Two minutes later, pouring with sweat, Dillon was crouched on the edge of a rocky headland that afforded him an uninterrupted view of the hotel, burning villa and the ocean.
After three hours of laying prone on the rocky surface, he stood up and at a jog made his way back to the 4x4 jeep. He stood in the shadows at the edge of the small staff car park, watching and waiting.
After five minutes, he jumped in, gunned the engine and floored the accelerator. The powerful V8 roared and, as the tyres bit into the loose gravel, he wheel spun out of the car park and onto the main road.
The blacked-out SUV’s were prowling, waiting, and searching. Their engines howled as they raced down the highway after Dillon’s vehicle as it appeared; wolves hunting down a running lamb.
Both vehicles screamed around a large loop of tarmac, tyres smoking and suspension dipping as they veered round corners and ended back on the main road. They slipped past the oncoming police cars and Dillon, bent forward over the steering wheel, sweat dripping in his eyes, cursed his pursuers.
Dillon pulled free his Glock and looking at the weapon, said. “You’ve saved me before, my lovely.”
He fired through the 4x4’s rear window. Glass exploded in a shower and the two blacked-out SUV’s veered, one mounting the pavement and sending a couple of pedestrians sprinting for cover, wheels churning over and through anything in their path into the ground.
They regrouped on the road and, then accelerated towards Dillon.
“Where’s the cavalry when you need them?” He thought. Closely followed by; “I should have asked to borrow a much faster car!” He picked up the small two-way radio off the front seat, it squelched as he pushed the talk button, and quickly relayed what was going down to the others.
The lead SUV vehicle smashed into the back of the 4x4 jeep. Dillon was jolted in his seat, and almost lost the Glock. His foot slammed to the floor and suddenly he veered left, down a narrow slip road leading away from the Paradise Island resort.
The blacked-out SUV’s followed in tight formation.
Dillon raced onto the Paradise Island exit bridge, followed closely by the SUVs. He fired another few bullets from the rear of the 4x4 and was immediately gratified when he took out a headlight. But that did nothing to stop the large SUV.
It’s bullet-proofed, he realised. The panels have all been bloody bullet-proofed.
The lead SUV shunted him again.
Dillon fired the remaining rounds, emptying the magazine; there was a wrenching of metal from the engine compartment and the lead SUV veered off to the right and crashed out over the barrier and into Nassau Harbour. Dillon caught a glimpse in his mirror of the black vehicle shooting off the edge of the bridge, and then heard the sound of police sirens heading at speed towards him. The 4x4’s wheels squealed at the extreme abuse that Dillon was giving the old vehicle as he powered off the bridge and onto the highway. Police cars screeched to a halt, officers jumped out, just as Dillon dropped a gear and pressed the accelerator to the floor and a split second later smashed two of the cars, like skittles, out of the way. The back end of the 4x4 slid out wide as he fought to keep control, swerving out around a bus load of tourists at speed and then straightening up. The remaining SUV was still perilously close behind him, and closing the gap.
Dillon pressed his foot to the floor. The engine growled. Help, he thought.
The 4x4 sped through an intersection; there was a cacophonous blare of car horns as cars zipped insanely all around and Dillon closed his eyes for a moment and kept up the power. He no longer checked his rear-view mirror. The view in it only seemed to get worse.
Engines roared close behind him, shots rang out from the passenger side window, as the occupant leaned out and emptied an entire Uzi magazine into the back of the 4x4, the rear windscreen disintegrated as the bullets smashed into the tailgate. Once more he wrenched on the steering, feeling the 4x4 lose traction as worn tyres slid around on the tarmac, and once more he narrowly missed another vehicle — this time a heavy goods lorry. The horn blared at him and Dillon involuntarily flinched, half ducking down in his seat…
Focus, he thought. Must focus.
Meeting. Tatiana and Claudia…
And Vince, of course.
His gaze went up to the rear view-mirror, checking for the signs. He wrenched the steering wheel hard over and slewed into a right turn, then dragged the 4x4 over a grassy embankment and down onto an unmade road that ran parallel with the road he’d just left, and then forced a U-turn. Dillon floored the accelerator, tyres throwing up loose debris and clouds of thick dust as the heavy off-roader gained speed.
Dillon caught a flashing glimpse of the passenger leaning out of the open side window of the blacked-out SUV as it sped by in the opposite direction, a silenced Uzi pointing directly at him. And then the bullets ripping through the body work…
Dillon checked his rear view mirror again as he roared along the unmade road. He had managed, by some twist of fate, by some fluke, to get away from the lone SUV and the police cars. But moments later the SUV was again closing fast from behind.
Gunshots rattled.
He heard the dull thump of metal being punched a number of times. Dillon half tuned and fired the Glock through the open rear window, luckily hitting the driver’s front off-side tyre and bringing the large vehicle to a gradual halt as the rubber shredded itself back to the rim.
Dillon swerved from side to side and floored the 4x4’s accelerator…
He drove for ten minutes, and had re-joined the main road, reducing his speed a little so as not to attract too much unwanted attention. He cruised back to the marina to meet with the others, constantly checking his mirrors for anyone following.
And there, way back in the distance, he could see three more blacked-out SUVs.
“No way,” he said out loud, frowning. “How the fuck?”
He watched the large vehicles accelerating, still distant blobs, their polished chrome grilles like long teeth.
Smiling teeth…
Dillon’s mood darkened. His foot hit the floor again and the 4x4 jeep surged forward, spun left down a slip road leading to the marina. He slammed on the brakes and the 4x4 screeched to a halt beside a brand new white Porsche 911 Carrera GT3.
Dillon leapt out.
“We’ve got trouble.”
“Big trouble?” Tatiana asked.
“Oh yes.”
As they walked along the pontoon to the boat, Dillon slotted a fresh mag into his Glock. “We need a much faster boat, that ginpalace simply won’t cut it up against this lot.”
“What do you suggest?”
“We haven’t got much time. You round up the others and I’ll sort out the transport.” Dillon said, his gaze on the other side of the marina. He moved quickly, sprinting over the pontoons.
Dillon stood on the end of the pontoon, grasping the Glock in both hands, and pointed the gun.
The powerful deep-throated rumble of the in-board Penta engines became quiet, and a sleek thirty-six foot power-racer drifted to a halt alongside the pontoon.
“Hey man, you have got to be kidding!”
Tatiana and the others were now standing behind Dillon. “What are you doing?” hissed Tatiana.
“I’m acquiring faster transport.”
Dillon met the man’s outraged glare: he was young, wore a black bandana, Ray-Bans and no shirt, revealing heavily tattooed arms. When he spoke, he lifted them from the helm in emphasis.
“Get off of that boat.”
“You mother — ”
The Glock moved. There was a thud. A hole appeared in the windshield — and in the leather upholstery beyond. The man stared at the hole in the windshield, then at the seat. Then he leaped up out of the boat onto the pontoon as if he’d been stung by a hornet.