by Jacob Hammes
Jeff had already rolled his window down in anticipation of the questioning. They took their time, but eventually started exchanging quick sentences in Mandarin with Jeff. After a few minutes, it was clear the two were discussing something besides what they were doing in the area. The only other person who had the slightest inkling what was going on between the cops and Jeff was Cynthia. Since she was busy acting the part of a tourist, she kept her mouth shut.
The partner of the interrogating cop was hardly interested in what they were talking about. He had glanced around the inside of the car for a fraction of a second before wandering off and lighting himself up a cigarette. He was talking on his cell phone and smoking like a train while his partner exchanged words with Jeff.
“Don’t we have some terracotta statues to look at or something?” Cynthia asked in her thickest American accent. “This is getting boring!”
The cop seemed to sense the woman’s impatience and glanced at her for a moment to give her a smile. She smiled back and feigned annoyance, hoping the man would let them go soon. It must have worked, too, because the cop was leaving them in peace a moment later. As he walked back to his patrol car he signaled his partner with a whistle and he, too, was ready to go.
The collective sigh of relief that went through the Buick was audible.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” David said. Everyone agreed that it was time to leave. His color had changed from white to pale white the moment Cynthia had entered the vehicle.
“Marcus,” Henry Bauss’ voice came loudly over the radio. “We’ve been intercepting communications all morning. You need to get the hell out of there.”
Jeff was looking in the rearview mirror. One of the policemen had his radio out of its holster and was holding it up. It was the smoking partner of the cop that had interviewed him moments ago.
“The police were alerted that a white man with blond hair had attacked the cop in the restaurant this morning. Apparently the cop you shot in the restaurant has come back around. He doesn’t remember anything else, just a white man with blond hair. The local units have been put on alert to stop anyone matching the description. Apparently Bishop is one in a million out here.”
Bishop didn’t know how much of his hair had been sticking out from under the beanie, but from the looks his teammates gave him, it must have been a lot.
The cop had stopped where he was, his door open and the cigarette dangling from parted lips. One hand held the still squawking radio the other rested on the butt of his pistol. He was looking back toward the Buick while speaking softly through the open door of the patrol car. It was pretty clear what was going on back there.
“Let’s go,” Marcus said. “Nice and easy like we don’t know what’s going on.”
Jeff eased the bulky black vehicle forward and made a wide sweeping turn toward the exit. They had not gone ten feet before the smoking policeman had his pistol out and was shouting orders in Mandarin. Once again their luck had run dry. All of them had just become suspects.
“We’re blown,” Marcus said into his own handheld radio. “Tell the government we’re already back at the jet and ready to leave. Also, alert the local authorities that our Buick was stolen a few hours ago. Make ready, we’ll be there soon. We don’t want the Chinese government knowing we’re running from the local law enforcement.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Jeff said, eavesdropping on Marcus’ conversation with Henry.
“It’s supposed to mean, floor it!” Marcus said. “Bishop, take the tires out on that patrol car. Jeff get us the hell out of here!”
Chapter 17
The Buick flung a cloud of dust from under its rapidly spinning tires as it pulled a doughnut in the gravel parking lot. Chunks of granite gravel flew like hard projectiles at the police car, pelting the man holding the pistol with enough debris that he had to take cover behind his open door. He fired off a wild round over the top of the patrol car for show. It impacted harmlessly into a tree but the message was clear—these guys meant business.
Bishop hung out the window and steadied himself as he took aim at the other vehicle. Two shots resulted in two blown tires as the expert marksman squeezed off his perfectly aimed slugs. As quick as he could, Bishop was back in the car and ducking with the rest of the team as Jeff guided the hefty Buick out onto blacktop. It fishtailed madly as Jeff tried his hardest to right the vehicle and get it going.
Perhaps it was the luck of the local police force, or maybe their saturation of the area because of the recent crime spurt, but two police vehicles just happened to be passing the opposite direction as they blew out onto the backwoods highway. Had the cops been just a few feet closer, they would have smashed into the careening backside of the Buick. To no one’s surprise, they had their sirens blaring while making squealing U-turns in a little under a second.
“What now?” Jeff asked. “We just try and lose the tail and hope we make it to the airport?”
“No,” Marcus said, pulling the slide back on his pistol. “We lose the tail and make it back to the airport. There is no try in this case. You can’t think of anything you can do to lose these guys?”
“Yeah,” Jeff said. “Drive really fast and hope they aren’t as good as I am.”
“Stay off the main highway and try and get us back toward the shop we just came from. You need to lose them long enough to drop a few of us off somewhere. It’s the only hope we will have to distract these guys from continuing the chase.”
“You want to get out?” Jeff exclaimed. “I’m not following.”
“Just get us in a crowded part of the city and we’ll make a diversion. Stephen, I need you to come along.”
“No problem, boss,” Stephen said in a thick Irish accent. “You got it.”
Jeff had floored the accelerator and was careening through the twists and turns of the country road at breakneck speeds. If the driving worried him in the least he did not show it. It was as if Jeff was a NASCAR driver and this was his vehicle of choice. It had to help that he knew the area. He slowed down for more than one sharp turn just in time to keep them from flying off the road and into a forest of trees.
The pursuit was only five minutes old before the team found their first break. The city was looming before them and side streets had begun presenting themselves for the skilled driver. He slammed the car to the left sending a cloud of white smoke from beneath all four tires as the car sailed around a corner between two tall buildings. The lead pursuing driver had been taken by surprise and did not make the turn. He slammed on his brakes, stopped dead just before slamming into a light pole and had to reverse. The other police vehicle had been trapped behind the lead car, impatiently waiting for the driver to right himself. It was just the break that Marcus had been praying for.
Jeff pulled hard to the right at the next intersection and clipped the curb, sending the car bouncing hard around the corner. Trash piles peeked up over low cinderblock walls lining each side of the street—it was a back alley. At the far end they could see a small dumpster painted green indicating the huge hunk of steel was once used for recycling. For the time being, the team was out of sight of the pursuing police.
“Let us out,” Marcus yelled as they approached one of the trash dumps. “Keep the radio on and circle back around in a few minutes. We will take care of the cops, and you ditch the car next chance you get.”
Jeff nodded and locked the brakes on the old car just long enough for Marcus and Stephen to tumble out onto the hard concrete street. In no time at all the two were hiding behind a makeshift dumpster and the Buick was racing off again, sending yet another plume of tire-smoke into the air. The police were only moments behind. Their sirens echoed from building to building as they passed Marcus’ hiding spot.
“What’s the plan?” Stephen said over the screeching sirens.
“We’re going to hotwire a vehicle and use it to get the hell out of here,” Marcus said.
“How do you suppose we’re going to stop those
cops?”
“I’ve got a plan, but you’re going to have to hoist me up onto one of these roofs. Do you think you can do it?”
“Yeah, boss. I can lift a hundred and ten pounds, trust me.” Stephen had a sense of humor even in dire situations.
“Can you hotwire us something and create a roadblock, too?”
“I suppose so,” Stephen had to think for a moment before he gave a definite answer. He had never been asked to hotwire a vehicle in a foreign country. This would probably be fun.
“Good, let’s get a move on.”
Chapter 18
Jeff was having a hard time controlling the vehicle as he careened around the tight corners of the outer city. The buildings were built close enough together that a rickshaw could maneuver with no problem. A full-length Buick sedan was something else entirely. To add to the stress of driving through the horribly paved streets, the cops had abandoned all caution and had begun firing random pop shots through open windows. If Jeff got out of this predicament, he swore he would never take another job in Xian.
As he rounded another corner on his way back toward where he’d let Marcus and Stephen out, he lost control of his rear end and found himself struggling to control a fishtail as half the car rode up onto the curb. Were it not for a sturdy street pole, he would have spun almost completely around. Instead, the back of the Buick slammed into the pole and righted itself back into the center of the road. The already bullet-ridden back window blew out of the car like an explosion had blown it out from within and the fender sent sparks into the air as it dragged from its remaining facet along the pavement.
Cynthia was holding on as tightly as she could to the handle above the passenger side door. Since she did not have enough time to buckle her safety belt, she was fighting centrifugal force with white knuckles. Her small body threatened to slide across the seat or out of the open window with every turn.
David was crouched down as low as he could go in the back seat, hoping a stray bullet would not take the top of his skull off in the mad dash to escape. None of the men in either patrol car were accurate with a pistol, especially in the wildly careening car chase they were taking part in. However, with the amount of ammunition being fired from the pursuers, he did not want to take a chance. Even a bad marksman can get lucky.
Bishop, on the other hand, was busy firing very deliberate shots at the pursuing vehicles. He had already blown the radiator in one of the vehicles but they were adamant and reckless and driving their vehicles into the ground. As the Buick bounced over a particularly deep pothole, his pistol bounced a little too high and he put a slug in through the middle of the pursuing vehicles windshield.
Good thing nobody was there, just glass and a rear middle seat.
“Jeff,” a crackled Marcus came over the radio. “Pull back in—we’ve got an ambush set up. Once you’re on the street, slow down to about twenty. I’ve got one shot at this and I need you to go slow.”
“They’re firing at us!” yelled Jeff, though he was not holding the radio. His frustration over being shot at was apparent.
The turn for the street was rapidly approaching and Jeff was ready with his emergency brake. Timed perfect, the brake-slide would put them expertly down the center of the alley. The alternative outcome would be a crushed Buick, wrapped around a light pole at forty miles an hour. A round smashed through the driver-side mirror, reminding Jeff that he had more to worry about than a car crash if he got this wrong.
He pulled the emergency brake and sent the black Buick into yet another careening sideways slide. Were the front bumper any closer to the curb it would have scraped paint away, but the car straightened out perfectly. They came out of the slide dead center between the buildings on either side. A stunt driver could not have done it better.
Jeff punched the accelerator for a second, forgetting what Marcus had said in the heat of the moment before pulling his foot reluctantly from the gas. He actually had to step on the brake to get them down to twenty kilometers an hour. It felt like they were moving at a snail’s pace and within seconds the cops were mere inches from their bumper. The team, even Bishop, crouched as low to the floorboards as they could against the withering onslaught of small arms fire.
“Hurry it up, Marcus!” screamed Jeff at no one in particular.
A hiss erupted from the back passenger tire as a round exploded through the rubber sidewall. One more round somehow passed through the middle seat between Bishop and David and impacted the center console in the dash of the car. It blew the volume knob off the radio before lodging itself somewhere deeper inside the car’s guts.
Like an answer to all of their silent prayers, a silhouette appeared above the rooftop to the right hand side of the Buick. At the same instant, a commanding voice came over the radio telling Jeff that he had better punch it. He complied without question and was hardly looking over the steering wheel as the car sped up at full throttle.
Marcus heaved the cinder block from over his head as hard as he could at the pursuing cop car. The time it took for the heavy forty pound block to crash into the top of the car’s windshield was greatly reduced with the extra force that Marcus had put into the heave. It smashed the windshield into a spray of glass. Out of sheer reaction the man driving tried to ram the brake pedal through the floor, sending the car skidding sideways. The whole ordeal could have ended in a tragic accident, but Marcus had made sure the cops were going slowly enough so that they could recover from the devastating blow. They were stopped in moments, guns pointed at the rooftop.
The time the brick had bought them allowed the Buick to pull ahead and round a corner. Marcus made sure to keep the police’s heads down with a few well-placed shots that landed in heaps of rubbish. While Marcus kept the police in their vehicles, Stephen was moving a heavy dumpster into the center of the road effectively cutting the Buick off from the pursuing cops.
It was now up to Marcus to make a quick escape. He sprinted from rooftop to rooftop, all connected by thigh-high brick walls. Stephen had already disappeared so it was all up to Marcus to both move and stay covered. The hundred yards he covered would have qualified him for an Olympic hurdling team even while crouched. The idea of some misguided police officer climbing up onto the roof and drawing a bead on him only made Marcus run faster.
If the police had any intention of firing on Marcus as he bound from rooftop to rooftop, they did not act on it. Not a single shot was fired while he ran at full speed across the skyline. He smiled to himself, content with the fact that both a dumpster and a broken down police vehicle would block their escape. Not to mention the fact that Stephen was rigging one more surprise for the cops if they did break through.
At the end of the line of buildings was the Buick idling in the center of the side road connecting all the alleyways. Stephen had already used a large bowie knife to gouge a massive hole in the gas tank and was just about to light it when Marcus plopped down next to him. He was up, gun trained between Marcus’ eyes, in a fraction of a second.
A smile broke across Stephen’s face as he quickly withdrew the gun from the center of Marcus’ head. He motioned to a little blue Bongo pickup truck as he threw a smoking cigarette, courtesy of Jeff, into the growing puddle of gasoline. The liquid immediately exploded into a ball of hot fire and started expanding rapidly. Marcus and Stephen both trotted away from the now burning vehicle, thankful that it had carried them so far, and joined the rest of their team in the Bongo pickup.
The grin he shot his team was that of exhilaration and thanks. The little blue truck sputtered as it made its way off down the last of the side streets the team would ever see in the outskirts of Xian. Everyone there was thankful to be alive.
Jeff tried his hardest to keep from complaining over the loss of his favorite car.
Chapter 19
“The official coroner’s report came back an hour ago. The dental records don’t match. John Flipske was not buried after all.”
The report was coming in from Gregory Scott, th
e team’s superior officer in Washington, D.C. They were speaking over the satellite connection from the same briefing room in the spacious military jet that they had hours earlier. As soon as the Bongo truck got within sight of the airport, the team had ditched it and walked the extra distance to meet up with the aircraft on their own private tarmac. Like Marcus had requested, the engines were warm and the crew was ready to leave.
“Go figure,” Henry said. “No one really thought we had a zombie-ghost thing running around killing people.”
“I was hoping,” Phillip whispered to himself.
“Well, good news for you Phillip, a new zombie thriller is coming out next week,” Gregory roared. Though Phillip tried to look abashed, he actually looked interested. “You had a shoot-out with local authorities! Though I applaud you for setting yourselves up as victims, this whole situation should have been avoided.”
“It couldn’t have been,” Cynthia chimed in. “Somehow the guard knew we were at the restaurant even though we didn’t see him. There is no way he could have heard us down there, either. We were as quiet as we could possibly have been.”
“So it stands to reason that he saw you enter the establishment, which means that you were not careful enough!”
“And how does that account for the fact that I all but took his foot off with my pistol and he didn’t even bleed? Or stumble even! The guy was possessed, Gregory, I swear. I tried reasoning with him in Mandarin, tried explaining our situation and used my gun as a last resort. If I hadn’t done what I did, I wouldn’t be here right now.”
“You still should have been more careful,” Gregory chided. “It’s not part of our MO to be caught in the act. And what do you mean he didn’t even bleed?”