Tuti Island
John heard the cargo truck slam into the embassy’s Range Rover, but his view of the crash was obstructed by the truck itself, as it plowed forward, gaining momentum and disappearing into the island’s underbrush.
Tim had already recovered after dodging out of the way and was jogging toward John. Amira was motionless on the ground to the left of the entrance.
Please, no, John thought, and breathed in a gasp of relief when she jumped up and brushed herself off, looking at the ruined SUV. “We need to go after him.”
“Tim, secure the scene here,” John said, quickly gathering himself together. “Do a quick sweep for intel, laptops, cell phones, whatever. Leave the bodies. Hide them in the brush, but hurry and take the second truck and the SUV back to the embassy. The device has to be on that truck, and I plan to get it.”
“Go,” Tim said. “I’ve got it covered here.”
“Good,” John said, and turned to Amira. “Come on. Let’s check on Brad.”
John ran over to Brad’s fallen form. Terry and Frank were at their friend’s side, and his black camouflage blouse was open, revealing a small Kevlar vest.
“What the hell happened?” Brad asked, groggy from the gunshot and explosion. “I blacked out.”
“More like you got shot and knocked out by a flashbang grenade,” Terry said. “You seriously brought your vest? You carried it on the swim in your pack? Good on you, man. It saved your life.”
“It’s an old habit. It saved my life once before, and I always use it, no matter how much of a pain in the ass it is,” Brad said, feeling the sore spot on his chest that would soon turn greenish blue.
“No kidding,” John said, nodding in obvious relief. “Glad to see you’re still with us. We’re going after that bastard. These guys will get you back to the embassy. See you there.”
John ran to the driver’s side of the Mercedes SUV and yanked open the door, grateful the keys were in the ignition.
“Why do you get to drive?” Amira asked.
“Because I may ask you to do something borderline suicidal, and you can probably do it better than I can,” John replied.
“I can probably do a lot of things better than you,” she said drily, as she slid into the passenger seat.
John looked at her, tried to give her his Don’t-fuck-with-me stare as he started the engine, and laughed. “You, my dear, are probably right,” he said. He slammed the SUV’s gearshift into drive and pushed the accelerator all the way to the floor. Before he could catch himself, he added, “And when this is over, I may just ask you out to see a few of them. God knows what skills the CIA has taught you.”
She looked at him, silent. Then her face turned deadly as she focused on the road in front of them.
Can’t take it back now, jackass. At least she knows how you feel, especially if you get yourself killed.
He navigated a turn at high speed, and the tires slid on the dirt as he entered the curve. He let up on the pedal, turned slightly into the slide, and allowed the tires to regain their traction. Once they did, he rocketed forward, pursuing the fleeing cargo truck.
The command center was on the far northern tip of the island, and the only escape route was over the Tuti Island Suspension Bridge at the southern end. The driver had a minute’s head start, and John estimated they’d catch up to him halfway to the bridge, in the center of the island where most of the inhabitants lived.
Thank God it’s nighttime, he thought—there’d be a lesser chance of civilian casualties.
The overgrowth of the orchards suddenly vanished, revealing the congested residential center less than one hundred meters in front of them. It was densely packed with single- and two-story tan brick buildings of varying heights and sizes. The road narrowed as it entered the village, and John was forced to slow down.
“Definitely no building codes here,” John remarked absently.
The road veered to the right at an angle, continuing its trek to the south. John maintained his speed, and as they emerged around the bend, they spotted the cargo truck’s reckless getaway through the populated area.
“The bastard’s going to kill someone before we can get to him,” John said.
“Then drive faster,” Amira responded, as straightforward as ever.
“Yes, ma’am,” John said. Regardless of his attraction to her, in her current state of focus, she reminded him of Logan. He immediately dismissed the thought of his friend, not wanting to jeopardize his current mind-set. He just prayed the SEAL team was doing its job.
The SUV surged forward, and buildings flashed by the windows in a blur. The cargo truck grew closer.
Forty yards . . . thirty yards . . .
The lights of the suspension bridge loomed ahead, less than a mile away. John reached sixty miles per hour and desperately hoped that no innocent soul stepped out of one of the houses.
Twenty yards . . . ten yards . . .
The cargo truck slammed on its brakes, its red taillights sending a moment of panic through John.
“What the hell is he doing?” Amira said as John locked up the brakes, sending the SUV sliding across the pavement. In seconds, the rear of the cargo truck increased in size until it filled the entire windshield.
“Hold on. This is going to be close,” John said through gritted teeth.
The SUV ground to a halt, angling past the rear of the truck. John looked up into the driver’s side mirror of the truck and was greeted by an older Chinese man looking at him with a mixture of contempt and amusement, his arm extended out the window.
What the hell is he up to? was all John had time to think before he heard an ominous thud.
A round object landed on the hood of the Mercedes. As John processed what it was, Amira shouted, “Back up! Back up!”
The cargo truck pulled away, leaving its lethal package behind.
It suddenly occurred to John why the driver had used a flashbang grenade at the campsite—he didn’t want to damage the cargo truck or its contents. That meant only thing—the ONERING was definitely in the back.
John reversed the SUV and floored the pedal, hoping the sudden motion would fling the grenade off the hood.
Amira unbuckled herself from the passenger seat in one agile movement and extended herself halfway out the window, reaching for the rolling grenade in the middle of the hood. It was just out of reach, and the backward momentum pushed it farther . . . but not far enough.
Realizing she only had another second or two at most before the grenade—not a flashbang, but the real thing—detonated, Amira flung herself out the window onto the hood, lengthening her slim body for maximum effect. She reached her arm out as she rolled to her left, her body a living corkscrew. Another few inches—got it! Amira grabbed the grenade and rolled one more time, launching herself off the hood and into the air. As she fell, she threw the grenade with all the strength she had, using her momentum to fling it into an alleyway to the right of the SUV.
She disappeared below the hood, and John slammed on the brakes as the grenade detonated.
BOOM!
Shrapnel and fragments of stone and mortar harmlessly showered them as the buildings absorbed the force of the blast.
John gaped at Amira in wonder. She stood, brushed the dust off her black, form-fitting combat fatigues, and smiled at him through the windshield as casually as if she’d been waiting for him all night. That might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
She ran back to the SUV, hopped in, and said, “Let’s go get that motherfucker. He made me tear my pants.”
John looked down at her muscular left thigh and saw a rip three inches long. “Are you going to live?” he asked.
“I am,” Amira said matter-of-factly, “but he’s not.”
John nodded as the SUV shot forward. “Oh, by the way, that’s why I drove.”
“What do you mean?” Amira said.
“Because there’s no way in hell I could’ve done what you just did,” John said, looking at her in wonder.
“Thanks,” she said, averting her eyes from the honesty expressed on his face. “But I’ve seen you fight. You’re not too shabby yourself.”
“I try.”
The SUV raced down the street. The cargo truck was now nearly a quarter mile away. It had reached the end of the island, and the bridge was directly ahead. The truck slowed and turned left, leaning precariously as it raced through the intersection.
“Better try harder. He’s heading to the entrance ramp. There’s only one way to the bridge,” Amira said.
John arrived at the intersection moments later and deftly controlled the SUV as it angled around the corner, reaching the entrance ramp that curved up from the island to the bridge. The cargo truck was moving through the curve as fast as its driver could control it.
Not fast enough, John thought.
The SUV barreled up the ramp, gaining ground with each second. The cargo truck reached the top of the ramp and accelerated on the half-mile stretch of smooth, suspended concrete. The Mercedes rocketed onto the four-lane bridge moments later and pulled alongside the truck, carefully avoiding the foot-high black and yellow divider.
“Gotcha,” John said to himself.
At this time of night, traffic was sparse, with only a few random vehicles traveling in either direction, oblivious to the pursuit that had just invaded their tranquil crossing.
“It’s now or never,” John said, but Amira was already ahead of him. “Try to keep him alive,” he said, thinking of the intelligence value their quarry represented.
She aimed the Steyr tactical machine pistol she’d been carrying and opened fire at the moving target, firing in controlled bursts at the rear left tires of the cargo truck.
Brrp-brrp-brrp!
The muzzle flashes danced across the inside of the windshield, mixing with the soft lights of the suspension bridge to create an odd, lonely luminescence. Combined with the deafening fire in the confined space and the ejection of shell casings, which flickered inside the SUV like miniature fireworks, John felt like he was in some hellish version of a rave.
Amira’s bullets bombarded the left-rear two wheels of the speeding truck, striking rubber and metal and sending a shower of sparks across the pavement below. The driver glanced out the window and sharply turned the truck to the left, trying to force the Mercedes into the short median wall.
John pulled back as Amira emptied the thirty-round magazine, ejected it, and loaded another. The truck was now directly in front of them, and Amira opened fire again, this time aiming for the right rear tires.
Brrp-brrp-brrp!
Bullets once again hammered the truck in a well-aimed fusillade, striking the tires and the rear axle. The machine pistol went quiet, empty once again.
For a moment, John thought their efforts had been futile, and he wondered what plan B would be. They were now a little less than halfway across the bridge and running out of ground.
Thump! Thump!
Suddenly, the truck’s right-rear tires exploded, disintegrating completely as the truck tried to maintain its speed. Pieces of rubber unraveled, discarding themselves along the pavement like dead skin. The truck careened from side to side in large, slow movements, a lumbering beast injured and unsure.
With nothing but the rims remaining, the right rear corner of the truck dropped several inches. Sparks exploded from underneath the truck, the metal rims gouging the surface of the bridge.
“Uh-oh,” John said.
“Yeah,” Amira said in fascination as she watched the slow-motion destruction unfold.
The driver tried to maintain control, but it was too late. The truck turned lazily to the right and lurched toward the railing of the bridge in a wide arc. The flat front cab of the Chinese truck smashed through the bridge’s railing, slowing the vehicle’s momentum.
Fortunately for the driver, the engineers had constructed two sets of railings, one for the road itself, and one for the outer walkways on both sides of the bridge.
Twisted chunks of metal punctured the underside of the truck and severed the front axle. The front of the truck’s cab smashed down onto the pavement, grinding purposefully toward the second set of railings.
A lone man walking across the bridge had stopped to watch the mayhem, realizing just in time that he was about to become part of the action. As the truck broke through the second set of barriers, he ran for his life, sprinting up the walkway and escaping with mere inches to spare.
The truck ground forward, its cab extending out over the open air eighty feet above the Nile, as it was finally, permanently, crippled.
Parts of the second railing broke away and plummeted into the dark waters below.
“That was close,” John said, turning to Amira as he stopped the SUV behind the wreckage of the truck.
“You spoke too soon,” Amira said with awe in her voice.
“What?” he asked, and then turned back to the truck.
The wrenching sound of metal being torn and twisted reverberated across the bridge as the death throes of the mechanical monster slowly lifted the rear of the ruined vehicle into the air. The truck, a giant, broken teeter-totter balanced precariously on the edge of the bridge, inched forward, yearning for the watery grave below.