and saw the big, black car slowing down as it approached. “My father had a car like that once,” she commented. “I always called it his funeral car.”
    “Yeah—get it in gear or it’s going to be my funeral.”
    Whitney frowned, watching the Lincoln in her rear-view mirror, then impulsively decided to see what would happen next. She threw the car into first and zipped across the intersection. The Lincoln immediately picked up the pace. “They’re following.”
    “Of course they’re following,” Doug spat out. “And if you don’t step on it, they’re going to crawl into the back seat and shake hands.”
    Mostly out of curiosity, Whitney punched the gas and turned down Fifty-seventh. The Lincoln stayed with her. “They’re really following,” she said again, but with a grin of excitement.
    “Can’t this thing go any faster?”
    She turned the grin on him. “Are you kidding?” Before he could respond, she gunned the engine and was off like a shot. This was definitely the most interesting way to spend the evening she could imagine. “Think I can lose them?” Whitney looked behind her, craning her neck to see if the Lincoln was still following. “Ever see Bullitt? Of course, we don’t have any of those nifty hills, but—”
    “Hey, watch it!”
    Whitney turned back around and, whipping the wheel, skimmed around a slower-moving sedan.
    “Look.” Doug gritted his teeth. “The whole purpose of this is to stay alive. You watch the road, I’ll watch the Lincoln.”
    “Don’t be so snotty.” Whitney careened around the next corner. “I know what I’m doing.”
    “Look where you’re going!” Doug grabbed the wheel, yanking it so that the fender missed a car parked at the curb. “Damn idiot woman.”
    Whitney lifted her chin. “If you’re going to be insulting, you’ll just have to get out.” Slowing down, she swung toward the curb.
    “For God’s sake don’t stop.”
    “I don’t tolerate insults. Now—”
    “Down!” Doug hauled her sideways and pulled her down to the seat just before the windshield exploded into spiderweb cracks.
    “My car!” She struggled to sit up, but only managed to twist her head to survey the damage. “Goddamn it, it didn’t have a scratch on it. I’ve only had it for two months.”
    “It’s going to have a lot more than a scratch if you don’t step on the gas and keep going.” From his crouched position, Doug twisted the wheel toward the street and peered cautiously over the dash. “Now!”
    Infuriated, Whitney stepped hard on the accelerator, moving blindly into the street while Doug held on to the wheel with one hand and held her down with the other.
    “I can’t drive this way.”
    “You can’t drive with a bullet in your head either.”
    “A bullet?” Her voice didn’t crack with fear, but vibrated with annoyance. “They’re shooting at us?”
    “They ain’t throwing rocks.” Tightening his grip, he spun the wheel so that the car bumped into the curb and around the next corner. Frustrated that he couldn’t take the controls himself, he took a