Mercedes.
“ Yes, sir.” Broxton opened the door. “I don’t know where I’ll leave it, but I’ll try and leave it safe.”
“ Don’t worry about the car, just keep the prime minister safe, son.”
Broxton hesitated and met the man’s wolf gray eyes. “You know?”
“ I can guess, now go.”
Broxton slipped into the car, started it and spun the wheels.
Chapter Thirteen
“ He just split with the baggage in a black Mercedes and he’s headed out.” Earl was talking into an miniature handheld VHF radio. He was broadcasting on 01, a channel seldom used by boaters in Venezuela, and the radio was fitted with a scrambler. No one was going to eavesdrop on his conversation.
“ This is Undertaker, I have the Mercedes. I’ll take it from here.” Earl didn’t know who his backup was and he didn’t care. He’d done his part. It wasn’t his fault if the woman couldn’t get it right.
“ This is Lawman. Am I out of it now?” Earl said into the radio.
“ You are not. Get your car and follow. Undertaker will give you directions. Black Widow out.”
“ Copy,” Earl said. He respected the authority in her voice and he sprinted toward the parking lot and the small Ford Escort. Usually he liked bigger, faster cars, but the Escort was in the lot with its windows down. Easy to get in. Easy to get the hood up. Easy to hotwire. Better than a rental.
“ He’s turned left out of the parking lot. I’m right behind him,” his backup said over the radio.
“ Undertaker, drop back, give him some room, and remember, nothing happens to Broxton.” She called herself Black Widow and just by hearing her voice, Earl knew she was capable of eating her mate, her young, too.
“ I see them, up ahead, they’re turning again. Left, toward the marina,” Undertaker’s voice came over the radio. Earl wondered if the British accent was real.
“ Copy,” he said into his radio.
“ Copy,” Black Widow said. He wondered where she was. Probably still back in the hotel. What a looker, he thought. What a straight on good looking piece of deadly work.
“ I think he’s spotted me,” Undertaker said.
Broxton saw the headlights behind and stepped on the gas. He couldn’t be sure the car in back was part of the assassination attempt, but he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t either. Trust no one, suspect everyone, get away. He was racing along the beach and the full moon lit up the phosphorus in the breaking waves. The car behind accelerated too, and then Broxton was sure.
The Mercedes gobbled up the road, blurring the broken center line. Broxton checked the rearview mirror. The headlights behind were fading. They were moving away from their pursuers.
“ The road ends,” Ramsingh said. Broxton snapped his eyes back to the road, and slapped his foot onto the brakes.
“ Shit,” he said, as the car slid out of control, leaving the road and heading toward the water. Frantically he spun the wheel away from the beach sand and back toward the center of the pavement. Instinctively he knew it was the wrong thing to do. He should be turning into the slide. But that was book learning, this was real and he’d just fucked up.
The right wheels left the ground and Broxton yelled out, “We’re going over!”
Then he stiffened his hands on the wheel, bracing himself as the big car continued its two wheeled spin onto the sand. Ramsingh’s side of the car was up in the air and the prime minister wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. He struggled to stay in place but the force and surprise of the slide sent him sliding down into Broxton as the two right wheels slammed back onto the ground, cushioned by the beach sand.
They’d spun around a hundred and eighty degrees and were off the road, facing the headlights racing toward them out of the night. The engine was still running and Ramsingh scooted back over toward his side of the car. “We should go,” he said. “Now,” he added.
“ Yeah,” Broxton said, adding gas. Then he was back on the road, charging toward an enemy car again. After so long, now twice in the same week.
“ What are you doing?” Ramsingh said, voice cool, like he was sitting in a bar ordering a gin and tonic.
“ Playing chicken,” Broxton said. “The last time I did this was a couple of days ago, with one of your police officers.” The back tires kicked off the last of the sand.
“ Who won?” Ramsingh said.
“ He did,” Broxton said, eyes glued onto the rushing headlights. Now, for him, there was no beach, no crashing waves, no lonely road, no prime minister. There was only the headlights, twin beams of death, racing toward him faster than his heart was racing out of control. Twice in the last week he’d taken a car into a spin and twice he’d panicked and done the wrong thing. Last time he told himself it was because he was driving on the left, this time he didn’t have that excuse, he just blew it.
And again he was back on Cherry Avenue, back in high school, playing chicken, only this time it wasn’t with a macho third world cop who would rather die than blink. This time he was playing with an assassin, and this time Broxton wasn’t going to blink.
He braced himself for the collision, but the on rushing car turned. Broxton grabbed a quick glance as they flew past. The driver jerked the wheel too fast and too far to the left. Broxton slammed on the brakes as the other car, a Jeep, left the road on its side. He heard the thunderous scraping of metal against concrete and then the car slammed onto its top, then over onto the other side, bouncing and sliding through the sand.
Broxton saw the headlights up ahead, “Another one,” he said as the Jeep hammered into the sea. It went into the water on the driver’s side, and Broxton shuddered for a flash of a second, thinking of the water rushing in around the man. Then he whipped the Mercedes around and accelerated away.
“ Remember the road ends,” Ramsingh said.
“ Yeah.” Broxton shifted into low, then he was going through a screaming right turn, following a sign with a long pointing arrow and the single word, ‘Marina.’ He didn’t know if the marina offered any help, or shelter, but he damn sure wasn’t going to charge another car. Not now, not ever again. He was going to quit that game while he was ahead. He was on a wide four lane road and the Mercedes was a thoroughbred. If the other car was another jeep he would have no trouble outdistancing it.
The engine was racing and Broxton grabbed the stick to shift out of low. “Shit,” he said.
“ What?”
“ Stuck.” The thoroughbred was stuck in low, it was rushing out of the starting gate, but it wasn’t going to canter or run. No way was he going to out distance anything.
“ Maybe it’s just someone out for a late night drive,” Ramsingh said.
“ They didn’t stop for the car that went off the highway,” Broxton said, pulling the wheel to the right and following another arrow, another marina sign, this one pointing left, and all of a sudden the heavy Mercedes was humping and bumping on a dirt road.
“ Slow down,” Ramsingh said, but Broxton already had his foot off the accelerator and he was gently tapping the brakes when the Mercedes coughed and died.
“ Shit, shit, shit,” he said as he tried the key.
Nothing.
“ We’re out of here,” Broxton said, opening his door.
Earl spun out of the parking lot and stepped on the gas, going through the gears like a pro.
“ Take the first left,” Undertaker’s voice cracked over the radio. He slammed on the brakes, skidding around the turn. He’d almost missed it. Then he was racing along a dark road, the pounding surf to his left, bare fields on the right. Up ahead he saw the two sets of headlights charging toward each other, like two bulls, fighting over the
