Harley stomped on the accelerator leaving the two pursuit vehicles in his dust. The Corvette purred like a tiger as the needle on the speedometer sailed north of a hundred and twenty miles an hour. The police sirens faded into the distance. He couldn't help but laugh at his lucky break.
If he'd been stuck trying to get away in his own rusted Ford, he'd be in handcuffs right now. Instead, he was flying north to Canada on a desolate country road in the finest automobile that America had to offer with a sack of money riding shotgun and the wind in his hair..
When he'd seen the candy apple red beauty parked sideways in the back of the bank's parking lot, he'd knew he'd find the keys in the managers front pocket. The fat bald bastard hadn't wanted to part with them until Harley had brought the butt of his pistol down on his chrome dome. Then he couldn't get rid of them quick enough along with all the cash in the vault.
Looking in the rear view mirror, Harley saw nothing but empty road, so he eased off the gas pedal bringing the vehicle back under a hundred. With nothing to worry about, he leaned forward and flipped on the radio. It was set to a classic rock station. He liked the tune, so he left it on and sang along with the chorus.
Out of nowhere, a van that was more bondo than sheet metal pulled out in front of him from a dirt driveway. He stood on the brake pedal. The Corvette decelerated quickly but not quick enough. The speed and the distance were too much for over-sized disc brakes. He slammed into the back end of the van, causing the back end to jump in the air. Metal and tires screamed like they were being torn apart because they were. The air bag hit Harley in the face with such force he was knocked unconscious.
Approaching sirens woke Harley up to find the back end of the van was sitting on the hood of his car. Frantically, he turned the key. A high pitched whine came from underneath the hood but nothing else. He gave up, undid his seatbelt, and grabbed the sack of loot from the passenger foot well. He raced to the front of the van, tossing his back through the open window.
A woman with long blond hair lay slumped against the steering wheel. He lifted her head up. Blood oozed from a cut at her forehead.
"Damn.... Not again."
A lump grew in his throat. She looked like his deceased wife, same button nose, same luscious lips. Why did he keep on running into gorgeous woman? Literally. He gently cradled her neck as he reached across and undid her seat belt.
Her eyes fluttered open. "What happened?"
"There's been an accident. I need to get you to a hospital. What's your name?"
"Jackie."
The sirens became audible again, and he thought he could hear the distinctive thrumming of helicopter rotors.
"Are you in pain?"
She dabbed at her cut with her hand. Blood covered her palm. "I banged my head off of the steering wheel. Hell yes, I'm in pain."
"Can you move your neck?"
Wincing, she twisted it from side to side. "Kind of."
"Good. It's probably not broken. Scoot over. I'm driving."
The high -low sound of the police signal grew louder.
"Hurry."
She did as she was told. "I don't want to go to the hospital... Those places are full of bacteria and viruses and all kinds of bad stuff."
"Even better."
He cranked the engine, and it roared to life. Saying a prayer to the heavens, he dropped the van into gear and punched it. It drove off the top of the Corvette and sped down the road.
