Music blared from the car's speakers, and the bass thrummed, causing the whole vehicle to vibrate. A wild look of passion and elation was fixed upon Wilma's face as she hit the accelerator.
"Hold onto your shit!" yelled John as he struggled to buckle his unfastened seatbelt.
Jillian had hopped in the back seat with John and seemed to be far more relaxed than anyone else in the car. My back was pressed against the car seat from the speed of the vehicle and an intense pulsation hammered throughout my body. Wilma weaved in and out of traffic as the black car behind us accelerated to match our pace. Horns honked at us and angry drivers yelled out their windows. Their irritated voices were lost on the wind as Wilma's speedometer reached 90. The black car followed closely behind us, and with a burst of speed, hit our bumper with the front end of the car. The jarring force caused us passengers to jerk forward in our seats. Wilma straightened the wheel, never losing control of the vehicle. Her dark blue eyes were alight with excitement and her breath caught as the black car hit us again.
"How are we supposed to lose a car on the highway?" yelled John.
"Shut up and stop thinking!" retorted Wilma.
Opening the center console, she pulled out a Smith and Wesson revolver. John and I looked at each other with wide eyed surprise as Wilma rolled down her window. From the left-hand-lane, the black car sped up to once again hit our bumper. Before our pursuer had the chance to cause impact, Wilma swiftly steered her car to the right-hand-lane, released the accelerator, and lightly tapped the break. The black car sped ahead of us as we followed behind.
"Car bot," yelled Wilma, "take back the wheel!"
Grabbing the gun, Wilma lifted her body out the window and sat on the cill. Aiming with both hands, Wilma fired two shots at the black car's back tires. She laughed as both our pursuer's back wheels blew out. Sliding back into the car, she stuck her arm out the window, and made a particularly suggestive hand gesture.
Looking back, I saw the black vehicle had pulled off to the side of the road. The car's passenger had gotten out of the vehicle and was looking at our increasingly distant car with hands on her hips. She wore a black pant suit and sunglasses that hid her expression. Her blond hair was pulled back in a tight bun at the back of her head, but her professional, sleek appearance was nothing compared to Wilma's wild, wind tossed hair, and stormy, ocean eyes. The blond woman matched Wilma's hand gesture as we drove away.
Our speed returned to 65 and Wilma's breathing became less labored. The music had turned off, but the atmosphere in the car was still thick with adrenaline.
"Car bot," said Wilma, "keep our speed at 70. We need to get some distance before taking an exit and resting for the night. Also, change car screen color to yellow."
Looking at the side mirror, I saw the car color had changed from light blue to bright yellow.
"While your at it," she said, "change license plate number."
"Okie-dokie, artichokie," said the car bot's cheerful voice.
"Is that legal?" asked John warily from the back seat.
Wilma turned around in her seat and gave John a dirty look.
"The Arizona Police Department owes me some favors," Wilma said matter of factly. "I request payment in clean plates."
Both John and I looked at Wilma with shocked curiosity.
"What exactly is it that you do again?" asked John disbelievingly.
"She said she worked as an assistant," I said, staring at my friend.
"I'm guessing your not the kind of assistant that brings your boss coffee every morning," said John.
"I used to be a cop," said Wilma. "Turns out, the law isn't for me. Apparently, contract killing can exponentially increase your income."
"You're a hitman?" asked John incredulously.
"Hit-woman," corrected Wilma, "among other things."