Page 113 of Savage Lover

“One more second . . .” I say.

A white police van screeches up in front of the bank.

Seb and Dante are about to take cover behind the pillars.

“Wait!” I say.

Camille pokes her head out the driver’s side window.

“Come on!” she shouts.

We book it down the stairs.

Dante and Seb climb into the van. I grab the last of Mason’s inventions out of my bag. I fling one of the grenades up the north end of the street, and one south. Then I jump in the passenger seat, shouting to Camille, “Go west on Monroe!”

Cop cars are zooming up LaSalle from both directions. I can see them closing in on us from two sides.

Then the grenades explode.

Not in the normal way—there’s no charge inside. Instead, the grenades release two smoke bombs of massive proportions. They create dual pillars of dense black smoke, twelve feet in diameter and a hundred feet tall. This blocks the view in either direction with apocalyptic panache.

Camille floors the gas pedal, shooting the gap between the pillars of smoke. She zooms down Monroe Street, taking us out of the financial district, out toward the river.

She’s driving fast and aggressive, handling the van like it’s a sports car. I can’t help grinning, watching her. The only thing I don’t like is the gash on her chin, and the ugly marks around her neck. Not to mention the fact that her shirt looks like it was cut off her body.

“Are you okay?” I ask her.

Camille gives me a quick smile, before turning her eyes back to the road.

“Never better,” she says.

I feel myself grinning too, a bubble of elation building inside of me.

We’re doing it. We’re fucking doing it.

I can hear sirens everywhere. Probably twenty cop cars, headed toward the bank from all directions. It’ll take a miracle to get through them all without being spotted.

Camille is headed toward the bridge, to cross over the river.

Instead, I say, “Turn right here. Then turn right again.”

“But that’ll take us back—”

“Trust me,” I say.

Camille wrenches the wheel to the right, then takes the next right again.

Now we’re headed back toward LaSalle on Washington Street. Sure enough, two cop cars are racing down the road after us, sirens blaring. Camille’s hands are stiff on the wheel and her face is pale.

“What do I do?” she says.

“Just keep going,” I tell her.

The cop cars shoot past us on either side, zooming down Washington.

Camille lets out a startled laugh.

“They think we’re with them,” I tell her. “It’s way more suspicious to drive in the opposite direction.”

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