They're only a hundred yards from the prison and still in blurry sight of it_and less than a mile from where the road ahead curves west and out of sight behind a range of hills_when, through the pounding of the rain, they hear the rising wail of Zanco's lockdown sirens. "They're on to us!" Axel says. "Go! Hit it!" says Cacho. As the van gains speed, there's a thunk-pock of a bullet piercing the roof and forming a starburst near the bottom of the windshield an instant before they hear the rifle shot. "Floor it!" Cacho shouts. "It's floored!" the driver says. "It's four-cylinder." The tower guard is armed with a semiautomatic Ruger and its reports come in quick succession. It is hard to stop a fleeing vehicle when shooting at it from the rear and at an elevated angle, but the shooter is an able rifleman and his bullets punch through the rooftop, through the hatchback door and window, whang off the metal framework, and lodge in the windshield, in the center console, in the padding of the seats. "Holy Mother!" Cacho says, his forearms clasped on top of his head. "Cut the lights! Weave!" Axel yells, crouched behind Cacho, pressed against the panel door. With its lights off, the van's a tougher target, and the driver shrugs low over the steering wheel, wipers flapping at full tempo, tires whumping through puddles, the driver weaving through the rain haze but only slightly for fear of skidding off the road. Then the gate tower's spotlight comes ablaze and its beam races up the road through the glittering rain and finds the hatchback door. Excerpted from The Ways of Wolfe by James Carlos Blake All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
