CHAPTER 54
“Enough firepower?” she asked.
“More than plenty.”
She checked the rearview mirror again. “I think we have company.”
Three motorcycles were closing fast. One accelerated in the left lane, a machine so low-slung the driver’s knee could almost touch the pavement during turns.
It was green and white and seemed built for speed, the engine screaming from the strain.
It drew up beside them, and the helmeted man on it held a gun in his right hand, along with the handlebars.
She kept the van steady on the road.
A second motorcycle, this one orange and black, approached from the shoulder on Cotton’s side, another gun wielded from a hand on the handlebars. A quick check of the speedometer showed 120 kilometers an hour.
“Make it tough for them,” Cotton said.
“With pleasure.”
She swerved and the orange-and-black cycle took a direct hit, wobbling hard to the right, then bouncing off the shoulder, ejecting the rider skyward.
“One down,” he said.
“There’s also a car behind us,” she told him. “Keeping pace.”
“That will be the real trouble,” he said.
He found one of the rifles, released the safety, and prepared to fire.
He then rebuckled his seat belt and made sure the shoulder harness was tight.
Hers already was snug. She swerved to the left and popped the green-and-white cycle, sending it skidding on its side, twirling in circles, also ejecting its driver.
“That’s going to really make them mad,” he said.
A new sound, a big throaty rumbling, caught her ear as a gleaming chrome giant of a motorcycle slid into view in her outer mirror.
It had been following the car on their bumper.
She saw that it was ridden by a large man with blond hair, wearing black gloves with the fingers cut off.
The cycle swung out to the left lane and sped up parallel.
The urge was to floor the accelerator and break free.
But that was not the plan. So she allowed the cycle to draw parallel.
“Keep that rifle ready,” she said, watching both their front and rear.
The man on the cycle lifted a hairy arm and gestured that she should pull over. She shook her head, and he motioned again.
“Make him work for it,” Cotton told her.
She pressed the accelerator. The Mercedes’ engine revved as they shot forward, gaining on the cars ahead.
The cycle to her left dropped back and she watched from the outer mirror as the man reached beneath his leather jacket, produced a gun, and fired.
A loud bang signaled that one of the tires had blown.
Left rear. Then another shot and a second tire exploded.
The van dropped down at the rear. The steering wheel twisted hard right.
She grabbed tight and tried to yank the wheels back.
But the van veered off the highway, past the shoulder, into the grass on the other side.
A sloping embankment filled with ferns and greenery inclined downward before trees started that lined the right-of-way.
The van clunked along but the laws of physics could not be ignored.
For every reaction there was indeed an equal and opposite reaction.
Forward momentum and the unstable surface flipped the van to the passenger side, and they started sliding down the incline.
She gripped the steering wheel in a death grip.
The crate in the rear also held to its moorings and stayed put.
They kept sliding.
Then stopped.
“You okay?” Cotton asked from below her.
“I’ve parked better before.”
“Look at you. Being funny.”
She knew what to do and released the seat belt, working the door lever, kicking the panel out and open.
No way to exit from Cotton’s side. There’d only be a few moments to act.
The motorcycle and car would have to do some backtracking.
Cotton handed her a rifle and she pulled herself out of the van.
Up the incline at the highway the motorcycle returned, along with the car.
She hopped off the van. Cotton followed her out, tossing her one of the handguns.
“Let’s make our shots count.”
She understood. Careful with the ammo.
They both retreated to the side of the van away from the road, using the upturned vehicle for cover. Three men stood above with guns, which they fired their way. Bullets pinged off the van.
“Thirty meters to the trees behind us,” she told Cotton.
“I’ll give you cover to go first. Then it’s your turn for me.”
No sense arguing, so she readied herself to run. Cotton aimed the rifle and sent a burst of rounds upward. The three men scattered, disappearing backward out of sight. Cassiopeia raced to the trees and made it there without incident.
She knew what to do.
The three men reappeared and were about to fire again.
She sent more bullets their way as Cotton made his escape to the trees.
They both directed their aim and attention to the road above.
Silence reigned for a few moments, and they waited like prey for the hunter to move in.
Then one of the men drew close to the edge and she saw that he toted a shoulder-launched weapon.
RPG-7. Russian through and through. The most widely used anti-armor weapon in the world.
“They came ready,” she said.
Two of the other men fired their way, but the distance and angle made it tough to zero in on a target.
The rounds whizzed away overhead. Cover fire.
So the man with the launcher could do his job.
There was a bang, then smoke as the high-explosive warhead roared from the barrel and traveled the fifty meters down to the van.
It impacted with force, then exploded. The van ripped apart with a blast of light, sound, and heat.
The incendiary devices they’d brought along and the fuel in the gas tank joined in the eruption, obliterating the van.
A sprouting black cloud of smoke blossomed skyward.
They used the trees for shielding and watched as the men above retreated to the car and cycle, leaving in a hurry.
The van continued to burn.
Crate and all.