Alex saw an entire wall ripping itself apart, the wooden planks shredded. A man who had been standing near the door was blown off his feet by the first volley. Alex had seen him just two minutes before, sweeping out the yard.
But the Kopassus were taking casualties too. At least three guns were being fired at them. As Alex turned, searching for cover, the soldier whose gun had been pressed against Ash’s neck fell back, a mushroom of blood erupting out of his shoulder. Immediately a second man stepped into his place, firing in the direction from which the bullets had come, the nozzle of his machine gun flashing white behind the rain.
The colonel had pulled out a pistol, a Swiss-made SIG-Sauer P226 and one of the ugliest nine-millimeter weapons on the market. Alex saw him take aim at Ash.
His intention was clear. He had been about to arrest a man and that had provoked a firestorm . . . at least, that was what he thought. Well, whoever the man was, the colonel wasn’t going to let him get away. Rough justice.
He would execute him here and now and put an end to all this.
Alex couldn’t let it happen. With a cry, he hurled himself sideways, his shoulder slamming into the colonel’s stomach. The gun went off, the bullet firing into the air.
The two of them flew backward, carried by Alex’s veloc-ity, and came crashing down in a puddle. The colonel tried to bring the gun around to aim at Alex. Alex caught hold of his wrist and slammed it down, smashing the back of his hand against a rock. The colonel cried out. Rain was driving into Alex’s face, blinding him. He forced the hand up and down a second time. The fingers opened and the gun fell free.
Part of him knew that this was all wrong. He was on the same side as the Kopassus, both of them fighting the snakehead, who were the true enemy. But there was no time to explain. Alex saw a soldier throw something—a round, black object about the size of a baseball—through the deluge. He knew at once what it was, even before the explosion that tore open the side of the warehouse, smashed three windows, and blew a hole in the roof. A tongue of flame leapt up, only to be driven back by the rain.
More gunfire. The man who had thrown the grenade cried out and reeled backward, clutching his shoulder.
The white van was moving. Alex heard the engine rev, then saw the van begin a clumsy three-point turn. At the same moment, Ash grabbed hold of his arm. His hair was matted. Water was streaming down his face.
“We have to go!” he shouted. With the noise of the rain and shooting there was no chance of his being overheard.
210
S N A K E H E A D
The colonel lunged sideways and tried to reach the gun. Ash kicked it away, than brought a fist crashing down on the man’s head.
“Ash . . . ,” Alex began.
“Later!”
The van had completed its first turn. It was being brought around to face the shattered gate. Ash started forward, and Alex followed. They reached the van just as it began to pick up speed. Ash reached out and wrenched open the back door. The driver wasn’t waiting for them.
There was a burst of machine-gun fire, and Alex cried out as a line of bullet holes stitched themselves across the side of the van right in front of him.
“Go!” Ash shouted.
Alex threw himself forward, through the door, and into the back of the van. A second later, Ash followed, landing on top of him. The driver didn’t even seem to have noticed they were there. All he cared about was getting away himself. One of the side mirrors exploded, the glass shattering, the metal casing tearing free. The engine screamed as the driver pressed his foot on the accelerator. They leapt forward. There was an explosion, so close that Alex felt the flames scorch the side of his face. But then they were away, shooting out through the gate and into the street beyond.
The van skidded all over the road. It slammed into a wall and one side crumpled, sparks flickering as metal and brick collided. Alex glanced back. One of the van’s
doors had been blown off, and he saw two soldiers—they looked like ghosts—kneeling in the gate, firing at them.
Bullets, burning white, sliced through the rain. But they were already out of range. They hurtled up the track they had come down the night before . . . by now it was little more than a brown river of mud and debris. Alex looked back, expecting the Kopassus to follow. But the rain was falling so hard that the warehouse complex had already disappeared, and if the two Jeep Cherokees were after them, he wouldn’t have been able to tell.
The driver was the same man who had brought them from the airport. He was clutching the steering wheel as if his life depended on it. He looked in the mirror and caught sight of his two unwanted passengers. At once, he let loose a torrent of Indonesian. But he didn’t slow down or stop. Alex was relieved. It didn’t matter where they were heading. All that mattered was they hadn’t been left behind.
“What was that about?” he demanded. His mouth was right next to Ash’s ear, and he was confident that the driver wouldn’t be able to hear what he said or what language he was speaking.
“I don’t know.” For once, Ash had lost his compo-sure. He was lying on his side, trying to catch his breath.
“It was routine . . . bad luck. Or maybe someone hadn’t paid. It happens all the time in Jakarta.”
“Where are we going?”
Ash looked out the back. It was hard to see anything
