Pulling into a steady stream of lunchtime traffic, Driver went with the flow, wanting to clear the area but not arouse suspicion. It helped that the locals drove with little care or attention for the rules of the road. Driver was able to weave in and out of lane on the main highway out of the centre, and felt thankful for having something to distract her.
Wells, having shed his relaxed skin, sat upright and alert in the passenger seat. Meanwhile, Pope had his clothes on, he and Baptiste holding their assault rifles out of sight.
Driver glanced in the rear-view at Serik. He was still unconscious under the black hood, his wrists and ankles secured in zip ties. It wouldn’t be long until he came around. A big part of her wanted to stop the pickup and put a bullet in the scumbag’s head. But that was too good for the man. And first they had to get out of Tripoli.
Hemmed in by a jumble of street stalls, the midday bustle thickened into a congested grind. As she looked for a chance to change lanes, Wells’ head swivelled round.
‘Get us out of this, Driver,’ Baptiste said, just as edgy.
‘What do you think I’m doing?’ Driver snapped, pulling around a truck unloading furniture by the side of the road.
Slowly, the traffic began to move. But slow was better than stationary.
‘We’ve got a bike coming down the passenger side,’ Wells said, with worry in his voice.
Driver heard the rasp of a small motorbike engine and checked in the passenger mirror. The bike was moving fast through traffic, cutting through a narrow gap between cars.
‘It’s just Lim,’ she said, relaxing her grip on the wheel.
Lim flashed by on her red scooter. She disappeared, swallowed by the slow-moving snake out of town.
‘You think she’s headed to the rendezvous?’ Baptiste asked.
‘Where else is she gonna go?’ Pope said.
‘I don’t know,’ Wells replied. ‘The airport?’
The enmity between Wells and Lim was testing Driver’s patience as much as Serik’s presence on the back seat. ‘We’re still on track,’ she hissed. ‘Stay focused.’
‘On the subject of focus,’ said Baptiste. ‘Are you seeing this?’
‘Seeing what?’ Wells asked.
‘Gun truck, two o’clock,’ Baptiste replied.
Across the square, a camouflage pickup crawled in the opposite direction, a PKM machine gun on the rear, worked by a man in a black scarf.
‘I’ve got a military-aged male on the roof,’ Wells said.
Driver stooped and peered at the rooftops above. She caught sight of a local on a balcony. A small pair of binoculars to his eyes. A radio to his mouth.
Driver tightened her grip again on the wheel. ‘Militia posing as a civilian. Looking right at us.’ She glanced across the square. The pickup had moved on. ‘Baptiste, where did your two o’clock go?’
‘Coming around behind us,’ Baptiste replied. ‘They’re in a hurry.’
Driver noticed Pope in the rear-view. He pulled his rifle tight to his chest. ‘They’re on to us, big time.’
‘We don’t know that,’ she replied.
‘We can be pretty bloody sure,’ Pope muttered.
Driver noticed two police cars parked in the middle of the square. ‘If we make a move now, we’re committed.’
Baptiste leaned forward between the front seats. ‘I’d say we’re beyond committed.’
Wells caught Driver’s eye. ‘Could be a test.’
‘Test, my bloody arse,’ Pope said.
Driver rolled the Land Cruiser towards the red light standing between them and escape. ‘We’ve planned for this. Everyone stay cool.’
Inside, she was anything but cool. There were three cars in front. A long queue of traffic behind. Parked cars to the left as the road bottlenecked into the intersection ahead.
But the vehicles behind were pulling to one side, clearing a path for the militia truck. And then there was the squad car. Two police officers climbed out and began walking towards the Land Cruiser, hands on the butts of their service weapons.
Pope was getting jumpy. ‘If we’re gonna move, it’s gotta be now.’
‘We can’t make a move now,’ Driver said. ‘We’ve got nowhere to go.’
Wells caught her eye. ‘Pope’s right. We’re sitting ducks.’
‘Just a few more seconds,’ Driver said, willing the traffic light green.
Her fingers tapped the wheel. Her left leg trembled on the clutch, her right foot hovered over the accelerator.
The gun truck was approaching, the police stepping out into the road.
She put a finger to her ear. ‘Magpie One, go to plan B.’
There was no reply. Only static.
‘Magpie One, are you reading me?’
Again, no reply.
‘The bitch screwed us,’ Pope said.
‘We don’t know that,’ Driver replied. ‘Could be the comms.’
Wells wore his vindication on his sleeve. ‘I tried to warn you.’
‘Shut up and switch on,’ Driver said, as the police walked alongside the Toyota.
They unclipped their holsters. But the militia pickup pulled to a stop behind. Two men got out and told the police to back off.
The officers withdrew, returning to the square, as the militia men advanced. Driver revved the engine, every second like an hour.
Finally, the lights turned green. The two cars at the front of the queue moved fast across the junction. Yet the third car stalled, its engine coughing, spluttering, failing to start.
‘Shit,’ Driver said, as the two militia fighters raised their rifles. They yelled for her to turn off the engine and get out of the car.
‘You’ve got to do something,’ Baptiste said, holding Serik down out of sight.
She didn’t argue. Didn’t think. She planted her foot on the accelerator and pulled hard to the right on the wheel.
The police officers scrambled out of the way as the Land Cruiser mounted the high kerb and cut across the square at speed. Locals scrambled out of the way, a rat-a-tat of militia gunfire causing mass panic. Driver glanced in her rear-view – the militia jumping back into the gun truck. Within seconds, it was on their tail.
She arrowed the Land Cruiser off the square and head-on into traffic on the other side. Driver swerved left and right. An oncoming car crashed into a fruit stall. Another ploughed into a bollard as they hit the intersection. She accelerated across a two-way flow of traffic, an inch from a fatal collision. She checked the passenger mirror. It exploded into pieces, caught by a carbon-powered round. The rear windscreen was next, glass exploding over Pope and Baptiste.
‘Fuck this,’ Pope said, propping his rifle on the back seat. As he returned fire, Baptiste moved to join him.
‘No,’ Wells yelled, ‘Protect the package.’
Baptiste dragged Serik low on the back seat. Wells wound down his window, leaned out and unleashed hell on the chasing militia.
Driver looked to the onboard navigation screen. It had stopped talking to her, the screen frozen. She slapped it hard, looked up and swerved in time to avoid a slow-moving truck. The GPS caught up. They were way off course, but the system rerouted, sending them left and downhill.
The road opened up wide and straight. The dial on the speedometer swung to the right. The suspension rattled over giant potholes, while bullets punctured the bodywork of the Toyota. So far, the gunner on the back of the chasing truck hadn’t had a clear shot. That all changed on the wider roads and they opened fire with the PKM.
Driver swerved in wide arcs, left and right, trying to outrun the flak.
‘Aim for the gunner,’ Wells shouted, ducking back inside the cabin of the SUV.
‘One sec,’ Pope said, lying low in the back seat and reloading his rifle. He seemed far more serene in the battle itself than the anticipation of it. Driver knew how he felt. This is what they were all trained for. And the good thing about combat – there was no time to think.
Pope slapped in a fresh magazine, returned to his position and fired off three rounds. Driver caught a glimpse of the action in her mirrors. The third shot hit the gunner in the head. Pope switched to semi-automatic and fired an intense burst at the pickup. The windscreen splattered with blood. The pickup swerved to the left and slammed into a parked car.
‘In 300 yards, veer right,’ said the female GPS.
Pope grinned like a big kid. ‘I forgot how much fun this was.’
Driver turned her attention back to the road, veered right and merged onto another highway. A second armed pickup appeared with a pair of shooters on the back. An army-green military jeep followed close behind, another gunner manning the rear. The jeep pulled out to the side of the pickup and lit up the rear of the Land Cruiser.
‘Still having fun?’ Driver yelled to Pope as she swerved into oncoming traffic.
She steered back onto the correct side of the road. But the chasing vehicles stuck to the Toyota like glue. A volley of gunfire put holes in the seat backs and dash, pinning down Pope and Wells. Driver stayed low in her seat. She noticed her hands sweating and shaking on the wheel.
No, no, not now.
But suddenly, Driver was back in the tiny village of Orin, her body twitching as if hooked up to cables. She could swear she heard Tom’s voice yelling over the din. Her vision blurred. She saw snipers on every roof. Tom’s face flashed like a strobe in front of her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow, couldn’t focus. Felt sick, hot – so hot she was dying.
Wells cried out. ‘Driver, look the fuck out!’
A tanker truck came the opposite way, shaking her out of herself. As she pulled on the wheel, the left rear of the Toyota clipped the front end of the truck – barely a touch, but enough to send them fishtailing towards the kerb. Driver wrestled back control.
Wells shook his head. ‘What the fuck—’
Driver gulped lungfuls of air. ‘I, uh… Sorry.’
The same phantom that visited her at night had found her during the day. He was a ghost. A curse. There was no shaking him, not even at sixty miles an hour.
Again, Pope returned fire through the rear windscreen. Wells joined in, yet to no avail. They were outgunned. And, according to the GPS, a mile short of their destination.
‘We’re not gonna make it,’ Baptiste said, holding a stirring Serik at bay.
Driver couldn’t argue. At this rate, they’d be cut to ribbons, or the Land Cruiser would break down from the pummelling. Yet she saw an opportunity ahead. ‘I’ve got an idea. Hold on to something.’
Driver braked hard and spun the wheel. The Land Cruiser rolled – almost flipped – yet bumped off a kerb and into a right-hand turn down a narrow street. The Toyota banged against parked cars on the left and right. The pickup and jeep followed close behind in single file.
Wells looked up at the rooftops. ‘This was your idea? It’s a shooting gallery.’
‘Look behind you,’ Driver replied. ‘Now the jeep can’t fire without taking out the pickup.’
Wells and Pope took the hint. They returned to their positions and traded bursts with the militia. But the road took a sharp turn to the left. Driver slammed late, the Land Cruiser up on two wheels. It held into the turn as the street widened out again. She glanced behind and saw their pursuers still on their tail. As the pickup and jeep fanned left and right, the GPS rerouted.
Now they were over a mile from their destination, and losing the gun battle with the advancing militia. Driver spotted the gunner reloading his PKM in the rear-view. He swung it round and trained it on the Land Cruiser.