But gravity turned out to be their friend, indirectly at least.
They had trouble finding a place to attach the ropes, until Boston realized he could simply tie them through open windows. Then he and Sugar — Abul was too depressed — got on the motorcycles and revved them together, starting up the hill. The older bike was too small and weak to do very much; it strained at the rope, but no matter how much gas Sugar gave it, couldn’t budge the bus.
Boston, sitting on the Whiplash bike, had better luck. The big bore V engine had good torque in the lowest gears, a function of a design requirement that called for it to be able to tow a small trailer. But even the Whiplash motorcycle was still just a motorcycle, not a wrecker or a crane. It pulled the bus up about six feet, then refused to go any further.
Boston leaned forward, trying to sweet-talk the bike as if it were a mule.
“Come on now, Bess,” he said, inventing a name. “Just a little more. Almost there, babe. Come on. Come on.”
The bike grunted and groaned. Together they managed to lift the bus another foot and a half. But the strain was too much — the bike’s engine stalled. The bus’s weight pulled it backward. Boston and then Sugar threw themselves to the ground as their motorcycles flew down the hill. The bus slammed down — then, with gravity’s help, rolled over onto its roof, flipped onto its side again, and jerked upward on one set of wheels. It teetered there for a second, its momentum in balance.
Then gravity asserted itself, and it fell forward, landing on its tires.
Abul was practically in tears when he reached it.
“My bus, my beautiful bus,” he said in Arabic. “What have they done to you? What have they done?”
“Suck it up, big boy,” said Sugar, walking down the hill. “Get inside and see if you can start it up.”
The engine had flooded when it turned on its side. Abul tried the key, pumped the gas, then got out and went to the hood. The front end of the bus was so banged up he had to bend the hood to the right to get it open. He fiddled with the air filter and carburetor, then went back into the cab. It started on the second turn.
The next problem were the flat tires. Abul drove it a few yards to a flat spot straddling the roadway and a sharper drop to the left. Then he and Boston went to the back of the bus and wrestled the spares out from their carriage underneath the chassis.
The first was fine. The second was a bit soft.
“Not a problem,” said Abul, pulling it toward the front. “Come on.”
Sugar called Boston over as he pulled down the jack.
“There’s somebody near that ridge,” she told him, pointing with her rifle. “I think our friends decided to come back.”
Boston picked up the gun and peered through the scope. He couldn’t see anything.
“Hey, Abul, how long will it take you to change that tire?”
“Ten minutes. You help me with the jack.”
They had just pulled the last nut off when the gunfire started.
“The tire is stuck!” yelped Abul, ducking and pulling at the same time.
Boston threw himself around the tire, put his right boot on the wheel well and pushed. He fell back with the tire, sliding down the embankment.
“Go, get the damn thing on!” he yelled.
Sugar started returning fire. The mercenaries, realizing they had been duped, were determined to get revenge — and the millions of euros they were sure Kirk would pay in ransom for his people. They spread out in a line, slowly climbing the hill. They were every bit as careful as they’d been at the two earlier battles, but now much better motivated.
Abul’s fingers felt as if they were frozen. He threaded the nuts onto their lugs, turning each slowly.
“Faster, faster, damn it,” said Boston, running up the hill. “Go, get in the bus. Get it going — let’s go.”
He jerked on the last nut himself, then screwed them with his fingers, tightening them as best he could.
“Let’s get out of here!” he yelled to Sugar.
“The bikes!”
“I got them. You get in the bus. Go! Get down the road. I’ll catch up.”
Boston ran to the bikes. He fired a few rounds through the gas tank of the smaller dirt bike, then into the tire. He grabbed the Whiplash cycle and started to jump on when something punched him off and threw him to the ground.
A pair of bullets from one of the mercenaries’ guns had struck his bulletproof vest. He looked around and realized that the man was less than thirty feet away.
And still firing.
Boston ducked down, trying to pull his body around so the vest would absorb the bullets.
The slugs from the MP-5 felt like hammer heads striking his body. He’d lost his rifle as he fell, and for a moment couldn’t locate it. When he finally saw it out of the corner of his eye, it was too late — a boot kicked him in the jaw, sending him over.
The man began cursing him, angrily denouncing him for trying to cheat them. Now he and his employer were going to pay.
Boston drew a quick breath, then exploded upward as the soldier tried to kick him again. His elbow went deep into the man’s solar plexus, knocking the wind from him. A hard chop across his windpipe threw him to the ground.
There were shouts nearby. Boston grabbed the motorcycle, kick-started and gunned it to life as bullets began to fly. Hunkering over the handlebars, he revved toward the bus, now lumbering down the road.
One of the bullets caught his rear tire. The bike began skidding hard to the right. Boston let off on the throttle, then dropped the motorcycle. But he couldn’t quite get off clean and his foot knocked against the gas tank, sending him over to the ground.
He rolled back up and started to run.
Sugar was at the back door of the bus, watching. When she saw Boston fall, she yelled to Abul to stop. Then she started firing at the mercenaries who were following.
“Stop the bus, stop the bus!” she yelled.
Abul had heard only the gunfire. Frightened, he stepped on the gas. Sugar turned and screamed at him.
“Slow down, damn it!”
Abul slapped on the brakes. Sugar flew forward, tumbling all the way to the front.
Boston got to the bus a few seconds later, grabbing the rear door and throwing himself inside.
“Go! Go! Go!” he yelled.
Abul stomped on the gas and the bus jerked forward.
“Get a grenade!” yelled Boston.
“What?” said Sugar.
“Grenade!”
Sugar grabbed her ruck, fished out the launcher, and snapped it to the bottom of her gun.
“Take out the bike,” Boston told her. “Abul, stop so she can aim.”
“That’s a word he doesn’t understand.”
Sugar opened the door as the bus stopped, a little more gently this time. The mercenaries had stopped firing, and she couldn’t see where Boston had left the motorcycle. She pumped a shell across the hill in the general direction.
“I don’t know if I got it,” she told him.
“All right. Let’s just get the hell out of here,” said Boston. “We have to get some distance between us and them.”
“They’re pretty pissed,” said Sugar. “You think they’ll follow?”
“Maybe. More likely they’ll try to turn us in somehow. Hopefully we’ll be in Ethiopia by then.” Boston went up to the front. “Let’s go, Abul. Let’s go.”
“My bus,” said Abul. “It’s ruined.”
“It’s still running, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“We’ll buy you ten when we get home. I promise.”
