“What the fuck kind of name is that?” Kyle said, still hunting for the right page.

“Native American,” Bruce said. “They were here before anyone else.”

“Yeah, well, whoop-de-doo.”

Bruce kept his head forward, but out of the corner of his eye he saw that Katie was ready. She had the top of the can just below the seat’s edge.

Katie said, “Mr. Whoever-You-Are, I’ve got a question.”

“Hmm?” he said, eyes aimed down into the map book.

“Look at me,” Katie said.

Kyle’s head snapped up quickly, looking annoyed. Katie swiftly brought up the can, extended her arm to within six inches of the man’s face, depressed the nozzle with her index finger, and held it there. A lemony-scented mist of window cleaner burst forth and engulfed Kyle’s head.

He closed his eyes within a fraction of a second of the spray’s release, but not fast enough to keep it out of his eyes. Nor did he act with enough speed to keep it out of his mouth and nose.

His hands went immediately to his eyes, covering them, and he attempted to scream, “Fuck!” but all that came out was the sound of the first letter, then coughing. He collapsed against his seat back, eyes covered, gasping for breath.

Bruce hit the brakes. Katie was ready, throwing up a steadying hand to the dashboard. But Kyle, blinded, was unable to anticipate the move, and was suddenly pitched forward, falling into the space behind the front seats.

Bruce knew they didn’t have much time. They had to get Kyle’s gun before he regained his sight—assuming the chemicals in the window cleaner had not blinded him for life. The second Bruce had the car stopped and in park, he threw open his door, folded the front seat forward, and went to grab the man.

Kyle had taken his hands from his eyes—he needed his hands to support himself on the floor as he struggled to get back onto the seat. He sensed Bruce was coming for him, and was now reaching into his jacket with his right hand.

That was when Katie, hanging over the front seat, her legs dangling up by the dash, drove a fist into the side of Kyle’s head, the punch hard enough that they both cried out in pain.

As Kyle keeled over, Bruce grabbed him by the lapels and dragged him from the Cadillac. Katie could see, by the look on his face, the effort it took. Bruce, retired English teacher, now in his seventies, was unaccustomed to roughing people up like a pumped-up twenty-something bouncer.

Bruce threw Kyle onto the road, across the center line, and then hauled back and kicked him solidly in the stomach. Kyle screamed in pain. He managed to get enough wind back to shout, “Fuck you! Fuck you!”