I rounded the corner. The stinking alley was empty except for overflowing dumpsters and graffiti-sprayed walls. Carl wasn’t here yet. “Where are you?” I hissed. “I’ve got it. I’m at the back of the club.”
His voice was slightly distorted in my ear. “Coming. I almost got hit by some crazies having a car chase or something.”
I glanced back to the club. Nobody had followed yet, but it wouldn’t be long. I jerked my head around at the noise of an engine. A vehicle pulled into the alley, only it wasn’t Carl’s van, but another car full of angry Muslims, and I immediately recognized the driver screaming into his cell phone as Yousef, one of Al Falah’s men.
No cover, no place to hide. No time to run. Yousef’s eyes widened when he saw me there, splattered in his boss’ blood, stolen briefcase in hand. He was probably on the phone with the guard I had just booted. Ten yards to that vehicle, Yousef behind the wheel, one passenger, no other options, and the 9mm was in my hand before I even thought about it. Car doors flew open as my STI cleared leather.
Time slowed to a crawl. The passenger was quicker, coming up out of the vehicle, stupidly leaving cover, stubby black MP5 rising. Dropping the case, my hands came together, arms punching outward, the gun an extension of my will. The front sight entered my vision, focused so clearly that the bad guy was only a blur behind it. I stroked the perfect trigger to the rear.
The sound should have been deafening, but it seemed more of a muted thump in the narrow alley. The heavy 9mm had virtually no recoil, and I fired as fast as the sights came back into place. The man with the submachine gun fell, his weapon tumbling from his hands. My muzzle moved, seemingly on its own, over the driver’s windshield where Yousef, face betraying his shock, was slower to react, cell phone falling from his open hand as he wrestled with his seat belt. The glass spiderwebbed as I opened fire, obscuring my target. Uncertain as to his fate, I continued firing, pumping round after round through the car. The slide locked back empty. The spent magazine struck the ground as I automatically speed-reloaded.
I had done this kind of thing a few times.
Carl’s white van careened wildly into the alley, locked up the brakes and narrowly stopped inches from the car’s bumper. “Down! Down!” he screamed out the window, creating a weird off-time effect as my radio earpiece repeated it a millisecond later. Without hesitation I flung myself into the garbage. The muzzle of a Galil SAR extended from the van’s window as Carl fired over my head. The cracks of the .223 were ear-splitting compared to my 9mm.
Rolling over, I could see dust and debris spraying from the club’s rear exit. The guard I had kicked a moment ago was sliding limply down the door frame, already on the way to his seventy-two-virgin welcoming committee.
“Let’s get out of here!” Carl shouted. I scrambled to my feet, grabbed the case, and ran past the shot-up car, keeping my gun up, scanning for threats, and pulled myself into the already moving van. We sped off into the streets, Carl’s beady eyes flickering rapidly back and forth, looking for cops. I reholstered my gun and watched as my hands began to shake.
“Did you get the computer?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Didn’t get hit. Thanks for asking,” I replied.
He rolled his eyes. I opened the case, and inside was the unharmed laptop. So at least we hadn’t screwed everything. Months of planning and preparation, Phase One almost done, Phase Two ready to go, and all screwed because some mystery person whacks my target in public. Damn it. Damn it. Could we still pull this off? We had to. We sure couldn’t afford to fail.
I closed my hand into a fist as the trembling continued. I was going to figure out who screwed us, and I was going to make them pay.
Chapter 5:
Grand Theft Auto
VALENTINE
“Nightcrawler, Xbox, this is Control, report! Give us a status update!” Anita sounded anxious over the radio.
“We’re fucking busy right now!” Tailor snapped. We quickly moved down the two flights of stairs and out the back door of the building. We stopped at the fence. Tailor went through the hole we’d cut first, his carbine pointing to our left, up the alley. I followed, pointing the heavy SR-25 to our right. I was startled when four muffled shots rang out; one of the bodyguards had come around the corner, and Tailor had cut him down. The man crumpled to the ground, his MP5K clattering on the pavement.
Moving quickly, I opened the door of our truck, an extended-cab Toyota pickup, and tossed my gear onto the backseat. I then climbed into the driver’s seat. Tailor jumped into the passenger’s seat. I put the pickup into gear and stepped on the gas.
“Look out!” Tailor yelled. The bodyguards’ Range Rover had pulled into the alley ahead, blocking our exit. They got out and started shooting. Worse, the alley wasn’t wide enough to turn around in. Swearing aloud, I threw it into reverse and stomped on the gas.
We backed down the alley entirely too fast. Tailor fired through the windshield, his suppressed rifle hissing and snapping loudly in the passenger cabin. The enemy took cover behind their truck and returned fire. Several stray rounds peppered the front of our vehicle.
Scrunching down, hoping the engine block would provide me with protection, I tried to navigate the Toyota down the alley in reverse by using my side mirror. Rounds came whizzing through the windshield. I hit the walls five or six times, smashing through garbage cans and terrifying stray cats. Seconds later, Al Falah’s bodyguards piled back into their truck and started down the alley after us.
We exploded onto the main road, still in reverse, and were nearly broadsided by a minibus. I cut the wheel to the right and stomped on the brakes. Cars swerved around us, horns screaming as they went. I put the pickup back into drive and hit the gas. We got moving just as Al Falah’s men made it onto the street.
I sped along, having turned the wrong way to use our preplanned egress route. They were in close pursuit. At that time of the night, the roundabouts in Zubara were clogged with traffic. I didn’t want to get in a gunfight in the middle of a traffic jam, too many bystanders, too many witnesses. I hung a quick right, turning down a narrow side street. Such streets in the city had one lane going each way, with a small roundabout at each intersection. In the middle was a raised concrete divider, almost like a sidewalk, making left turns difficult.
The street was mercifully free of traffic, but within seconds, Al Falah’s men began firing at us again. Rounds entered through the back window and hit the tops of our seats. Tailor and I were hunkered down about as far as we could go.
“Will you please shoot back?” I screamed. He turned around, twisting to his left, and returned fire through what was left of the back window. Hot brass peppered me in the side of the head. I flinched and almost went off the road. “Be careful!”
As Tailor swore at me, we came to the first roundabout. My heart fell into my stomach as I realized a large truck full of sheep had broken down in the middle of it, blocking the road. Several cars were stopped around it. There was no way past. At the last instant, I cut the wheel to the right. The Toyota bucked as we jumped onto the sidewalk. I had to swerve again to avoid hitting a planted palm tree. It was hard to see clearly; the windshield was full of bullet holes and was covered in a spider’s web of cracks.