“Hurry up, goddammit!” said Leet, practically shouting into his ear. “They’re right there!” She opened fire.
“Move your ass, Tex!” Max yelled out the window. He dropped his foot and charged the tables.
Big Tex raised two middle fingers, his wife just one.
Fuck it, you’ve been warned!
Umbrellas tumbled over; plastic tables and benches upended, shattered to bits as he plowed through the dining area. The phony cowpoke dipped out to Max’s left, while his wife made a wrong turn and ran directly into the wall on his right, bouncing off the bricks. Max might have grazed her, perhaps running over her foot, but he had no time to think about it, as he held down the horn to part the stream of humanity on the sidewalk.
He peeled out onto the Strip’s northbound lanes.
Leet and the Suburban traded fire as the latter vehicle negotiated the crowd without slowing, clearing the way for the BMW. Tex’s wife fell beneath the Suburban’s grill when it struck her at forty mph. An unknown number of other civilians also fell—run over, shot, or simply diving for cover. Max glimpsed one poor soul getting run over after he’d panicked and fled onto the Strip. No civilian blood soaked his own hands as of yet. As for Leet, he couldn’t say. She’d fired a lot of bullets in the last few moments.
The Suburban was back on their ass as they headed into the intersection between the Venetian and the Mirage. Traffic jammed the three northbound lanes. Fuck it. Max crossed over into oncoming traffic four lanes wide. Horns blasted, including his own, as cars swerved to evade his insane path.
As Max narrowly dodged an oncoming bus, Leet crowed, “Yes!” as she laid off the trigger.
Over the engine he heard the shriek of the Suburban’s tires as it careened wildly and smashed through the steel barrier posts guarding the sidewalk, before crashing head-on into the Siegfried and Roy monument before the Mirage. Whether she had hit a tire or the driver, he couldn’t say. The fireball outshone the Strip’s neon when the SUV exploded, Max catching the conflagration for a moment in the rearview mirror.
After another near collision with an oncoming vehicle, Max spied pulsing red strobe lights approaching from the north, though the police cars weren’t yet visible. Given the thick police presence on the Strip, it surprised him they’d taken so long to join the chase. He hung a hard left onto a street that ran between the Mirage and Treasure Island.
“The beamer?” he asked, swerving to hang a right at the next intersection, deftly avoiding another tour bus.
“Just made the last turn.”
“Wonderful.” But I’ll fucking shake you yet.
Another line of cars sat at the next red light. Max wasn’t sure what road was ahead, but he knew that a left turn would take him straight to I-15, now very close by. Again he took to the oncoming lanes. He raked a vintage Volkswagen bug and then steered around another car before cutting left, rear tires smoking as they scrabbled for purchase. The Road Runner’s swinging rear end clipped the fender of a stretch limo, sent it spinning into the concrete barrier at the roadside. Two vehicles following the limo crashed into it, starting a mini pile-up that would hopefully slow the BMW.
Upon straightening out, Max found himself behind a wall of three cars blocking the four-lane road. The far-right lane remained clear, all the invitation he needed. He punched the gas just as the driver in the adjacent lane swerved over to take the onramp for 15 north. The offending car swerved and Max broadsided him. The car careened off in a spin. In the next instant, the Road Runner likewise spun out of control. A car rammed the left front fender, rattling his teeth and sending a shooting pain up his neck. The Road Runner’s horn started blaring, wouldn’t stop, as he tried to steer out of the maelstrom.
The Road Runner broadsided the concrete median barrier, a hard slam. Alarmed, Max realized he’d reversed direction, now pointed into the sparse oncoming traffic. Most of the cars headed for 15 had stopped behind the four-car pileup he’d started. Other wrecked vehicles sat randomly scattered about as their drivers tried to shake off their shock and pain. Three police cars, possibly more, had turned off the Strip and were now headed for the pileup. The horn kept blasting, impossible to tune out or shut off.
Leet cursed incoherently in the back seat, as Max stole a quick scan of the airspace above them to see if a police helicopter was on the scene yet. Only a matter of time.
The BMW deftly cut through a gap in the wreckage. Still somewhat dazed, Max didn’t even know if the Road Runner was still road worthy. He found it so, however, when he jammed it into first gear and cranked the wheel, laying down rubber as he pulled a 180, clipping a stalled vehicle with the prow as he maneuvered.
The BMW trailed by less than thirty yards as Leet opened fire with the Saint’s final mag. Bullets thunked into the car body, flew past Max’s head, ricocheted forward off the steel dashboard. One round somehow found the radio, which popped as the primitive electronics within burst into flames, filling the cabin with the pungent smells of ozone, burning copper, and singed plastic.
Miraculously, Max hadn’t been hit. As for Leet and the others, he couldn’t say. She continued to return fire as Max passed a string of cars and then hung a left onto the access ramp for southbound I-15.
“You all right back there?” he asked.
“Got a scratch but I’m okay. Solid tires,” Leet groused. “Can’t you go any faster?”
“Unfortunately not.”
Over the non-stop horn Max barely heard the squealing whenever he laid on the gas. Full out, foot to the floor, the Road Runner managed only seventy mph. White smoke billowed from beneath the hood and streamed over the cracked windshield. Not a lot of smoke but enough to indicate that the Road Runner had had enough for one evening. They would be beamer food in a few seconds if he didn’t think of something.
As Max drove in the center lane, a reckless trucker doing ninety or so barreled down on them in the left lane to pass. Max had no time to consider divine intervention, pure luck, or civilian casualties when he swerved into the fast lane, slammed on the brakes, and cut off the rig.
Squealing tires and blaring air horn drowned out all other sounds when the truck driver stomped on his air brakes, jack-knifing the tractor trailer across the highway. An instant later the BMW rolled awkwardly from beneath the still-moving trailer, minus its golden roof. Two headless men now occupied the front seat, blood fountaining from their severed necks as the car swerved and drove itself into the concrete barrier at the edge of the freeway, its airbags saving no one.
Max moved to the slow lane and drove on, dropping down to sixty as he tried to baby the Road Runner through another twenty miles. We’ll never make it. If the engine doesn’t die, the cops will run us down. The view in his mirror brightened as the diminishing BMW caught fire. Fortunately, the tractor trailer blocking the highway would buy him a few minutes to escape the police. Not much time, especially if they got a good look at this car.
Daniel’s groans interrupted Max’s reverie. “How’s he look?”
Leet glanced over. “Bad. We have to get him on the plane and see to him.”
“Working on it. You okay, Shai?”
“Uh-huh,” he said softly, the words nearly drowned out by the unceasing horn.
“Can you shut that thing off?” she asked.
“Don’t you think I would if I could?”
She sighed. “Good point. Nice driving by the way. I was sure you’d get us all killed.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but we aren’t out of this yet. We need a new car; this baby will never make it down to Jean. Don’t worry, I have a plan.”
“Get to it then. This car is as conspicuous as a parade float. It’s only a matter of time until we’re spotted.”
Max passed a couple of exits, the Road Runner gradually losing speed. He didn’t want to stop too close to the Strip; that entire vicinity would be crawling with cops by now. The electrical fire in the radio had died, replaced by the smell of burn
ing rubber from beneath the hood. Max guessed it might be an engine belt shrieking when he dared goose the gas pedal.
He took the exit for Russel Road and made a left into the first gas station he saw. The Road Runner’s ceaseless horn attracted the attention of several drivers fueling their vehicles, but there was nothing to be done about it. Max pulled to the edge of the lot, as far from Russel as possible, and shut off the engine. The horn, alas, would keep blasting until the battery died.
“Get Daniel ready to go while I secure a car.”
“Don’t you mean steal a car?”
“Cut the semantics already.” Max walked across the lot toward the convenience store, taking stock of cars and drivers as he went. Take anything, just do it fast.
He spotted his quarry, a relatively attractive blond, walking into the store from her car, a Dodge Neon with faded blue paint. As she approached, Max pegged her for a stripper either going to work or coming home. She didn’t have the looks to be a showgirl, nor was she trashy enough to be a full-time prostitute. He stepped to her car, found it locked, so he took position in a shady area just around the corner of the building and waited for her to return.
“Excuse me,” he said, stepping out of the shadows as she opened the driver’s door. “I’m kinda lost, can you tell me how to get to the Luxor?” He wore the dorky smile and gawking eyes of a tourist on his first trip to Vegas.
She rolled her eyes, sighed. “Jesus, really?” She glanced at the sky in exasperation.
Max seized her arm in that instant, spun her around, and placed his left hand over her mouth as he choked her out with a sleeper hold. He tried to do it as gently as possible, while simultaneously pulling her back into the shadows. Briefly she struggled, but her fire died soon enough as he flexed his right arm against her carotid artery. Perhaps she was returning home after dancing a long shift. Max took her behind the store and bound her wrists and ankles with zip ties. He took her keys and her cell phone, placing the latter behind the car’s front tire as Leet showed up, leading Shai and supporting Daniel as he stumbled along in a state of shock.
“That was quick,” Leet said.
Max shrugged. “Eh, she wasn’t my type. I take it no one saw anything?”
“Doesn’t look like it.” She loaded Daniel into the back seat of the small sedan.
As Max backed from the space, he gave the steering wheel a turn for good measure, grinding her cell phone to bits. They were back on I-15 in less than a minute.
Several cops flew past them on the interstate. Perhaps they had a description of the Road Runner from one of the diners at the McDonald’s. Max kept to the speed limit. The cops didn’t give them a second glance during the half-hour ride down to Jean.
Their jet awaited them in an asphalt lot near several smaller aircraft. Max parked the car as close as possible, though it would still be a hundred-yard walk to the plane.
“Daniel’s out of it,” Leet said. “You’ll have to carry him to the plane.”
“Roger that.”
Max got his first look at Leet’s scratch, a grazing head wound over one ear. Though superficial, it had bled quite a bit. I’ll clean it up on the plane.
Daniel’s hair hadn’t turned white, but his skin had assumed the pallor of curdled milk, though from lack of blood or pure terror Max couldn’t say. They carefully extracted him from the back seat. Max lifted him in a fireman’s carry, taking great care not to grab his injured arm, and toted him to the plane while Leet carried the briefcase and hurried Shai along.
A stunned pilot standing atop the stairway leading to the cabin gave them a look of bewilderment when they reached the steps, followed by a penetrating downward stare of disapproval. “What are you doing? This is a private aircraft.”
“And we’re your passengers,” Max said as he hefted Daniel up the stairs. “Now get in the cockpit and get us out of here.”
The pilot checked his old-style analog chronograph watch. “We depart at ten, sir, if indeed you’re scheduled on this plane. I have my doubts.”
Max reached the top of the stairway and stood before him. “No mistake, this is our plane. Now get outta my way and get us in the air.”
“I’m just beginning my pre-flight inspection. We will leave precisely at ten. Now let’s see some ID, I don’t believe—”
Leet squeezed around Max, shoved her FBI credentials in the pilot’s face. “Here’s my ID, asshole. Now get this fucking plane in the air, or I’ll put your ass in Leavenworth for obstruction.” Her bloody head made her look like a refugee from the zombie apocalypse, heightening the effect of her threat.
The pilot’s jaw dropped as he stood there dumbstruck.
“Well, get moving!” she barked. “They love guys like you in federal lockup. Old, easy prey…”
Max cracked a smile. Class dismissed.
They were airborne in less than five minutes.
CHAPTER 13
The pilot glowered at Leet through the open cockpit door as she exited the plane with Daniel’s briefcase in her hand. She led Shai down the stairway. Max followed, assisting Daniel, the scientist’s left arm draped over his shoulder. He received only a dirty look from the pilot, a welcome change. I’m not the asshole for once. Imagine that.
Max took his time getting Daniel down the stairs, dismayed once again by the smell emanating from his gunshot wound. His condition hadn’t improved at all. It’s probably worse than when we left. They’d tried cleaning his wound on the plane, but they couldn’t get below the surface without potent painkillers to numb his agony. Even oxy wasn’t strong enough.
The plane’s hatchway slammed closed before Max had descended even halfway into pre-dawn darkness.
“You need some help, Max?” asked the lone man standing at the foot of the stairs, his redhaired and bespectacled friend Otto Christiansen.
Max had met the electronics expert years before in the Marine Corps and had last seen him less than a year ago. Other than Max, only Otto and Swift had survived the French Guiana mission, during which Otto’s skills proved invaluable.
“Thanks, pal, but there’s only room for one.”
“Gotcha.” Otto introduced himself to Leet, who greeted him with openly distrustful professional courtesy. Who could blame her after all the shit we’ve been through?
“Damn, he looks bad,” Otto commented when Max reached the tarmac. “Gunshot?”
“Yeah, we gotta get him up to DC in a hurry. You got the car?”
“Right over there.” He pointed to a black Suburban parked under a streetlamp next to the squat control tower that governed the tiny airport in the middle of North Carolina’s piedmont country.
“Déjà vu,” Max said.
“And not the good kind,” said Leet.
Otto shrugged. “Rental place opens at eight if it’s no good.”
“It’s fine,” Max said. “We just got chased by one is all. How far to I-95?”
“About thirty miles, but I wouldn’t be in too much of a hurry. You should get this man looked at.”
“No time, and we can’t risk hitting the ER. Every agency in existence is after him.”
Otto chuckled as if he expected no less. “No need for the ER. My new girl happens to be a nurse. She doesn’t go to work until tonight. I’ll give her a call, have her meet us at my place.”
“Thanks, but trust me, that’s not a good idea,” Leet said.
Max shook his head. “Afraid she’s right, Otto. We’ve been chased damn near every minute since Saturday night. I don’t want to involve you any more than I already have.”
“Judging from the smell of that wound, you don’t have a choice. Wherever he’s going, he won’t make it in that condition. Let me help you out.”
Max figured they were safe for the moment. The Agency would seize the departure logs of every airport in the Vegas area, though it would be a dead end. To throw them off, Max had booked the flight into Teterboro Airport in northern New Jersey. He’d ordered
the pilot to change course for North Carolina once they were airborne. Irked by their presence, the pilot complied after a bit of grumbling about FAA regulations. Still, eager to get them off his plane, North Carolina was a shorter flight.
“There’s breakfast and a shower in it for you,” Otto continued. “No offense but all of you smell like goats and gunpowder.”
Max hesitated. “Okay, you sold me. But if suits show up at your door by lunchtime—”
“Then I’ll deal with ’em. No more arguments, buddy; let’s get goin’. I’ll grab the car.”
***
An uneventful night, Max appreciated it. Before sunup they hit the road. He piloted the Suburban north up 95 toward DC. Eager for Swift’s location, Max called Ben.
“Morning,” the man said into his ear. “What’s your status?”
“Tired and pissed-off, but we’re inbound with your package.”
“Awesome, glad to hear it. ETA?”
Yeah, I’ll bet you’re glad. “About three hours.”
“Excellent! I knew I could count on you.”
“All things considered, right? You forgot to mention someone.”
“Right… the boy. Sorry, but I thought he might give you second thoughts.”
“So you sprung him on me by surprise? Not cool, Ben. Not at all. If there’s a next time, I expect full disclosure.”
“I hated to do it to you. But you got the job done; that’s the important thing.”
Max went silent for several moments. “Yeah. Anyway, what about Swift? You dig up anything yet?”
“Working on it as we speak, and I’m not the only one. For a retired Agency ox, he’s pretty elusive, but we’ll track him down. Got a couple of leads already.”
“Well maybe you can put a couple more men on it. I didn’t destroy half of Las Vegas last night to hear about leads. I want a location, asap.”
“No problem, I’ll put two more agents on it. We should have something by afternoon.”
“Thanks, buddy, appreciate it.” He hoped Ben caught the acid in his voice. “You meeting us at the safehouse?”
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