When the parachutist came down not more than a quarter mile away, it finally dawned on us what was happening: Molly’s entourage had spotted us, and they were sending down some nice folks to check on what we were doing. Yes, this was in broad daylight, but there’s a parachuting club at the airport, and it would take awhile for anyone watching to notice that they were landing in all the wrong places.
We tore out of there, but another chutist came down on the road ahead. Luckily, Strattera’s a crazy driver under stress, and she made one of those extra special U-turns where you go into a spin on purpose and then come out of it at the right time. We sped out in our new direction, but we hadn’t gone very far when we ran across another of them, and this time there really wasn’t anything we could except drive off an embankment or run him down. Strattera hit the brakes. As we skidded to a stop, the parachutist brought up something that looked like a gun, and it might have been the end of this blog post right then and there when who should come screeching up from behind the fellow but the Bounty Hunter, in a black Mercedes.
He didn’t mean to help us; I don’t think he even registered we were there. He was just running, himself, and apparently he didn’t mind driving over someone. Or, more likely, it was just that he had decades of practice, and knew the guy would get out of the way at the last second. Anyway, the black Mercedes came roaring up, the parachutist jumped down the embankment, and we suddenly had a clear stretch of road ahead.
For the moment, anyway. (Continued in my next post) — Flyss