Back Track

by Jason Dean

  Bishop unlatched his seat belt and shouldered open the door, the move instantly inflaming the pain in his rib. Then he fell out the car onto the gas-soaked ground. More splashed onto his clothes in a steady spray from above.

  Have to get up. Have to finish Hallaran and get moving. The plane won’t be there much longer.

  Bishop heard a crunching sound nearby. Then a boot suddenly smacked into his right side, forcing the air from his body and knocking him onto his back. Bishop wrapped an arm around his cracked rib and looked up. The figure he’d seen before was standing over him. Hallaran. He was unarmed. Behind him, Bishop could see the damage the crash had caused. There was an uneven fissure running down the centre of the tank and the contents were spraying out in a wide are, drenching everything within range. Including both men.

  ‘I told you you’re too late, Bishop,’ he said. ‘She’ll be airborne in a minute, by which time you’ll be beyond caring anyway. Tell me, how does it feel to have gone through all this effort for nothing?’

  ‘It’s over, Hallaran,’ Bishop said. ‘You’re done.’

  ‘You think?’ Hallaran smiled. ‘All you did was speed things along, that’s all. Another year like I planned would have been perfect, but I’m already richer than God, and thanks to you I don’t even have to share any of the profits. But you still stuck your nose into my business, and that’s something I can’t let you get away with.’ He gave another hard kick to Bishop’s stomach. ‘Come on, get up. It’s no fun if you don’t try, and I want this to last. I want you to see that plane take off and know how close you came before I finish you.’

  Bishop winced and slowly raised himself to a sitting position. Making as though he was still sluggish from the crash. Then his left hand darted down towards his ankle holster and pulled his knife free. He lunged forward and stabbed at the man’s legs. But Hallaran had anticipated the move and was already stepping back out of the way. He kicked out and his foot struck Bishop’s inner wrist. The knife flew from Bishop’s hand and he saw it skitter along the wet soil and finish up under the wreckage of the car.

  Bishop kept moving. With one hand on the ground for support, he delivered a side kick aimed at Hallaran’s right knee. Hallaran turned to avoid it and Bishop’s boot glanced off the inside of the leg instead. But Hallaran lost his balance and fell, landing in one of the puddles of fuel. Bishop clambered over and dived on top of him, pressing his elbow against the man’s Adam’s apple, pushing down with every inch of strength while his other hand tried to grab hold of Hallaran’s left arm. But Hallaran used his other fist to deliver a rocket to Bishop’s ribcage.

  The pain was unbelievable. Bishop released Hallaran and rolled off, his left arm holding his chest. This was like Abraham all over again. Except now he was on the receiving end. He forced himself to his feet and saw Hallaran already moving in. Bishop had no time to get out of the way as Hallaran delivered a roundhouse kick to his ribs again.

  But Bishop managed to clutch the leg just as it made contact and hold on to it, swivelling his body to the left and downwards. Bringing Hallaran down with him. As soon as he hit the ground, Hallaran quickly kicked out with his other foot, catching Bishop perfectly on the chin. A follow-up kick caught him in the stomach and Bishop fell back, winded. Then Hallaran got up and stamped his right foot into Bishop’s groin, causing him to double up in agony.

  Hallaran knelt down and rammed a knee into Bishop’s abdomen, and all the air left his lungs in a nanosecond. He only managed to take in a couple more quick gulps of oxygen before Hallaran clutched his throat in both hands and began squeezing. Bishop grabbed at Hallaran’s arms and tried to prise the hands away, but they didn’t budge an inch. He reached for the man’s eyes, but Hallaran simply moved his face out of reach. He punched at Hallaran’s midsection, but it was like hitting bone. He opened his mouth to try to take in more much-needed air, but only ended up swallowing more of the jet fuel raining down on them. He began coughing, gagging, losing what little oxygen he still had left.

  Hallaran just kept squeezing, grinning like an idiot as he steadily choked the life from Bishop. ‘Don’t think I can wait for Poleina’s plane to take off, after all,’ he said, panting. ‘I’m enjoying this too much. Been a while since I used my bare hands on a man the way I was trained. Forgot how good it feels. How natural.’ He laughed. ‘Didn’t I say you’d come off worst if you tested me?’

  Bishop was barely listening. What strength he still possessed was fast draining away with his air. He was nearly finished. Hallaran was clearly the better fighter. Or at least the fitter of the two. Whichever way you looked at it, he was winning. But Bishop couldn’t give up yet. Not with Selina still out there.

  If only I had a gun, he thought. Or a weapon of some kind. Something to equalize the odds. Anything.

  And then Bishop remembered he did have something. It was still down there in his jacket pocket. And that single spark of hope gave him a sudden surge of renewed strength. He let his whole body go completely limp for a second, long enough for Hallaran’s grip on him to relax a little. Then he grabbed hold of Hallaran’s shirt with both hands, planted his right foot on Hallaran’s waist and used all his strength to roll his body backward, pulling Hallaran up and over in the classic circular judo throw.

  He turned and saw Hallaran land on his back and roll forward, about to get to his feet again. Bishop took a deep breath and sat up, both hands feeling around his windbreaker. There it was. Left pocket. His clothes were wet and slippery, and he managed to get his hand inside just as Hallaran rose to his feet and turned to him.

  Bishop pulled out the stubby orange flare gun he’d used on Baldwin. He aimed the gun at Hallaran’s midsection and pulled back the hammer.

  Hallaran’s eyes grew wide. He knew what was coming. He took two short steps back, raised a hand and shouted, ‘No. Wait.’

  ‘No time,’ Bishop said, and pulled the trigger.

  The flare hit Hallaran right in the chest. He fell to his knees, hands scrabbling around frantically as he tried to get the white-hot candle off of him. But it was too late. He screamed as his shirt immediately caught fire. It spread quickly to his pants. Then the top layer of skin underneath. Hallaran fell to the ground, his screams rising in pitch as the flames spread rapidly up and down his body. He was still screaming when they engulfed his head.

  Bishop thought of all those families of his victims who’d suffered death by fire on his orders. Men. Women. Kids. Now Hallaran knew. He was finally seeing the light.

  Bishop got to his feet and moved back out of the danger area, where the ground wasn’t damp. Watching Hallaran’s movements become weaker and weaker as he rolled his body around the ground, shrieking like a banshee, unaware he was feeding the flames further and making his own funeral pyre. The sickening stench of burning flesh filled the air and it wasn’t long before the screams died off. Bishop took his eyes away, then ran round the tanker and jumped up into the cab before it caught fire, too.

  The plane was still on the ground. He could see it out there, still pointing west. But for how much longer, he didn’t know. He jammed the tanker’s gear stick into first and pressed down on the accelerator. The truck moved off slowly and gradually picked up speed as Bishop turned the wheel and steered it towards the airstrip.

  By the time he neared the fence, he’d got the vehicle up to a decent speed. He kept the pedal pressed to the floor and aimed the truck dead centre between two of the concrete posts. The vehicle struck the fence at fifty miles an hour. There was a brief electrical discharge as the tough fencing tore away from the insulators on each side, followed by an angry sound of stretching and grinding metal that vibrated all the way through his legs. Bishop didn’t slow, just ploughed through the gap, urging the thing to go faster. The truck was his only weapon now. He’d use it to ram the plane and disable it. As long as Selina stayed on American soil, that’s all that mattered. After that, he’d have to improvise.

  Through the windshield, he saw the plane at least two hundred yards dist
ant. Still pointing east. Then the wing lights came on. They were preparing to go.

  Then he noticed the truck was rapidly losing speed. He pressed down on the pedal and nothing happened. And the metallic grinding sound was back, and getting louder. It hadn’t been the sound of the fence breaking. Something in the engine must have been damaged from the crash. Then Bishop heard a loud crack out front and the engine died completely, leaving the truck to silently rattle along under its own power, slowing with every foot.

  In the distance he could hear the sound of the plane’s starter motor as it caught. And the sound of the turboprop engine began rising in pitch. The pilot was preparing to take off.

  And Bishop was still a hundred and fifty yards away. With no possible way of reaching it before it did.

  NINETY

  Bishop jumped out the moving cab and started running for the airstrip. He tuned out the stabbing pain in his ribcage. It didn’t matter. He had to keep going, that’s all. He’d never given up before and he wasn’t about to start now.

  There’s still a chance, he thought. As long as you keep your eye on the ball and stay focused, there’s always a chance.

  Almost immediately, Bishop heard the throaty sound of another engine behind him. He turned and saw a dark sedan speeding through the gap in the fence, heading his way. But there was nobody left in the hangar, and it was too soon for the cops. So who was this?

  As the vehicle got closer, Bishop was getting ready to jump out of its path when the driver suddenly veered left and the car skidded to a complete stop just a few feet away.

  Bishop ran forward, yanked open the passenger door and saw Vallejo looking back at him from the driver’s seat. Her face was haggard, but she was smiling.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I don’t have all night.’

  Bishop shook his head and jumped in. ‘You’re really something, Vallejo,’ he said. ‘Back up to the truck first. Let’s take this door off at the hinges.’

  ‘Right.’ Vallejo didn’t ask why, just put the car into reverse, turned her head round and pressed down on the accelerator. Bishop kept the door open with his hand and watched the tanker getting closer and closer. He pulled his hand back as the car scraped against the side of the cabin at thirty miles per hour. A loud, metallic, screeching sound assaulted his ears as the open door immediately reversed back in on itself and smacked against the front fender. The inner springs and hinges pinged free of the chassis and the door fell away and into the narrow gap between both vehicles.

  ‘Okay,’ Bishop said, ‘punch it.’

  Vallejo braked, slammed the gearshift into Drive and stamped her foot down. They quickly picked up speed as she pushed the engine to its limit. Through the windshield, Bishop saw the plane in the distance turning in a semicircle until it was pointing west. They were still more than a hundred yards away, but closing fast.

  ‘Tell me you brought your gun with you,’ he said.

  ‘I borrowed Patricia’s. Mine was empty. It’s somewhere down by your feet.’

  Bishop leaned forward and felt around on the floor until he found the .38 Special. He sat back and flipped open the chamber. Five rounds. But five was better than nothing.

  ‘Not that I’m complaining,’ he said, ‘but shouldn’t you be in the tunnel with the others?’

  ‘And miss all this excitement?’ She gave him a quick glance before facing front again. ‘I’ve come too far to quit now and besides, I thought you still might have use of my driving skills. Looks like I was right. Patricia can handle the women fine by herself.’

  ‘Did you at least call 911?’

  ‘Yeah. The dispatcher told me it had already been logged and that emergency vehicles were already on their way. Including the police.’

  ‘Kate,’ he said. ‘She must have called it in as soon as she heard shooting.’

  ‘Good of her. So what’s the plan?’

  ‘For now, just keep pushing this thing. We can’t let that aircraft get off the ground.’

  Vallejo shut up and concentrated on her driving. They were already at fifty, the harsh terrain rocking them back and forth in their seats. Giving the car’s suspension a real workover. Bishop prayed they didn’t blow a tyre. Or even worse, an axle. Just thirty yards from the first fuel tanker now. Twenty. And just past that was the plane. It had already begun taxiing, getting ready for take-off.

  Bishop gripped the dash with his free hand. ‘They’re moving.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Faster.’

  ‘I know.’

  Then they were whizzing by the fuel tanker and crossing over the first row of ground lights. As soon as they hit the airstrip the terrain wasn’t so rough, but it was still a bumpy ride. Vallejo straightened the car out and increased their speed. The prop plane had to be going at forty miles per hour already, but they were gaining on it. Bishop braced a foot against the door frame and leaned part of the way out. The cold desert air blasted against his face and the noise of the jet engine filled his ears.

  They were ten yards behind and closing. Five yards now. Four. Vallejo turned the wheel slightly and they began to approach from the port side. A few seconds more and the car was level with the rear cargo door, just behind the left wing. The engine was at half throttle now and rising in pitch as the plane increased its speed. Vallejo kept pace with it.

  ‘What now?’ she yelled over the noise

  ‘Just keep up,’ he shouted back.

  But it was a good question. Bishop thought furiously, going through the few options available to him. The plane was going too fast for Vallejo to get in front and force it off course. And there wasn’t time enough to get onto the wing and screw with the port-side flap. And the flaps were already lowered, which meant he wouldn’t be able to stop it from taking off anyway. All that was left was to fire on the cockpit and try to hit the pilot. Not much of a plan, but it was all he had.

  Bishop was about to order Vallejo to increase their speed when the cargo door started to slowly open outwards. And then upwards. The ponytailed bodyguard, Gerardo, was on one knee, holding it open with one hand. The other hand held the Micro Uzi Bishop had seen earlier. It was pointing right at them.

  ‘Pull back,’ Bishop shouted. ‘Now.’

  Vallejo swerved and momentarily took her foot off the accelerator. They dropped back a few yards and both ducked down as a stream of bullets riddled the hood of the car. Then the bottom of the windshield developed a neat row of cracks from right to left. More rounds smacked against the door behind Bishop and he heard the rear window smash. Then nothing. He glanced to his right and saw Gerardo take his free hand from the door and pull the now empty magazine from the gun’s housing. Bishop sat up and saw an unharmed Vallejo staring back at him.

  ‘Bring us level again,’ he yelled. ‘Get close enough that I can jump across.’

  ‘Christ,’ Vallejo said. But she immediately speeded up until they were once again parallel with the cargo door. Both machines were travelling at about eighty now. She edged the car closer until they were only ten feet away.

  Gerardo was already pulling a new clip from his rear pocket and bringing it round. Bishop aimed the .38 at the man’s chest and fired. The bodyguard jerked back and fell on his ass, one hand against his right hip, where there was already a dark stain forming. Bishop counted himself fortunate he’d hit anything. At the speed they were going, and on this terrain, pinpoint accuracy was impossible.

  ‘Get closer,’ Bishop shouted.

  Only six feet separating them now. Five. Four. Come on, baby, come on.

  Bishop aimed the gun at the man’s midriff and fired again. This time, he was too close to miss. Gerardo fell onto his back with an ugly hole in his chest. The Uzi fell onto the floor and bounced twice before it disappeared out the doorway and was gone. That was one less problem to worry about, at least. Bishop holstered his gun and raised himself to a crouch, facing the plane. Both hands gripping the door frame. Glancing to his left, he saw they were running out of airstrip. And the throttles we
re at full thrust. They must be doing close to ninety. Vallejo edged the car closer still. Only three feet away from the opening. It was now or never.

  Bishop took a deep breath and held it. Then he leapt across.

  He landed hard on the floor of the cargo area and kept rolling until Gerardo’s body stopped him. Ignoring the pain in his chest, Bishop raised his head and saw he was in a space about eight feet long and six feet wide, sectioned off from the rest of the cabin by a thick, black net running from floor to roof. Across the way, Vallejo was still keeping pace and darting looks his way.

  Bishop clambered over Gerardo and used his feet to push the body out through the opening. He stood up and began waving at Vallejo to drop back entirely when he heard an inhuman roar at his right. Then a sledgehammer smashed into his side, just below his ribs. He fell to the floor in agony and when he looked up, saw the other bodyguard standing over him. His expression was a mixture of torment and pure, naked fury. He must have seen Bishop throw his brother’s body out the plane.

  Shaved-head shouted something in Spanish, then pulled his right foot back for another kick. Bishop quickly rolled his body towards the rear of the cargo area, but it was too late. The man’s foot connected with the base of Bishop’s skull and his head bounced off the floor. Fighting the dizziness threatening to overtake him, Bishop kicked out with both feet and felt them connect with something solid. Bishop took a deep breath and shook his head. A mistake, as he almost lost consciousness right there. He turned to see Shaved-head a few feet away. He had a bloody mouth and was already halfway to his feet.

  Time to end this, Bishop thought, reaching for his shoulder holster. Right now.

  Then the plane lifted into the air and the world shifted on its axis by twenty degrees.

  Shaved-head lost his balance and fell back against the starboard side while Bishop slid back until he hit the rear wall. Bishop sat up and reached for his gun again, but before he could get anywhere near, Shaved-head was on him like a dervish. A roundhouse punch to the skull was followed by another kick to his stomach, followed by intense pain. Bishop fell onto his back and then Shaved-head was on top of him, shouting obscenities in Portuguese and pummelling his face with both fists. Left. Then right. Then left. Then right. Each punch like a freight train. Bishop tasted blood in his mouth and felt something snap in his right cheekbone. He knew he couldn’t take too much more of this.