I knew where I was — just off the national highway, five or six kilometers from the entrance to the naval base. Standard operating procedure would be to stop Holtzer’s sedan before it could enter the grounds. Holtzer had left less than five minutes earlier. Given the traffic and the number of lights between here and the base, there might still be time.
I knew the odds were massively against me, but I had one important advantage: I didn’t give a shit whether I lived or died. I just wanted to watch Holtzer go first.
I wheeled left onto National Highway 16, flashing the high beams and working the horn to warn cars out of my way. I hit three red lights but forced my way through all of them, cars screeching to a halt on either side of me. Across from the local NTT building I saw that a red light ahead had created an opening in the oncoming traffic lane and I shot into it. I accelerated madly into oncoming traffic, leaning on the horn, then swung back into the correct lane just as the light changed so I could charge ahead of the cars that had been in front of me. I managed to buckle the seat belt as I drove, and noted with grim satisfaction that the car was equipped with an air bag. I had originally planned on tossing the flashbang into Holtzer’s car as a means of gaining entry. As I had told Midori, I was going to have to improvise.
I was ten meters from the main gate when I saw the sedan turning right onto the access road to the base. A Marine guard in camouflage uniform was approaching, holding up his hands, and the driver-side window was coming down. There were a lot of guards, I saw, and they were doing the checks several meters ahead of the guard gate — the results of the anonymous bomb tip.
There were too many cars in front of me. I wasn’t going to make it.
The sedan’s driver-side window was down.
I leaned on the horn, but no one moved.
The guard looked up to see where the commotion was coming from.
I hit a button and my window began to lower automatically.
The guard was still looking around.
I pulled out onto the sidewalk, knocking down trash cans and mauling parked bicycles. A pedestrian dove out of the way. A few meters from the base access road I hauled the steering wheel to the right and accelerated diagonally across the meridian, driving over plantings and aiming for Holtzer’s vehicle. The guard turned, saw me bearing down at high speed, and leaped clear just in time to save himself. I rammed the sedan full force into the driver-side rear door, spinning the car away from the impact and forming a two-car wreck shaped like the letter V. I was braced for the impact, and the seat belt and air bag, which deployed and deflated in a nanosecond as advertised, got me through.
I released the seat belt and tried the door, but it was jammed shut. I swiveled onto my back and shot my feet through the open window, grabbing the handle at the top of the door and using it to propel myself through.
It was only two steps to the sedan. I grabbed the steering wheel through the open window and hauled myself inside, my knees slamming into the door frame on the way in. I launched myself across the driver’s lap, scrambled to get my feet under me, then dove into the back. Holtzer was in the left seat, leaning forward, obviously disoriented from the impact. A young guy I took to be one of Holtzer’s aides sat next to him, a metal Halliburton attache case between them.
I grabbed Holtzer around the head with my left arm, pressing the barrel of the Beretta against his temple with my right. I saw one of the Marine guards outside the driver’s window, his gun drawn, looking for an opening. I pulled Holtzer’s head closer.
“Get back, or I’ll blow his fucking head off!” I bellowed at him.
His expression was uncertain, but he kept the gun up. “Everyone out of the car!” I shouted. “Now!”
I reached all the way around Holtzer’s neck with my hand and took hold of my own lapel. We were cheek to cheek, and the Marine with the gun would have to have a hell of a lot of confidence in his marksmanship to try to get a shot off now.
“Out of the car!” I shouted again. “Now! You!” I yelled at the driver. “Roll up that fucking window! Roll it up!”
The driver pressed a switch and his window went up. I yelled at him again to get out and then to close the door. He stumbled out, slamming the door as he exited. “You!” I yelled at the aide. “Get out! Close the door behind you!”
Holtzer started to protest, but I squeezed his neck tighter, choking off the words. The aide glanced once at Holtzer, then tried the door.
“It’s jammed,” he said, obviously stunned and unable to take it all in.
“Climb across to the front!” I shouted. “Now!”
He scrambled forward and got out, taking the attache case with him.
“All right, asshole, us too,” I said to Holtzer, letting go of his neck. “But first give me that disk.”
“Okay, okay. Take it easy,” he said. “It’s in my left breast pocket.”
“Take it out. Slowly.”
He reached over with his right hand and carefully took out the disk.
“Set it on my knee,” I said, and he did so. “Now lace your fingers together, turn toward the window, and put your hands behind your head.” I didn’t want him to try to make a play for the gun while I was picking up the disk.
I picked it up and slipped it into one of my jacket pockets. “Now we’re going to get out. But slowly. Or your head is going to be all over the upholstery.”
He turned to me, his eyes hard. “Rain, you don’t understand what you’re doing. Put the gun down before the guards outside blow you away.”
“If you’re not on your way out of this vehicle in the next three seconds,” I snarled, leveling the Beretta, “I will
