“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.
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
“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
“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.”
There was no time for subtlety. I slid open the van door and hopped out. I could hear the sirens now, too. They would be passing by any second. The driver of the Audi was just sitting down as I caught the closing door with my body. He looked up in surprise and started to say something. I grabbed the keys from his hand, slugged him hard in the mouth, and jerked him onto the pavement.
The Audi started right up with a purr. I slammed it into gear and roared out of the parking lot. A dozen cows had given their lives for this interior. “Nice car,” I muttered as I shifted into second. Oncoming traffic had to stomp the brakes to avoid hitting me, then I was out on the road, northbound, the GPS told me in Arabic.
On the other side of the divider a police car zipped by, blue lights flashing, heading south. Right behind it was the ambulance. Zubaran emergency vehicles used that obnoxious European-style siren. I grabbed the radio. “Carl, I’ll take the cop car. Run the ambulance off the road!” I shouted as I cranked the wheel and gunned it over the mound of dirt that served as the divider. German cars have great suspension but I still managed to almost bite my tongue off as I crashed onto the southbound lane. I hastily put my seat belt on. The GPS told me I had just done something very bad.
Drivers in this part of the world didn’t pull off to the side for emergency vehicles. If you’re dying in the Middle East, don’t do it during rush hour. Traffic here was a constant battle of wits and honking horns. The ambulance was weaving between cars ahead of me. A Toyota tore off my passenger-side mirror, and the driver honked. Revving the powerful engine, I was doing sixty by the time I passed the ambulance. The police car, some little Euro sedan, was right ahead of me. The Audi pulled alongside effortlessly.
The cops glanced over in confusion. The look here for security forces was Saddam Hussein-style mustaches and big mirrored shades. I drifted right into them, slamming into their side, shoving them hard to the right. The cops started yelling, and the passenger was going for his gun. I drifted left a bit, then swerved back with more energy, smashing the hell out of their little car.
The driver overcorrected, turning too far to the side, and the car spun out of control in a haze of rubber smoke before crashing violently into the rear end of a parked SUV. I applied the brakes and came to a smooth stop.
The cop car was at an angle, sideways, half on top of the other vehicle. Those guys wouldn’t be causing me any trouble for a bit. I could see the flashing lights of the ambulance as it slowed to a crawl behind me. Stepping on the clutch, I shifted into reverse. “Carl, where are you?”
“Hit the brakes,” I said as I stomped on the gas. Even in reverse this car was pretty damn quick. I braced myself as the Audi’s trunk collided with the front of the still-moving ambulance. My world came to a violent lurching halt. The rear window shattered and glass ricocheted around the cab as the air bag knocked the shit out of me.
It took me a blurry second to get the seat belt unbuckled and to collapse out the door into the street. Got to hand it to those Germans, they crash test their stuff really well. I staggered to my feet and pulled my gun. It wasn’t necessary though. The ambulance crew were groggily moving, knocked silly by the impact. The siren was still wailing.
Carl was at the back of the ambulance, dragging Al Falah’s corpse out. The cars around us had stopped, and there had to be at least a dozen eyes on us. I limped around the back to help. “Hurry up,” Carl grunted as he pulled
