Hot Ice

cautious look behind. The Lincoln was still there, but they’d gained a few seconds. “Okay, sit up, but keep low. And for Chrissake keep moving.”
    “How’m I supposed to explain this to the insurance company?” Whitney poked up her head and tried to find a clear spot in the broken windshield. “They’re never going to believe someone was shooting at me and I’ve already got a filthy record. Do you know what my rates are?”
    “The way you drive, I can imagine.”
    “Well, I’ve had enough.” Setting her jaw, Whitney turned left.
    “This is a one-way street.” He looked around helplessly. “Didn’t you see the sign?”
    “I know it’s a one-way street,” she muttered and pressed harder on the gas. “It’s also the quickest way across town.”
    “Oh, Jesus.” Doug watched the headlights bearing down on them. Automatically he gripped the door handle and braced for the impact. If he was going to die, he thought fatalistically, he’d rather be shot, nice and clean through the heart, than be spread all over a street in Manhattan.
    Ignoring the screams of horns, Whitney jerked the car to the right, then to the left. Fools and small animals, Doug thought as they breezed between two oncoming cars. God looked out for fools and small animals. He could only be grateful he was with a fool.
    “They’re still coming.” Doug turned in the seat to watch the progress of the Lincoln. Somehow it was easier if he didn’t watch where he was going. They bounced from side to side as she maneuvered between cars, then with a force that threw him against the door, she turned another corner. Doug swore and grabbed for the wound on his arm. Pain began again with a low, insistent thud. “Stop trying to kill us, will you? They don’t need any help.”
    “Always complaining,” Whitney tossed back. “Let me tell you something, you’re not a real fun guy.”
    “I tend to get moody when somebody’s trying to kill me.”
    “Well, try to lighten up a bit,” Whitney suggested. She barreled around the next corner, skimming the curb. “You’re making me nervous.”
    Doug flopped back in his seat and wondered why, with all the possibilities, it had to end this way—smashed into unrecognizable pulp in some crazy woman’s Mercedes. He could’ve gone quietly with Remo and had Dimitri murder him with some ritual. There’d have been more justice in that.
    They were on Fifth again, moving south at what Doug saw was better than ninety. As they went through a puddle, water slushed up as far as the window. Even now, the Lincoln was less than a half block behind. “Dammit. They just won’t shake lose.”
    “Oh yeah?” Whitney set her teeth and gave the mirror a quick check. She’d never been a gracious loser. “Watch this.” Before Doug could draw a breath, she whipped the Mercedes around in a tight U-turn and headed dead-on for the Lincoln.
    He watched with a kind of fascinated dread. “Oh my God.”
    Remo, in the passenger seat of the Lincoln, echoed the sentiment just before his driver lost courage and steered toward the curb. The speed took them over it, across the sidewalk, and with an impressive flourish, through the plate-glass window of Godiva Chocolatiers. Without slackening pace, Whitney spun the Mercedes around again and cruised down Fifth.
    Dropping back in his seat, Doug let out a series of long, deep breaths. “Lady,” he managed to say, “you got more guts than brains.”
    “And you owe me three hundred bucks for the windshield.” Rather sedately, she pulled into the underground parking of a high rise.
    “Yeah.” Absently, he patted his chest and torso to see if he was all in one piece. “I’ll send you a check.”
    “Cash.” After pulling into her space, Whitney turned off the ignition and hopped out. “Now, you can carry my luggage up.” She popped the trunk before she strolled toward the elevator. Maybe her knees were shaking, but she’d be damned if she’d admit it. “I want a drink.”
    Doug looked back toward the entrance of the garage and calculated his chances on the street. Maybe an hour or so inside would give him the chance to outline the best plan. And, he supposed, he owed her. He started to haul out the luggage.
    “There’s more in the back.”
    “I’ll get it later.” He slung a garment bag over his shoulder and hoisted two cases. Gucci, he noted with a smirk. And she was bitching about a lousy three hundred.
    Doug walked into the elevator and dumped the two