Dead Six

fail.

I closed my hand into a fist as the trembling continued. I was going to figure out who screwed us, and I was going to make them pay.

Chapter 5:

Grand Theft Auto

VALENTINE

“Nightcrawler, Xbox, this is Control, report! Give us a status update!” Anita sounded anxious over the radio.

“We’re fucking busy right now!” Tailor snapped. We quickly moved down the two flights of stairs and out the back door of the building. We stopped at the fence. Tailor went through the hole we’d cut first, his carbine pointing to our left, up the alley. I followed, pointing the heavy SR-25 to our right. I was startled when four muffled shots rang out; one of the bodyguards had come around the corner, and Tailor had cut him down. The man crumpled to the ground, his MP5K clattering on the pavement.

Moving quickly, I opened the door of our truck, an extended-cab Toyota pickup, and tossed my gear onto the backseat. I then climbed into the driver’s seat. Tailor jumped into the passenger’s seat. I put the pickup into gear and stepped on the gas.

“Look out!” Tailor yelled. The bodyguards’ Range Rover had pulled into the alley ahead, blocking our exit. They got out and started shooting. Worse, the alley wasn’t wide enough to turn around in. Swearing aloud, I threw it into reverse and stomped on the gas.

We backed down the alley entirely too fast. Tailor fired through the windshield, his suppressed rifle hissing and snapping loudly in the passenger cabin. The enemy took cover behind their truck and returned fire. Several stray rounds peppered the front of our vehicle.

Scrunching down, hoping the engine block would provide me with protection, I tried to navigate the Toyota down the alley in reverse by using my side mirror. Rounds came whizzing through the windshield. I hit the walls five or six times, smashing through garbage cans and terrifying stray cats. Seconds later, Al Falah’s bodyguards piled back into their truck and started down the alley after us.

We exploded onto the main road, still in reverse, and were nearly broadsided by a minibus. I cut the wheel to the right and stomped on the brakes. Cars swerved around us, horns screaming as they went. I put the pickup back into drive and hit the gas. We got moving just as Al Falah’s men made it onto the street.

I sped along, having turned the wrong way to use our preplanned egress route. They were in close pursuit. At that time of the night, the roundabouts in Zubara were clogged with traffic. I didn’t want to get in a gunfight in the middle of a traffic jam, too many bystanders, too many witnesses. I hung a quick right, turning down a narrow side street. Such streets in the city had one lane going each way, with a small roundabout at each intersection. In the middle was a raised concrete divider, almost like a sidewalk, making left turns difficult.

The street was mercifully free of traffic, but within seconds, Al Falah’s men began firing at us again. Rounds entered through the back window and hit the tops of our seats. Tailor and I were hunkered down about as far as we could go.

“Will you please shoot back?” I screamed. He turned around, twisting to his left, and returned fire through what was left of the back window. Hot brass peppered me in the side of the head. I flinched and almost went off the road. “Be careful!”

As Tailor swore at me, we came to the first roundabout. My heart fell into my stomach as I realized a large truck full of sheep had broken down in the middle of it, blocking the road. Several cars were stopped around it. There was no way past. At the last instant, I cut the wheel to the right. The Toyota bucked as we jumped onto the sidewalk. I had to swerve again to avoid hitting a planted palm tree. It was hard to see clearly; the windshield was full of bullet holes and was covered in a spider’s web of cracks.

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?”