by Chris Ryan
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'Keep still,' she screamed. 'Otherwise you'll die.'
Sod it, thought Josh. I'll die anyway, the way you're driving.
He turned round. He could feel some blood starting to seep down his neck as the scab that had formed across the open wound cracked. A bike was on their trail. A Honda, he judged. Big and powerful, with chrome handlebars that glistened in the sun. He could see nothing of its rider. The man was wrapped in black leather, with shades pulled down over his eyes and a helmet covering the top half of his face. His left hand was gripping the handlebars, and in his right there was a pistol. Josh couldn't tell the make from where he sprawled in the truck. But it was a heavy piece of kit, he could tell that much. The biker was straining to hold the gun steady.
Josh looked straight back. For a moment, he had the sensation that he was looking straight down the barrel of the gun.
Another shot. The biker jerked back slightly as the recoil from the pistol forced him to lose his balance. The bullet winged the side of the truck, opening up a gash in the metal along the driver's side. The vehicle swayed again under the impact, then gripped the road once more.
'You got a gun?' hissed Josh.
The woman shook her head.
'Then I'm driving,' snapped Josh.
She shook her head again, more fiercely this time.
'I said I'm driving.'
The woman turned to face hjm, her eyes bright with anger. 'No,' she said, her tone harsh. A bead of sweat was rolling down from her forehead onto her face. 'You don't even have the strength to stand up. Don't even think about driving.'
'When I need the strength, I'll find it,' answered Josh.
The truck swerved. Another bullet had hit it, this time smashing into its back. Its frame vibrated under the force
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of the impact. Josh moved swiftly across the front seat, pushing the woman with his open palm and taking hold of the wheel. He left some traces of blood smeared across the front of her Tshirt.
'Okay,' she said angrily. 'You drive if you have to.'
They'd have to switch places while they were driving: a tricky move at the best of times, but even harder when you were under fire. 'Just take your foot off the accelerator,' said Josh.
The woman shifted sideways, her foot easing off the pedal. She kept one hand on the wheel. Josh now grabbed it with his left hand. The truck was starting to wobble and swerve. He pushed himself up and over the woman's lap, blood dripping down onto her jeans. The truck started to drift seriously off to the left. Josh gripped the wheel harder as he slipped into the driver's seat. His foot jammed down onto the accelerator, taking the speed back up again.
'I need your help,' he muttered.
She looked across at him.
'I'm losing too. much damned blood,' he snapped. 'I have to stop it.'
With his left hand still on the wheel, Josh ripped a strip of cloth from his shirt, handing it across to the woman Leaning down, she gripped it between her hands. Her fingers dug into Josh's thigh. She was searching for the femoral artery he knew. Dig into that hard enough, and it would staunch the bleeding. Next, she took the cloth, and wrapped it tight around his thigh. Josh could feel the bleeding starting to slow immediately. But the amount of blood loss was still worrying him. More than four pints and he'd pass out.
The truck swerved violently as Josh struggled to keep control of the wheel as another bullet flew past them. Get a grip, man, Josh told himself. Or else we'll both be dead in the next few minutes.
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The road stretched out in front of him. Dazzling sunlight was searing through the high windscreen of the Ranger. Josh flipped the sunshield down, protecting his eyes. He was struggling to focus. From a glance in the mirror, he could see the bike tracking him ten yards to his rear, the rider steadying himself on the machine again, his hand raised high in the air as he tried to line up the next shot.
One of those is going to hit its target, Josh realised. That's just the law of averages.
He started to swing the truck from side to side, jerking the wheel to produce an unpredictable, irregular motion. That was the first rule of any kind of evasive action: make yourself a hard target.
/ might be a hard target, but I'm still a big one. This truck weighs a ton and half. Hard to miss.
JNow the swaying of the truck was starting to make-Josh feel sick. Blood loss had already weakened him and, with the violence of the vehicle's motion, he could feel his concentration draining away and his vision starting to blur again. Keep your grip, man, he told himself. You can do this.
The bike was holding a steady distance, ten yards to his rear. Another shot. This time the bullet smashed through the window at the back of the Ranger, shattering the glass into a thousand pieces, sending it cascading forward across Josh and the woman like hard confetti. Tiny splinters of glass flicked across Josh's back, peppering the skin of his neck and getting into his hair. He could also feel a pair of wounds opening up, fresh blood streaming from the scabs.
Makes no difference, thought Josh with grim resolve. / couldn't be in much worse shape than I am already.
He heard the woman screaming: a long agonised howl of fear. Had the glass shattering broken her nerve? Josh reached across to her with his right hand, while his left held the steering wheel. There was one cut at the top of her neck, and a splinter of glass seemed to have lodged itself
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underneath the skin. That would be painful to get out. But otherwise she was okay. 'We're all right,' hissed Josh, gasping for air.
The bullet had travelled though the cab of the truck and drilled through the windscreen, one foot to the left of the driver's seat. A fissure had opened up down the centre of the glass, but although it had cracked it hadn't yet broken. Close, realised Josh. The rear window had deflected its path, steering the bullet slightly to the left. Without that deflection, the bullet would have landed a foot to the right. In the centre of my skull, Josh mused.
He glanced in the mirror. The biker was still there, the pistol still raised in his right hand. You're not a bad shot, pal, Josh thought grudgingly.
The rider's tactics weren't hard to figure out. The bike had plenty of power, more than enough to accelerate past the Ranger if he wanted to. He was just holding his position a steady ten yards behind, firing shot after shot after shot. Sooner or later, he was going to land one right into Josh's brain. And. the way he was shooting, it was going to be sooner rather than later.
Josh jammed his foot hard on the accelerator. The Ranger might have a few years and many more miles on the clock, but there was still plenty of power in its 3.2 litre engine. Now that engine roared and revved, and Josh could feel the truck surging forward. He was up to a hundred miles an hour, skidding across the hot surface of the tarmac. Another glance in the mirror. The bike was still there, a steady ten yards behind him, the pistol already lined up for the next shot.
I haven't the strength for a long chase, realised Josh. If I was fit and healthy, I might be able to out-drive and outwit this opponent. Not in my current state. I stand and fight. That's my only chance.
Josh tapped the brake. The truck started to slow. He
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bunched all his strength into his shoulders, took a second to compose himself, then threw himself into action. I'm getting one chance at this, he told himself. Screw it up, and it's an early supper for the vultures.
With his right hand, Josh wrenched hard at the steering wheel, spinning it around. With his left hand, he pulled savagely on the handbrake as his foot jabbed viciously against the footbrake. The combined impact of the sudden deceleration and the violent turning of the wheel yanked the vehicle into a classic bootlegger's turn. The heat of the day had already made the truck's tyres soft and slippery, loosening their grip on the road. The Ranger skidded, hurtling off the track and out onto the scrubland. A huge cloud of dust kicked up, briefly blocking Josh's vision. Beneath him, he could hear the engine roar and the sus
pension creak under the pressure put upon it by the sudden manoeuvre.
'Hold steady,'Josh rasped to the woman at his side.
She looked back at him, clutching the side of the door as th*e suddenness of the movement threw her sideways. 'I'm trying.'
Josh swivelled his gaze right, looking up the road. It had worked. The speed of the turn had caught the biker by surprise. In the seconds that it had taken him to assess what was happening and react, he had sped past and was now fifty yards up the road. Already Josh could see that he was slowing, preparing to turn around. Just as I thought you would, Josh exulted inwardly.
My plan owes nothing to brajns or cunning, he told himself. Just guts and adrenalin.
The trick was to get behind your assailant. In any battle between a pick-up truck and a motorbike, the bike was always going to win on speed and agility. But the truck, like a tank, could win on size and strength. From the right position it could attack.
And that position was from behind.
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Josh started driving into the scrub. The wheels of the Ranger kicked up sand in every direction, but its grip was steady. Summoning his strength into his shoulders again, he spun the wheel hard to the left, and yanked again on the handbrake. The truck stopped, its metal frame shuddering, then started to turn. The wheels struggled to get a grip on the sandy surface of the ground and for a moment Josh could sense the vehicle skidding. He was losing control -- he could feel the truck starting to slide backwards. Then the tyres found some pebbles they could grip onto. Slowly, the Ranger started to move around, facing directly back at the road.
Turn, Josh told himself. Then drive straight into the bastard. He'll get one shot, straight at me, through the windscreen. And if he doesn't kill me with that shot, then I'll crush him like an insect.
Josh tapped his foot on the accelerator, waiting for the surge of power to carry him forward.
The engine stalled.
Christ, thought Josh. Prayer time.
'Duck,' he hissed to the woman. 'Get your bloody head down and keep it down.'
Up ahead he could see the biker turning, could hear the wheels of the Honda screeching. Josh pushed his head down low, taking himself below the level of the windscreen. The truck was still moving forwards, carried by its momentum even after the engine had died, but it was slowing fast. Josh's leg was squeezed up against the pedals, sending terrible pains jabbing upwards through his spine.
Count to five, he told himself. The engine might just be flooded. Give it a moment to cool down, then try it again. One, two . . .
A bullet smashed into the windscreen, this time shattering the glass. The shards tumbled downwards, falling on them like solid, sharp-edged rain. The woman gasped, her
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hand shooting upward to try and protect her head and her face. 'No, no,' she screamed.
Three, four . . .
Josh jabbed the Ranger's key back into the ignition, twisting it viciously. For a brief moment, his action was greeted only by silence. Sod it, Josh muttered to himself. Then the engine spluttered. Josh jammed his foot on the accelerator, twisting his body to reach it while still taking cover beneath the dashboard and now the engine revved into action, roaring into life, a sudden surge of power shaking the truck's frame. Josh levered himself upwards as the Ranger leaped forwards, skidding across the rough surface of the scrubland. The left tyre collided with a rock, jerking the truck upwards. The force of the impact briefly jolted Josh sideways, making him loosen his grip on the wheel. The truck swerved violently to the right, bpuncing a foot into the air.
The pain searing though his body was making it tough for Josh to hold himself at the wheel. He was sweating and shaking from loss of blood. Concentrate, he told himself. Concentrate or die.
He could see the biker sixty yards ahead. The man had completed his turn with military precision and was now riding the bike hard out into the open scrubland. Josh could see nothing of his expression through the shades and helmet that masked the whole of his face, but he could tell from the way he was opening up the throttle and firing up the gas that there was not a flicker of fear or doubt running through the man. He was riding with total confidence, his gun held high in his right fist, certain that his opponent could be eliminated before he could retaliate.
That's your mistake, pal. Always be a little bit afraid.
Josh levered himself higher up into the driving seat, pressing hard on the accelerator, then slamming the steering wheel hard right. The bike lay directly in his path - sixty yards of open sand was all that separated the two vehicles.
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Still not a flicker of fear from the biker. Nor any sign of him changing direction. You're a brave man, pal, Josh repeated to himself. Brave, but stupid. 'You're going to hit him,' said the woman at his side, the words delivered as if she was trying to warn Josh of some terrible, impending catastrophe.
'You bloody bet I am.'
'You're fucking crazy,' she screamed.
'You got a better idea, you've got three seconds to tell me.'
Josh looked back into the open scrubland. The biker had raised his gun again. He was steadying himself, struggling to hold the bike level so that he could aim the pistol accurately. One factor is on my side, reckoned Josh. It's always hard to fire a gun from a moving vehicle and even harder when that vehicle is racing across rough terrain.
He ducked instinctively as the gun was fired: above the noise of the Ranger's engine, it was impossible to hear the gunshot. But he could tell from the way the man's hand jerked backwards that the bullet had already left the chamber giving him time to duck.
Prayer time.
The shot struck the metal frame of the truck. Where it had hit, Josh couldn't tell.
Not me, that's all that counts.
Using all the remaining strength in his leg, Josh pressed even harder on the accelerator, urging every last ounce of power out of the machine. The Ranger sped forward, spitting huge clouds of dust up from its heavy wheels. Thirty yards left. The biker could see that his shot had missed. Decision time, mate, thought Josh. See if you've got time for another shot. Or just turn and try to run.
For just a fraction of a second, he could see the biker struggling with the decision. Half a second is too long.
The biker started to turn, swinging the handlebars to the
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left. There was a downward slope on that side of him, enough to give him some extra speed.
Twenty yards, and closing.
The biker was turning, his engine spluttering and his boots dragging on the ground. Josh adjusted his steering and powered forwards.
Ten yards.
The biker reared back, putting pressure on his machine's back wheel to try to complete the turn.
Five yards.
'Hold on!'Josh shouted at the woman.
Three yards.
He had lost sight of the biker as the man and the machine disappeared from view. Suddenly he could feel the force of the blow. It started with the front wheels. The Ranger was thrust up^everal feet into the air, Josh's head banging against the roof of the vehicle as the collision threw him up from thejiriver's seat. The engine stalled, and Josh slammed his feet hard on the brakes. The impact of the front wheels would kill any normal man. After the back wheels had chewed him up, even the rattlesnakes would think twice about having him for their lunch.
The truck landed hard on the ground. Josh could feel it swerve sideways as the rear wheels kicked in hard against the fallen bike. He gripped the steering wheel to try to bring the machine back under control. Slowly, the Ranger juddered to a halt. The sand kicked up by its wheels was still falling through the air, making the atmosphere thick and dusty: Josh's lungs were already filling up with the tiny particles that were choking off his breath and clogging up his vision.
Suddenly he could feel the energy draining out of him. In the midst of the battle, the adrenalin had kept his pain under control. Now it was flooding back through him. His leg was numb with agony,
and blood was still seeping from
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the open wound in his neck. He looked behind him. Ten yards to the right, the bike was lying broken and mangled on the ground. The handlebars had been crushed into the front wheel, leaving a messy spaghetti of tubes, tyres, piping and wires. The petrol tank had broken open, but had not burst into flame: instead, the liquid had spilled out over the wreckage, covering it with a thin oily film. Josh looked harder, peering out beyond the bike.
He saw the leg first. The separation must have been relatively clean, he decided. If the boot had caught on the underside of the Ranger while the torso had stayed with the mangled bike, then the leg could have been pulled clean from its socket, the muscles, veins and tendons snapping like a pod being popped open to expose its peas. Six yards further on, the rest of the body lay face down in the dirt. Blood was still pulsing from the socket where the leg had been attached.