Less than two minutes to get to the opposite side.
He pulled the barrel back a few feet and set it in motion toward the open mouth and took off down the length of the building.
Three hoods were arguing loudly among themselves, the fourth trying Diego’s phone for the umpteenth time as he walked circles around Chloe and Tony. Tony had fallen to the ground sideways, a deep gash on his forehead, his teeth broken, his eyes half closed. Chloe, her lips cut, stared at the circling hood steadily through her swollen eyes.
Phone guy stopped suddenly, looked at his phone, jammed it in his pocket, and gestured urgently for the others to keep quiet. They heard it then, a soft metallic, grinding sound outside. He mouthed at the driver, ‘Anyone follow us?’
Driver shook his head. Phone guy motioned at him to go look outside. Driver hesitated and then took a couple of steps to the sound, now growing louder. Phone guy beckoned at another hood to follow him.
AKs gripped in their hands at the ready, they edged to the entrance, the second hood covering the first from behind. Phone guy and the last hitter took cover on either side of the entrance, their captives in plain sight through the opening.
Driver took a quick look to the right, his rifle following his sight. Nothing. He whipped to the left. Nothing. His eyes slipped lower and spotted the rolling barrel, which was a few turns from coming to a stop just at the edge of the entrance.
Driver shouted a warning and darted backward in the shadow of the factory, keeping the barrel in sight. He fired at the barrel, and bullets pinged and whistled in the air, some of them making holes in the empty barrel. It shuddered and came to a stop, jerking sporadically as bullets hit it.
The second hitter scanned the other end, saw nothing, and whispered at Driver to inspect the barrel and recce the front of the factory.
Driver stepped forward cautiously, edging wide to have an early look inside the barrel. It was empty. He whipped his rifle up and called out softly to the men inside, briefing them.
The second hitter stepped away from the building and edged to the back, taking short steps.
His rifle poked its snout around the edge of the building, then one eye appeared, followed by his forehead; the rest of his head showed itself as he detected no threat.
The Watcher lay prone, hugging concrete and cold steel, another dark stain in the darkness carpeting the shadow of the site.
His hands were stretched in a pistol shooting stance, arm and fingers melding into pistol, eye becoming front sight, front sight becoming forehead, finger depressing in response to a brain command.
The hitter’s head exploded. The Watcher didn’t wait to watch.
His left leg and arm sprang down, powering him up, right leg taking a long step, left leg another, right leg taking him to flight, left leg bracing against the cold metal of the side, launching him.
The Watcher flew out of the side of the structure, legs spread wide, body bent forward, his gun arm straight and steady, searching and finding Driver, who was looking eye height and down for threats. The Watcher’s first bullet went wide, the second hit Driver in the left shoulder, the third tapping him in the back, and the fourth caught his head.
The Watcher landed, took three steps to slow and turn and ran back down the side of the building. Stopping in its shadow, he pulled another gadget from his backpack, an audio playback device with a timer setting, scrolled down its list of recordings and selected one. Setting the timer, he hid it under a metal overhang at the foot of the building and ran.
The hoods inside saw the men outside being blown away, and one of them stuck his rifle out and started firing blindly in the direction of the attacker. The other, older and more experienced, shouted at him repeatedly till the shooter stopped, and signaled at him to stay quiet. They needed to know how large the attacking force was without revealing their positions.
Twenty seconds of deep silence followed, broken by the creaking of metal, and then the first shot rang out, loud and echoing in the empty factory, making them duck for cover. A barrage of shots followed, pinging off the metal frame, making them step deeper in the cover of the side walls. The older guy ducked low, took two steps back, frowned hard, and he whirled round suddenly as realization hit him.
His forehead blossomed and disappeared before he could shout a warning.
The Watcher stood inside the shadow of the entrance, trained his gun on the second man, and then lowered it.
The woman had taken advantage of the distraction to run behind the second hitter, kicking him in the groin from the rear, another kick smashing his face against the metal wall. He fell heavily and stayed still as she kicked him in the head again for good measure.
The Watcher’s lips twitched, his muscles unused to smiling, as he tossed a knife on the concrete and disappeared.
Chloe turned around, saw the entrance was empty, checked outside, ran back to the side entrance, past the corner, peered low, and saw the device. She’d realized the shots were phony, yet in the heat of battle, they’d sounded realistic along with the metal pings and impacts.
She went back inside to the knife and, lying down awkwardly, picked it up with her fingers, fumbled with it, and headed to Tony.
Half an hour later she was leading Tony out, away from the site to where the hum of vehicles could be heard.
Vehicles meant people. She kicked up the pace.
Harry’s Diner, its faded sign swaying limply in the sky, was in a gas station and, despite the shabby exterior, was richly warm inside, the smell and sound of food, coffee, and people comforting.
She marched to the counter, where a bearded and heavily tattooed mountain stood chewing on a plug.
‘Phone,’ she demanded.
The mountain ran his eyes over her and jerked his head at a far wall where a pay phone hung.
Chloe picked up loose change, tips from tables, on her way, lasered the waitress’s indignant, ‘Hey,’ with cold eyes, and dialed.
‘They must have followed Chloe and somehow got the drop on her and Tony.’ Bear broke the silence at last.
They were hurtling down the highway toward Gloucester City, following a weak signal emitted by a transmitter sewn in Chloe’s jacket. They all had such transmitters, put there for just such circumstances.
Broker nodded, didn’t comment, his foot down hard, cold rage and fear turbocharging the vehicle.
Bear glanced at Bwana, who had just smashed a massive fist against the window.
‘They need her alive, Tony and her,’ he said mildly. ‘Till they know what’s happened to Diego and Cruz, they need leverage to negotiate… and they don’t know since we have their phones and have ignored their calls.’
Bwana looked at him and away, the truth in Bear’s words not reducing the urge in him to strike hard, reducing the hoods to fine dust.
Roger gripped his shoulder, knowing exactly how he felt.
Silence fell over them again, their thoughts drowning the rush of rubber on asphalt and sounds of occasional passing traffic.
A silence that was broken by Broker’s phone ringing shrilly. He looked at it, not recognizing it, and took it on his headset.
‘Yes,’ he grunted, then sat straighter, letting the vehicle slow.
‘Where?’ he asked and thumbed directions on his GPS system. ‘Hold tight. We’ll be there in half an hour.’
He hung up and turned on the gas again, ignoring the inquisitive looks the others gave him till Bwana punched him in the shoulder, a light punch by Bwana’s standards, that nearly threw him into the windshield.
He grinned broadly. ‘That was Chloe. She’s out and safe.’