Airbag. It had been the last thing on his mind when he swung the car around the corner and saw the Range Rover heading his way. He'd had maybe two seconds to react.
Must be them. I've got the initiative … I've got the surprise … Speedometer, forty. The Range Rover's big, heavy, but is there really another way? Is there?
Airbag.
Next had come the instant decision, and a second later the impact as he drove into the Rover.
Now, pinned back in his seat, he knew he may have a few second's grace. The berserkers had met Major Higgins, that much was obvious, and now the major was probably a wet stain somewhere down on the valley floor. And those two Chinooks he'd seen flying over the motorway, maybe forty men packing everything they'd need to take down the berserkers?
Well, there were the flames. And there was the Range Rover.
The airbag was not deflating. It turned from white to red before his face, and Cole tasted blood, and panic settled in. He reached down into his lap and found the .45 still wedged under his thigh. It took him a few seconds to work it loose, then a couple more to aim blind, hoping that the crash had not skewed his sense of direction.
He closed his eyes, opened his mouth and pulled the trigger. The blast was huge. His ears were still ringing as he opened his eyes again and watched the airbag deflating before him. He quickly took stock. His legs still hurt like fuck, which meant he probably hadn't broken his back. He jiggled his ankles and felt the insides of his shoes, so no trapped feet. He felt as though he'd been thrown against a wall and had a gang of thugs set upon him with hammers and blowtorches while he was unconscious, but right now that sort of pain was good, because it meant that he was alive and conscious and not paralysed.
The windshield had shattered, either from the impact or the gunshot. Cole popped his seatbelt and used the pistol to knock out the remaining glass. It fell into his lap in diamond chunks, and dusk poured in.
The Mondeo was buried in the front of the Range Rover. The vehicles seemed to merge, and it was difficult to tell where one began and the other ended. Something hissed, something steamed, and Cole could smell petrol, potent and rank. The Rover's windshield had shattered and Sophia hung half-out, splayed across the bonnet. Her head was ruptured and leaking. Between Sophia and Cole, twisted into the buckled bonnet of the Mondeo, Lane.
Cole gasped.
Lane opened his eyes.
Tom sat up and shook his head. He'd been thrown against the back of the middle seats, and Natasha had tumbled to the floor at his feet. She groaned in his head, mumbling words that made no sense, and if he closed his eyes he saw jumbled images of what she had called home. They were blurring now, flickering, as if delivered to him on a fifth-generation videotape and viewed on a dodgy TV set. He could almost feel her belief and hope fading away.
None of them had been wearing seatbelts. He had been holding Natasha to his side as Lane drove them up out of the valley of death. Tom's view through the rear door had been apocalyptic: the blazing wrecks of the two helicopters, the shell of the BMW still flicking with flames, the ruptured bodies scattered across the car park and piled against the front door of one of the closed units. The sun had gone down and the fires painted the ground red. Or perhaps it was blood.
And then their brief conversation that shattered hope, Steven in his mind, and the car had driven straight into them. Tom had seen Cole in the driver's seat a split second before impact. The Range Rover's headlights had turned his face white, and his eyes were wide and dilated with madness.
He hoped that Cole was dead.
Tom looked forward. Lane had been thrown straight through the windshield and now lay twisted up on the Mondeo's rippled bonnet. Sophia was halfway through, and there was a lot of blood. Dan had gone between the front seats and crashed into the dashboard. He was moving slightly, mewling like a hungry kitten, and Tom saw his wounds, some of them new, gushing fresh blood. He was impaled on the gear stick, shuddering as he tried to lift himself off. Sarah, exhausted from her recent fight, had bounced against the rear of Sophia's seat and lay crumpled across the leather. She was not moving.
"Natasha, I think this is bad," Tom said. She answered only with another moan, and more confused images of the home it seemed she would never know.
A gunshot rang out, loud and frightening in the stunned silence following the crash. Tom ducked down, looking forward at the Mondeo. The doors were still closed, the windshield was badly cracked, nobody moved. One of the vehicle's headlamps still burned, and he could make out shadows and shapes around the cars. All of them seemed to be moving, and he wondered whether all the soldiers had been on those Chinooks, or if others had been sent here by road. Maybe there would be more shooting soon and that would be it. Maybe—
A gaping hole appeared in the Mondeo's windshield, widening quickly as the shattered glass fell inward. It was Cole. His face was lit a devilish, bloody red from the bridge of the nose down. His eyes widened as he saw Lane, not two feet away from him.
For a second the scene froze, and Tom thought that instant would be his last. Nobody moved or made a sound, and perhaps he'd had a heart attack, his last wretched second on this earth imprinted on his mind as his body seized and his mind prepared to fade away.
Then Cole thrust his pistol into Lane's face and fired once, twice, again, and Lane's head came apart.
Tom ducked down behind the seat and looked at Natasha.
Mister Wolf, she said, and he nodded.
"I have to get you out of here," Tom whispered. "The others are in a bad way—still healing from the fight, maybe—and if he traps us in here we're dead. I smell petrol. I'm going to open the back door and run with you. Are you ready? Maybe we can hide, or maybe we can make it back to the industrial estate. There are lots of guns down there."
You've never fired a gun.
Tom shook his head. "It can't be that hard."
Here! Natasha said. There are guns in here! Sophia's rifle, Lane's pistol.
Tom nodded, mind running so fast he could barely keep up. He had to distract Cole first, then scramble over the seats, find one of the guns, figure out how to use it, find out where Cole was, shoot him before he was shot himself. Easy. "Easy," Tom said. And he smiled. Because something was coursing through him and making him feel good. The wound in his back was a pleasant throb rather than a burning pain, as if he were having a constant massage. His fingers and toes tingled and his senses seemed sharpened as the light faded fast. Far from being terrified at what the next thirty seconds may bring, he was looking forward to them.
He smelled blood, and it was as good as wine.
More glass smashed, Cole grunted, and Sarah stirred in the seat in front of Tom. Dan was still whining as he tried to lift himself from the broken gear stick. Sophia remained still and silent.
Several more gunshots, and this time they were directed into the Range Rover. Someone gasped in pain. A bullet blasted through the seat three inches from Tom's head and shattered the rear window. Then he heard Cole's curse and the metallic snick of a magazine being ejected.
"Now!" Tom whispered. "We won't have long." He shunted the handle on the rear door and kicked it open. "Run!" he shouted, dipping one foot out and scraping it across loose stones on the roadside. Then he turned, waiting until he heard Cole slip from the wrecked Mondeo and sprawl to the ground.
I love you Daddy, Natasha said. Tom smiled, confused, touched, and heaved himself over the rear seat. He landed half on Sarah and she lashed out with one hand, catching him across the face. He grunted and felt blood began to ooze from the gash she had put there. Heard her low, throaty growl. He wanted to tell her what he was doing, but by the time he'd done that Cole would be behind the Rover. Then, maybe five seconds until he realised he'd been duped. Tom had created a make-or-break scenario for all of them; he could smell the petrol, and once Cole knew what was happening he could ignite the wrecked cars with one careful shot. He punched out at the girl berserker and forced his way forward between the front seats. Dan whined louder, expecting help or trying to fight. Either way, his waving hands were ineffective. He was weak, still bleeding, and one of the wounds in the side of his head leaked something that was creamy green in the subdued light.