MirrorWorld

The engine growls to life. I yank the gear shift into drive and crush the gas pedal. Tires screech as I punch forward, shoving aside the small hybrid car parked in front of us. People run for cover as the SUV roars through the parking lot, hitting thirty miles per hour. I hammer the brakes at the end of the row, twisting the wheel. All four tires squeal as we spin. A gray cloud of burning rubber billows around the vehicle. When our turn hits the ninety-degree mark, I hit the gas again and race toward the back of the lot.

Rows flash by. Five to go, then it’s an empty lot and a clear shot to the long winding drive through the woods.

“Look out!” the medic shouts. He’s still lying down, but he’s leaning up, looking out the passenger’s-side window. I follow his line of sight and see what has him concerned — a black Humvee complete with a mounted machine gun races up the parking lot’s center aisle.

The big gun turns toward us and opens fire.

A row of cars flash between us, absorbing the high-caliber ammunition that would have shredded the SUV.

I hit the brakes and turn hard to the right, into the next row. The Humvee races ahead into the empty lot, turning in a wide circle. The SUV’s throaty engine shakes my seat as the big vehicle accelerates to fifty miles per hour. We quickly reach the center aisle, and I turn hard to the left, just missing a car but careening over a concrete wheel stop at the end of an empty parking space. The right side of the SUV bounces into the air and slams back down with a jolt.

“I’ve got her!” the medic shouts, reassuring me that he’s doing his job.

While the Humvee rounds toward us, I aim for the drive at the back of the lot and keep the gas pedal pegged.

Asphalt explodes from the parking lot ahead of us as a line of heavy machine-gun fire, lit by bright-orange tracer rounds, cuts across. Chunks of tar bounce off the windshield, but the gunfire stops as the gunner adjusts his aim.

A second volley of bullets shatters the rear side window, but we’re quickly beyond the line of fire. Whoever is shooting at us hasn’t had a lot of practice with a moving target. Even if the security team is ex-military with real-world experience, a lack of practice can dull reaction times.

Not for me, though. All of this seems to just come naturally.

The empty lot around us morphs into a wall of trees. Tall pines line the road, their scent washing through the shattered window and overwhelming the stench of burnt rubber.

Gunfire erupts behind us, but the trees get the worst of it, and continue to as the Humvee gunner spews lead. The winding path through the woods slows our flight, but it also keeps the Humvee from getting more than a brief glimpse of the SUV.

We round the final bend and race toward the security gate. A public road is just twenty feet beyond the solid-looking guardhouse. Four men in security uniforms stand in front of the gate, handguns raised. One of them shakes an open palm at me. These men have clearly not been warned yet. If they had been, they wouldn’t have wasted time trying to request me to stop; they would have simply opened fire.

They get the idea when I accelerate toward them. The bravest of the four squeezes off two rounds. Both miss. Probably because the man was already running when he fired. They dive away, two to a side, narrowly missing being added to the long list of New Hampshire’s daily roadkill. The gate, however, doesn’t move for me. But it’s not nearly as robust as it looks. The metal pole bends with a shriek and allows us passage.

I glance in the rearview.

The Humvee skids to a stop. The guards pick themselves up.

No one pursues us.

The chase, it seems, ended at the gate.

I turn onto the road and tear away from Neuro Inc. I’d like to say it’s the last time I’ll see the place, but I know it’s not. Once Shiloh is safe, I’ll be back. What they’re doing is wrong, and that’s something I can’t let go. Not because I’m a bleeding-heart vigilante, but because they thought they could add me to their collection of tortured souls, and I take that personally.

I look back at my passenger. He looks shaken. Frightened. But he’s still tending to Shiloh. “How is she?”

“Hell if I know,” the medic says. “What happened to her? Is she in a coma?”

Hadn’t considered that. “I assumed she’d been sedated, but I honestly don’t know.”

“Was this done to her at Neuro?” he asks.

I nod. “I’m guessing your security clearance is pretty low.”

“I started a month ago.” He looks back at Shiloh, then to me. He extends his hand toward me. “I’m Jim. Jim Cobb.”

I twist my hand back and give his a firm shake. “I’m Crazy.”

He gives a lopsided nervous smile. “I noticed.”

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