“Two guards with him in the truck,” said Daniel.
“Roger that,” replied Justin.
He flattened the gas pedal and the truck growled to life. It jerked forward and Justin turned the wheel to avoid a huge pothole that could break the truck’s springs. He ran over the leg of a gunman — or perhaps it was just a bump on the ground. He slowed down to go around the corner, slid on the ice for a couple of feet, then took the turn.
“Justin, rolling as backup,” Timofey’s voice boomed in his earpiece.
“What’s your position?” Justin asked.
He looked left and right for Timofey’s position.
“You’re coming up to me, at four o’clock,” Timofey replied.
Justin turned his head to his right just as Timofey jumped from the second-story window of a gray-colored house. He was carrying a Kord machine gun in his hands. Timofey was a big, burly man and his body size and the powerful weapon gave him an ominous look. Justin was glad he was not fighting against this giant.
Timofey pulled the door open as Justin stopped for just a moment. He filled the entire front passenger seat and rammed the barrel of his weapon through the windshield, brushing aside the broken shards of glass with his big paw of a hand.
Justin stepped on the gas as Timofey set up the bipod of the machine gun high on the dashboard and straightened the ammunition belt.
“Which way?” Justin asked him.
“Left, they went left,” Timofey said.
“Affirmative,” Daniel’s voice came on the radio. “That’s the road out of town.”
“Faster,” Timofey shouted.
“We’ll get them,” Justin replied in a quiet, calm tone.
The Mitsubishi fishtailed around a corner as Justin twisted the steering wheel. Timofey was caught by surprise and was thrown against the door. His head banged against the window’s glass.
Timofey smiled. “Good job,” he said.
“Yeah, and a close call.”
The Mitsubishi picked up speed, leaping over the bumps on the broken road. Justin gripped the steering wheel with both hands, struggling to control the rocketing vehicle. The road began to swerve around a rocky hill and Justin stepped lightly on the brakes. The truck kept to the road, the tires gaining traction because of fresh, powdery snow that had not yet turned to ice.
“Where is that devil?” Timofey asked.
Justin shrugged. “We should see them soon.”
The road straightened and began to drop down into a low valley. Up ahead, maybe half a mile or so away, faint brake lights appeared in the midst of the thin haze. The runaway silver truck was nearing the edge of town.
“It’s them,” Justin said.
“Yeah,” Timofey said with a grunt. “Faster!”
Justin glanced at the speedometer needle moving quickly to the right. They were already doing fifty miles per hour.
“We have to get closer,” Timofey shouted.
Justin considered telling him to turn down his voice a notch, but thought better of irritating the big man. He flattened the pedal and the truck raced down the hill.
Bullets struck a dozen or so yards away from the hood of the Mitsubishi truck. The shooter or shooters were using tracers, to see where their rounds were landing and then adjust their aim. Two phosphorus rounds lifted sparks off some rocks three or four yards to the right of the truck.
Justin flicked off the car’s headlights for a moment. Everything around them turned pitch black, as the thick clouds had shut out the moon. He could struggle and drive blind, but not at this speed and trying to catch up to the gunmen.
He turned the lights back on. Timofey leaned back in his seat and pulled the trigger. The harsh rattle of the machine gun filled the car, louder than the engine roar. Empty cartridges bounced around their seats.
Timofey’s rounds included tracers every five or six shots. His aim was improving and bullets were now striking just a few feet behind the target. The distance between the two trucks was also shrinking, but that helped not only Timofey but the gunmen.
A bullet shattered their right headlight, sending sparks and slivers into their faces. Justin felt the sting of the sharp plastic fragments on his lips, but thankfully they missed his eyes.
Timofey cursed the shooters and their mothers. He readjusted his aim and let out a short burst. “Take that, you pigs,” he hollered as his bullets found the rear end of the insurgents’ truck. “You’ll die now or you’ll die later.”
He let out another long volley that missed his target. He cursed again as the truck disappeared around a sharp turn.
Justin slowed down as they came to the turn, and the truck squealed as he stepped on the brakes. Timofey squeezed off a few rounds just in case the insurgents were waiting to surprise them around the blind corner. They were not, and he stopped to link another ammunition belt to his weapon.
Their target became visible once again as they came to another straight stretch of road. Timofey resumed his shooting. His bullets once again were hitting close to the truck’s tailgate.
The insurgents responded with their own barrage. Their rounds were mostly off target but a couple whizzed dangerously close to the pursuing truck’s tires.
The road curved up ahead as it came to a truss bridge, about fifty yards long, stretching over a small creek. This was the location of Justin’s original plan. Svetlana and he were to break away from the rest of their teams. They would sneak up on Kaziyev and his guards on the other shore. Justin was going to rig the bridge with explosives and blow it up after Kaziyev’s vehicle crossed the river. This tactic was going to cut him off from the rest of his fighters. Because the insurgents had detected Ludomir, that plan was never put into action.
“New plan,” Justin shouted at Timofey over the deafening bursts of his machine gun. “Let’s blow up the bridge.” He gestured with his left hand.
Timofey took a moment to think about Justin’s suggestions. “How?”
“There’s an RPG launcher in the back seats.”
Timofey turned his head, then slid back his seat. He folded the bipod and pulled the machine gun inside the cabin. Justin hit the brakes to make it easier for Timofey to swing his body around and reach the launcher.
“I got it,” Timofey said. “Keep going.”
He pulled a warhead and a propelling charge. He screwed them together with quick, practiced moves, then loaded the assembled grenade into the front end of the launcher.
The silver truck swung around a turn as it neared the bridge.
Justin slowed down as Timofey shouldered the launcher.
He’s going to fire it from inside the truck, Justin thought. The back-blast will burn us to death with hot gases.
“I’m stopping,” Justin said and hit the brakes.
“Ah,” Timofey grunted. “Little warmth never killed anyone.”
He pushed open the door and stood about two yards away from the truck. He aimed the launcher at the bridge and looked through the optical sight. A moment later, he leveled the launcher. He flicked the safety catch and pulled the trigger.
The projectile rocketed out of the tube at about 385 feet per second. It screamed through the cold air, leaving behind a gray trail of smoke. It hit the truss bridge on the side, close to the other bank of the river.
“You got it,” Justin said.
The smoke cleared after a couple of seconds, blown away by a cold wind gust. The RPG had hacked down a couple of vertical and diagonal beams, chords, and ties, but the bridge was still standing. The truck was nearing it, increasing its distance from Justin and Timofey. A few more seconds and it was going to enter the bridge.
Timofey spat out a loud curse, then reached for another warhead.
Justin grabbed the machine gun and fired at the truck. His aim was better since he was in a static position, the machine gun resting firmly on the ground. One of his bullets lifted sparks off the truck’s cabin.