The headlights approached from the east, haloes inside haloes resolving into individual vehicles—two Humvees, a cargo truck, an SUV. They slowed down when they saw the hazard lights and flares, changing lanes, the escort helicopter circling over the stranded 18-wheeler then heading back to pick up the convoy again. The lead Humvee had just passed Gena's position when the desert exploded.
Flashes. Concussions. A super-intense flare.
One of Chertok's thugs took out the chopper with a shoulder-mounted missile of some kind. A Stinger, maybe. The helicopter burst apart in a fireball that shattered its cabin and blew its skids and tail section across the sky. The frame hung there for a second, then the burning mass of its engine and flapping rotors dropped through the air and crashed into the desert in a cloud of blazing fuel. Burying her head in the sand, Gena covered her ears with her hands, then she looked up again and started to crawl through the brush in a panic.
The wind was dragging a plume of white smoke across the freeway—the blowback from the launcher—and she could see Chertok's team running through the scrub and spreading out along the embankment, firing on the convoy, full auto, muzzles flashing, rocket trails streaking through the air.
The rear Humvee exploded, cartwheeling across the highway, its black chassis wrapped in flames, tires and side panels breaking loose as it tumbled over the meridian. The other vehicles were swerving all over the westbound lanes, tires shrieking, kicking up dust along the shoulder.
The lead Humvee blew up, directly in front of the SUV, flying apart in a huge cloud of burning gas that lit up the interstate. The cargo truck slammed into the SUV and they locked fenders, out of control, the SUV bouncing over the shoulder and slamming sideways into the ditch running along the meridian, the cargo truck crashing into it head-on, steam gushing from its buckled hood...
*
"Come on," Chertok yelled, tugging at her sleeve. "Let's go."
Gena stood up, dazed, her eyes throbbing, her ears still ringing from the concussions, the shriek of tires and tortured metal. They scrambled up the embankment, Chertok shouting orders over his headset mike, checking his watch, the rest of his team fanning out according to some prearranged plan. The highway looked like a war zone, the wreckage of the convoy spread along a hundred yards of blacktop. Behind them, one of the Humvees lay on its side on the meridian, burning inside a cloud of oily black smoke which drifted across the eastbound lanes. Up ahead, the lead Humvee was burning out of control, a mass of flames and black metal smeared across both lanes, the meridian and embankment. The helicopter had set off a small wildfire when it crashed onto the dry lakebed a hundred yards away.
"Don't worry," Chertok told her. "We'll be gone soon."
The cargo truck and SUV lay tangled on the meridian, but they hadn't caught on fire. As Gena followed Chertok across the highway, trying to hear what he was saying on the radio, a shot rang out inside the truck's cab, lighting the interior like a flash bulb. The men had finished the driver. Then another shot went off in the desert where the chopper was burning—the pilot must have survived the crash somehow—and a third shot echoed on the highway up ahead. The muzzle flash showed two of Chertok's men standing around a figure writhing on the pavement in front of the semi. The driver of the lead Humvee, perhaps. They shot him again and the flash throbbed in Gena's eyes. Just then, a web of lightning jumped across the sky to the north, dancing over the mountains. She could smell rain on the wind when it changed directions.
"How's the cargo?" she heard Chertok yell. "Is the container breached?"
Headlights glared in the desert and the three Durangos started across the lakebed, weaving around the blowouts and arroyos on their way back to the freeway. Roaring in four-wheel drive, they clattered up the embankment and parked clear of the burning Humvee, their drivers getting out to open the rear hatches and start packing their gear. Another shot went off to the east and Gena jumped a little, glancing at Chertok and then looking away again.
"Don't open it," he yelled over his headset. "Bring it up here when you finish with the VTU's."
Five of Chertok's goons materialized out of the smoke, trudging down the middle of the westbound lanes, two of the men carrying rocket launchers across their shoulders. The highway was still clear in both directions, the storm getting closer, sand blowing across the pavement. Gena flinched when Radek walked up to them, dragging Ahmad by his sleeve. The fat little banker gaped at Chertok, terrified, glasses crooked on his nose, his parka smeared with grime and ashes. Radek held a Glock in his left hand and he frowned like a gargoyle in the light from the fires, his eyes like black pits, his bristled jowls glistening like damp leather. Chertok's brother was a deaf-mute, a giant—six-two, two-forty—a former power lifter from Kizylar with massive shoulders and a face like a vampire bat. Releasing Ahmad, he signed to Chertok that everything was ready, crossing two fingers on his right hand and pointing them at his gun.
"Military issue," one of the goons said, nodding at the Glock in Radek's hand. "We got it off the driver in the tail Humvee."
They were all standing around Ahmad now, watching him curiously.
"Chertok," the banker whimpered. "Please..."