The car in between Pellaggio and us catches a burst of fire and swerves off to the right, crashing up on the sidewalk and into a building.
This guy is insane! He has no regard whatsoever for innocent life… I’ve got to stop him!
We weave back and forth, trying to make ourselves harder to hit, but we’re so close it doesn’t really make any difference.
“Johnson!” I shout. “Try and draw nearer to him on the right hand side!”
Without question, he does. He puts his foot to the floor and nears the rear right hand side of the van. Pellaggio is still firing, but he’s holding an assault rifle in one hand and has his arm extended almost level in front of him. The strain on his muscles is going to be intense, and he doesn’t look that strong. Sooner or later, he’ll either need to hold it with both hands — which he can’t do, as he’d fall over if he lets go with his right — or stop firing altogether.
More bullets spray into the driver’s side of the car, shattering with window next to Johnson.
“Fuck!” he yells, struggling to maintain control of the vehicle.
He’s doing a great job, considering we’re doing nearly sixty right now.
I lean over him and return fire, this time accurately enough to make Pellaggio stop shooting and retreat into the van.
“You alright?” I ask Johnson.
“Yeah, thanks,” he replies.
I look behind me. “Grace, are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” she says, wincing. She’s been showered with glass and has lots of small cuts across her hands and top. “Focus on stopping him.”
I hear her pick up the phone again, giving details of the license plate of the van as well as a SITREP. Hopefully, that means the cavalry will soon be on its way.
I look ahead of us and see that the traffic’s slowing right down as we come up to the tollbooth. It doesn’t seem to deter the van driver, worryingly. It speeds on and smashes into the back of a car, spinning it out of the way and into some others, causing a pile-up that spreads across the opposite lane.
Jesus, I need to take this guy down and fast!
“Just follow him,” I say to Johnson. “He’s making a path for us through the traffic, so hang back and follow him until we get to the bridge. When we’ve got a straight run, I can take him down.”
“Got it,” he replies, as he drops back and tailgates the van as it ploughs recklessly through the queues of vehicles and reaches the toll plaza. The van clips the rear end of a car, spinning it away to the right as we shoot through the booth and hit the Golden Gate Bridge. It skids off to the left, but the driver regains control and they speed on. We’re just a few feet behind them.
“We’ve got a chopper inbound,” announces Chambers as she hangs up the phone. “ETA — five minutes.”
“That might be too long,” I reply, as another car crashes into the side of the bridge. “This guy’s insane, and a really shit driver. I’ve gotta try to stop them now.”
On cue, Johnson pulls away to the side, faking right, then going left, trying to get alongside the van. I lean out of the window again and fire three rounds. The first two hit the wheel arch and the driver’s door. The third blows out the front left tire.
“Fall back!” I yell, as the van slides out of control and does a three-sixty spin in front of us. But Johnson sees it a fraction too late, and the van slams into the front of our car as the driver fights for control.
“Oh, shit!” shouts Johnson.
“Hang on!” I say.
The collision sends us spinning left and into the barrier along the edge of the bridge. The van spins away from us and skids to a halt farther along the road ahead on the right. We manage to keep control of the car, but the front end’s been smashed beyond repair. The hood has crumpled up and pieces have flown off the car and into the road. Chambers grunts in pain from the back as she flies forward into the back of my seat, catapulting me forward against the dashboard and smashing my ribs against it just before the airbag inflates.
The screeching of tires and the sound of crushing metal stops, leaving an eerie silence broken only by the occasional horn of a car and distant sirens.
I sit back, wincing as pain shoots through my ribs with every breath I take. I look over at Johnson, whose head is resting on the wheel. I tap his arm.
“Hey, you with us?” I ask.
He groans and sits up slowly, revealing a nasty, deep gash across his right eyebrow. A thin line of blood is trickling down the side of his face.
“My bad,” he says.
I smile. “Hey, you did good, Johnson. But we gotta get out of here.”
I look over at the van, which has spun around to a stop and is now facing us. The grill and the hood look damaged beyond repair. I can’t see any movement, but I’m not taking any chances.
I hustle myself out of the car and make my way cautiously over to the van, my gun in my right hand, ready to shoot. The broken glass crunches underfoot with each step I take, sounding loud in the silence, and growing louder as Chambers and Johnson exit the car and follow me.
I approach the passenger side door in a wide arc, gun raised and ready. I smell the burnt rubber from the tires, and a faint odor of gasoline. I can see inside the van — the driver is resting against the wheel, as Johnson had been. Except this guy’s not moving.
There’s no sign of Pellaggio… He must’ve gone through and out the back, which means he might have that Carbine locked and loaded.
Shit.
I hold back, edging slowly further out to the left, trying to get the angle to see.
“Erm… Adrian? I think we’ve got company,” says Chambers behind me.
I look over my right shoulder, back at the others, and see them standing, guns drawn, looking down the bridge, back toward the toll booth we’d just come through. I follow their gaze and see two more vans, similar to Pellaggio’s, speeding toward us.
I look back just in time to see Pellaggio walk around from behind his van, Carbine in both hands, aimed right at me.
“Put your fucking gun down, Adrian,” he says with an evil smile.
I quickly look back behind me and see the other two vans pulling up side on to us. Four men get out of each, all carrying similar-looking assault rifles.
Shit…
I turn and look at Pellaggio, sighing heavily.
Double shit…
I relax and let my Beretta hang loose from my index finger by the trigger guard. He walks over and takes it from me with his left hand, before snapping a short left elbow into my face. I stagger backward a few steps, but don’t go down.
He throws it to the ground.
“And the other one,” he says.
I do the same with the one still at my back. He tosses it aside.
“Now, tell your FBI friends to drop their guns too,” he says.
My jaw muscles clench as a fresh wave anger hits me. Every cell in my body is urging me to rip this bastard’s throat out… but right now, I know he’s simply got us beat.
“Guys, do as he says,” I shout over. “We’ve got no move here.”
“Now get over there with them,” he orders.
I turn and walk over, standing in between them with Chambers to my left and Johnson to my right, facing the eight guys who have just arrived.
Pellaggio walks in front of us, eyeballing each one of us in turn.
“Who was driving?” he asks.
I say nothing, hoping the other two will do the same. Straight away, I know where this is going… I look around quickly for inspiration — any sliver of hope that will allow me to stop this from unfolding exactly how I know it will… but I’ve got nothing.