Читать книгу Grendel's Curse - Alex Archer - Страница 12

5

Lars Mortensen slammed his foot down on the gas.

He really didn’t like the fact the car was riding his tail so hard; it was stupid and dangerous. If the joker wanted to pass, he should just pass. Conditions were good, the road wasn’t wet, and like most roads in Sweden it was wide because they were designed to be able to function as emergency runways for planes during wartime should the need arise. He knew the road well enough; there weren’t any tricky bends up ahead. He gestured in the rearview mirror for the guy to pass, but he didn’t: he just tucked in a foot or so behind Lars’s fender and gassed his engine intimidatingly even as Lars accelerated.

He watched the needle on the dial climb.

The sound of the engine changed as he shifted gears.

The black car behind maintained the same far-too-close distance.

There were two men in it, both staring straight ahead fixatedly. Staring at him. It wasn’t just his imagination; he could feel the heat of their eyes burning into him. It didn’t matter how hard he pushed the car, they maintained that same intimidating gap. This wasn’t just a couple of guys being jerks, either. Were they part of Thorssen’s mob? Was that it? Did he somehow know Lars was trying to spirit away his treasure?

Or was that just paranoia talking?

He took his foot off the accelerator and allowed the car to slow down slightly.

He didn’t want to hit the brakes—yet. Doing that would cause his lights to flare and tip his hand. Better they think he’s just a slow or erratic driver.

They slowed their pace to match his.

He gripped the wheel tighter. The pain in his hand increased fourfold with the added pressure. The salt from the sweat in the palm of his hand worked its way into the wound, stinging. He gritted his teeth against the swell of agony as his vision swam. He refused to black out, fighting to stay focused as he let the car drift toward the side of the road.

The engine began to strain, whining because it was in the wrong gear, threatening to stall out. He pushed in the clutch and it quit complaining, then slammed on his brakes, forcing the car behind him to pull out and maneuver around him or crash. It slid past at speed, the passenger glaring across at him as it did. The driver cut right across Lars’s path, forcing him to slam on the brakes again or plow into the side of them.

Thinking fast, he rammed the gearshift into reverse and tried to get out of there as the passenger door opened. His tires screeched, spitting rubber, and the engine stalled out. Lars twisted the ignition key, jamming down on the gas, only for it to sputter and die again.

The passenger walked toward him. He didn’t run. He was a brick wall of a man in a dark suit, a clone of every villain from every bad movie Lars had seen in the movies, but no less intimidating for it.

He leaned in and tapped on the window, his signet ring rattling on the glass.

Lars couldn’t move.

He couldn’t even check if the car doors were locked.

He was frozen in place by fear. There wasn’t a single muscle in his body that would obey him. It was all he could do to breathe.

It was the pain that finally broke through to end his paralysis. He turned the key over again, shaking like a leaf. The tapping was more forceful the second time it came and he heard a muffled, “You don’t want to do that, Mr. Mortensen,” as he fumbled with the key again. “Open up.”

Reluctantly, Lars opened the window a crack. It wasn’t exactly meeting the goon halfway, but he hoped it’d buy him a few seconds to think.

“Leave the key alone, Mr. Mortensen,” the goon said, leaning in close to the cracked window. By repeating his name he was laying down a none-too-subtle hint that he knew exactly who Lars was and what he was doing. “I think it might be a good idea if you turned around and went back to the site, don’t you?”

“Who are you?” Lars said. It came out more as a plea for knowledge than a demand.

“It doesn’t really matter who I am, does it? All that matters is that you don’t do anything stupid. Stupidity can be very dangerous for your health, Mr. Mortensen.”

The car started suddenly, catching Lars by surprise. His hands had been working at the key without him thinking about it.

“Don’t,” the goon said. One word, filled with menace.

That one word said it all.

Lars threw the car back into gear and stamped the gas to the floor, sending his car lurching back.

“You don’t want to do that,” the goon called out, still calm, still full of menace.

That was when Lars realized the driver hadn’t been sitting by idly twiddling his thumbs—even as he tried to peel away from the makeshift roadblock the driver of the black car floored the gas, fishtailing around in a crazy hand-brake turn, and rammed him full-on.

The impact threatened to drive Lars off the road.

The engine grunted and died.

The windshield shattered, showering Lars with fragments of glass.

His hands moved frantically, but he couldn’t get the car moving again.

“I asked you not to,” the goon said. There was a gun in the guy’s hand and it was pointing straight at Lars’s face. They were no more than three feet apart. There was no way he could miss. “I’m done asking.”