Mercer had never considered himself a “car guy,” even if he did drive an XJS Jaguar convertible. But the smile that spread across his face as he gazed at the Bentley was one part desire and one part gratitude. He knew how to get them to the lifeboat and do it in style. He turned to motion the others up the ramp and strode to the Continental. The paintwork was like satin when he brushed his hands on the flared fender.
“Looks like someone in Asia is getting themselves a new toy,” Lauren said as she took in the car.
“They might not like the condition it’s going to be in when it gets there,” Mercer remarked offhandedly and stripped protective plastic from the windows. “Anyone up for a little ride?”
Foch stared at him. “It can’t be that easy.”
Mercer didn’t say a word, just swung open the driver’s door and eased himself into the leather seat. Because so many cars were stored on these ships, it was logical that the vehicles’ keys were left in the ignitions. Once he’d turned the key, the only indication the engine was running was the smooth jump on the tachometer. The Bentley purred.
He gave Foch a disarming smile. “It can be that easy. The Chinese will concentrate their search near the stern. We just drive down these midship ramps until we reach the deck where the side loading door’s located. From there we motor on down to the stern and hop into the lifeboat.”
“Why not just walk?”
“Screw that, mate,” Carlson said. His face was pale and clammy. They hadn’t had time yet to tie a tourniquet, something Lauren did now with the pilot’s belt, so he’d lost a lot of blood.
Bruneseau opened the rear door and slid in to help Carlson into the backseat without jostling his injured leg any further. Lauren passed around the front of the car and stepped in next to Mercer. Settling into the opulent car, she couldn’t resist saying, “Okay, James, once I’m done at the salon, I want to do a little shopping along Fifth Avenue before the cotillion.”
Mercer chuckled. “Is this rotten attempt at humor normal or a reaction to stress?”
“Drive on, or you’re fired,” she shot back haughtily. “And don’t dirty the seats with that unlaundered uniform of yours. I’ve warned you about that before, James.”
Tipping an imaginary driver’s cap, Mercer said, “Yes, ma’am,” and put the car in gear.
Reining in the powerful engine so he wouldn’t chirp the Pirelli P-Zeros, Mercer took them down the slope and around to the next ramp. Foch and Bruneseau lowered their windows so the stubby barrels of their FAMAS rifles poked over the sills. Around they went, corkscrewing down four more empty decks. At each landing, Mercer paused to study the stern of the ship, checking to see if the guards had yet doubled back up the emergency stairwell. So far nothing.
Reaching the seventh deck they found it half full of BMWs of every size and color, a glittering array that sparkled like jewels. As Mercer began to twist around to keep descending, he saw two figures dash from around a car. He stomped the gas and the rear end of the Bentley twitched before traction control took over. A shout reverberated off the hold’s steel walls followed by the buzz of the Chinese type-87 assault rifles. The unexpected confrontation had left their aim off by several dozen feet but served to alert the rest of the team scattered throughout the huge ship. Bruneseau didn’t have time to fire back.
Mercer fishtailed the sedan around the corner, popping the brakes with his left foot while gunning the throttle with his right. The heavy vehicle bottomed out on the end of the ramp, leaving a shower of sparks as he repeated the trick and threw them into a four-wheel drift that cooked rubber from the tires. Stomping the accelerator again he almost had them down another level when a second two-man patrol near the stern spotted them and fired a wild barrage. The Bentley twisted out of sight.
Carlson whimpered with each violent turn.
“They know where we’re going,” Rene said as Foch prepared to fire out the window when they hit the bottom of the next ramp.
“No shit!” Lauren shouted back in a tone that sounded defensive of Mercer and derisive of Bruneseau. “What’d you expect?”
Mercer ignored the exchange and concentrated on his driving. Not knowing how many troops the Gazelle carried, he decided to get off the ramps and make a run for the stern on the next level.
The undercarriage scraped the deck again. Using his control over the pedals he managed to keep the Bentley in a low gear as he shot between rows of Volkswagens. The engine began to wind up, and when he took his foot off the brake the automatic transmission shifted and suddenly they were accelerating past forty miles per hour. Ahead was a wall of steel and a line of Jettas facing outward. So many years playing with his Jag in the crazy traffic around Washington taught him how to judge distances and speed better than most and he twisted the wheel at the precise moment. The car drifted closer to the little Volkswagens but missed them by inches as he lined up for the stern ramp. A lone soldier was at the bottom of the slope and looked up just in time to see the Bentley bearing down on him. He dove over the edge of the ramp and had almost vanished from their view when Foch put two rounds into his body.
Mercer turned at the next deck and had to drive around the lifeless body sprawled across the hood of a Mercedes ML-320 SUV. Unlike the other decks, which had eight feet of headroom, the ceiling here lofted at least twenty feet. Halfway down the length of the vessel, Mercer could see the drawbridge door cut into the starboard side of the auto carrier. Next to the larger stern ramp was a symbol indicating the lifeboat station was one deck closer to the waterline.
He also noted that this level was nearly full of cars. Only two long alleys running toward the bows allowed any kind of movement. He suspected that the next deck down would be even more fully loaded to keep the ship’s center of gravity low. He braked at the stern ramp. “Everyone out.”
“We have one more deck to go.”
“Use the stairs. I don’t think we’ll have any room to maneuver the car down there.”
Lauren reached for the door then noticed Mercer hadn’t shut off the engine. “Don’t even think about it,” she said sharply, a strong hand on his wrist ready to pull his hand from the steering wheel.
He didn’t meet her eye. “If I don’t distract them, you’ll never get clear.”
“We stay together,” she snapped.
“On the midship ramp!” Foch pointed with his rifle to where two men ran at them. He was about to fire but Mercer reached behind him and pushed off his aim.
“Get going, the car’s blocking their view.” Behind the idling Bentley was a door to the stairwell. “Keep sharp but it should be clear. I think the gunship’ll be gone by now.”
“What about you?” Lauren’s eyes had dilated.
Fear or concern, Mercer mused. “I have no intention of sacrificing myself. Just be ready to pick me up.”
“How are you getting off?”
Mercer pointed to the upright loading door in the distance. “I’m going to fly.”
“Are you out of your-”
He cut her off with a shove when Foch and Bruneseau reached the staircase door with Carlson. Reluctantly she joined them and Mercer took off with a squeal of rubber.
The big Bentley was just a few inches narrower than the alley left between ranks of Mercedeses and he misjudged the gap, clipping the front of one SUV only to careen into the rear of another opposite it. Both side mirrors were sheared off by the brutal hits. Four more times he pinballed back and forth before centering the Continental. Idly, he estimated each hit would cost about ten grand to repair. The soldiers coming down the ramp saw him approach, held their fire until they were ensured hits, then opened up. The body of the Bentley absorbed the light rounds like armor and Mercer barreled at them without check. Only when they saw that fracturing the windshield and blowing out the four headlamps weren’t going to slow the relentless charge did they think about their own safety.
Like hunters facing a rampaging elephant, the two Chinese turned and started back up the ramp. Mercer was thirty feet behind and closing fast. One soldier managed to leap out of the way at the last second; the other was clipped in his hip and hit an unforgiving steel bulkhead fully eight feet above the deck. He was alive but his pelvis was shattered.
Mercer spun in a tight one-eighty and drove down the ramp again, racing across the deck for the loading door. He misjudged his skid and the car’s fender crumpled against a buttress. The contact hadn’t done any more than ruin more of the Bentley’s coachwork but a series of airbags exploded around him. Although the bags deflated almost immediately, the damage was done.
