I laid on the horn as terrified pedestrians jumped out of our way. Clear of the traffic jam, I swerved back to the left, ripping off the truck’s passenger-side mirror on another palm tree as we landed back on the street. The pursuing Range Rover was right behind us now. Two men were leaning out of the windows, firing at us with pistols. I snarled in pain as a round clipped my right shoulder, causing me to almost lose control of the truck. The sudden swerving of the vehicle made Tailor drop his spare magazine as he was trying to reload.
To hell with this, I thought. “You buckled?”
“What? Why?” Tailor shouted back. I floored the brake pedal.
The Range Rover smashed into the back of our truck, crumpling the bed and tailgate. Our perforated rear window shattered completely. The big SUV considerably outweighed our little pickup. We fishtailed to the left; the Range Rover went on and crashed into a parked car.
Our ride was trashed, but we were stopped, and we were alive.
Dazed, I unbuckled myself, opened the door, and literally fell to the pavement. I somehow managed to get to my feet and looked over at our pursuers. The driver and the front passenger hadn’t been wearing seat belts. They appeared injured or dead. The airbags had deployed.
I looked around. Cars drove by, slowing down to gawk at the wreck. We didn’t have much time. With my left hand, I swept my jacket to the side and drew my revolver. I brought the gun up, pointing it at the Range Rover, but pain shot through my right shoulder as I attempted a two-handed hold. I remembered then that I was bleeding, and was suddenly aware of the pain. Holy crap did it hurt. I winced, but continued on, holding my .44 Magnum one-handed.
Approaching the SUV carefully, I looked for signs of movement. I stumbled as I walked, and couldn’t hear very well. The driver begin to stir behind his airbag. He tried to open his door, but it crunched up against the smashed tailgate of our pickup.
He didn’t see me. I fired. A fat .44 slug tore through his head, splashing the airbag with blood. I fired again, putting a bullet into the passenger. He looked dead, but I wanted to be sure.
There was a third man in the backseat. He sat up, obviously dazed. There was a cut on his forehead; blood was pouring down his face. He placed his hand on his head as he came to, not noticing me at first, but he froze when he saw the big .44 leveled at him. His eyes went wide. My hand was shaking. I could hear sirens in the distance. We had to go. We weren’t supposed to leave witnesses. I pulled the trigger again. The terrorist disappeared behind the door in a small puff of blood.
My ears were ringing. My heart was pounding. I was injured. The Calm had worn off, and I was half in shock. I took a deep breath, reloaded, then holstered my revolver. I moved to the passenger’s side door of our pickup. Tailor was starting to come around, but he was in a daze.
“C’mon, bro, we gotta split,” I said. “Cops are coming.”
“Yeah . . . yeah . . . okay . . . You get ’em?”
“I think so. C’mon, let’s go!” I grabbed the SR-25 and its carrying case from the backseat. My shoulder screamed in protest as I hefted the rifle, but I didn’t have time to worry about it. Tailor stumbled and nearly fell down but was able to retrieve his backpack, his carbine, and the spare magazine he’d dropped onto the floor of the truck. We then hurried away from the scene of the crash, heading up the street a short way before turning into a narrow alley.
Rounding the corner, we were immediately illuminated by headlights. Oh, hell. The vehicle, a small French Renault, came to a stop just under a streetlight. I could see the driver. He appeared to be a Westerner.
Not sure what to do, I leveled the SR-25 at the Renault. “Get out of the car!” The man hesitated, then raised his hands, seemingly in shock. I squeezed the trigger. The suppressed rifle cracked thinly in the night air, and the Renault’s left-side mirror exploded as a 175-grain match bullet tore through it. “Now!” I ordered. The driver stepped out of the vehicle. I lowered my rifle and moved toward him. “I’m sorry,” I said without looking at him. “We need your car.”
“Bloody hell! Just take it! Don’t shoot!” He was British.
Tailor stepped up to him. “Drop your cell phone,” he said levelly, even though he still looked a little wobbly.
“Are you mad? You’re taking my car, do you have to take my bloody mobile, too?”
I’m not going to repeat the swath of obscenities that Tailor let out at that point, but an instant later the unlucky British man dropped his phone onto the ground. Tailor stomped on it, smashing it.
“Get out of here!” he yelled. The terrified man ran off down the street.
“You drive,” I said.
“Why?”
“I’m bleeding, that’s why!” I said as I tossed my weapon into the little French car’s backseat.
“Fine,” he said. We got in, Tailor put the car in gear, did a three-point turn in a narrow driveway, and we took off down the alley, away from the crash scene, just as the police arrived.
LORENZO
We drove south toward our apartment. After a few minutes I was positive that nobody was after us. Our vehicle was as bland and common as could be had in this city, even though Carl had worked it over so that we had some speed on tap if necessary.
Carl’s Portuguese accent was a lot more pronounced when he was enraged. “Everybody knows Falah’s dead. We’re screwed!” he bellowed as he slammed his fist into the steering wheel. His eyes flickered back to the mirror as the sound of a siren went behind us, but it was heading for the scene of the crime and not our way. He continued, slightly calmer. “What now?”
“Pull over.” My mind was racing. The mission depended on making Al Falah disappear. “Nobody has to know he’s dead.”
“And how’re we supposed to do that, genius?” Carl pulled us into the lot of the Happy Chicken on Bakhun Street and parked the van behind a brand new Audi A8.
I got on the radio. “Reaper. Come in.”
“Gotcha, boss.”
“You’ve got the police band. Figure out where they’re taking Falah.”
Carl’s eyes studied me in the rear-view mirror. “You’ve got to be shittin’ me . . . No. You’re not,” he sighed. “We’re gonna die.”
“Eventually.”
Reaper was back in a matter of seconds. “Security forces are freaking out. How many people did you guys kill down there?” I looked at Carl and held up two fingers. He gave me one back, but he used his middle finger. “Never mind. Ambulance is en route to the hospital in Ash Shamal under police escort.”
I glanced back the way we had come. The hospital was just off Bakhun, which was the major four-lane through this peninsula. The ambulance would have to pass us. We could still intercept them. “Reaper, I want you to flood their emergency system with calls. Give them a bunch of shooters randomly killing people at the north end of Ash Shamal,” I ordered. Carl looked at me in confusion. “Let’s see what we can do about that police escort.” Zubara was a relatively quiet city by this part of the world’s standards. If they just had a bunch of people get popped in the district, they would be quick to jump at another call.
“Too late.” Carl glanced back. “I hear sirens. Here comes the ambulance.”
Through the window, I saw a pudgy, well-dressed Zubaran approaching the Audi with a sack of fast food in hand. He raised his key fob, and the car’s alarm beeped. “I’ve got an idea.”