I said: “Whatever happens, don’t get involved. Keep your head down and—”
“The hell with that,” he said with determination. “You’re our responsibility.”
The Suburban came almost to the rear bumper, and then a hell of a thing happened. The van’s engine cut out and the Suburban passed us and Lindsay said, “The hell just happened?”
“They’ve just killed your engine.”
“How the hell did they do that?”
“I’m sure it’s top secret somewhere.”
The Suburban sideswiped the van, up forward Ski shouted, and the van skidded and went off the road, into a drainage ditch. Lindsay scrambled to keep his balance but he fell, as my county wheelchair and I fell on top of him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I screamed as my bandaged leg hit something, and there was a god-awful banging and tearing noise as the van came to a rest on its side. I was sitting on the tilted floor, and Lindsay was crumpled up in the corner, bleeding from his head, part of the lift mechanism pinning his legs down. I shuffled over to him, checked his pulse in the neck. Steady and strong. I only had seconds to do something. His pistol was in his lap. I grabbed it, wasted a second or two to find a spare magazine, couldn’t find one. There were shouts and a loud bang coming from outside.
I went back to the rear, popped open the door, and it flopped open. I lowered myself to the drainage ditch, dressed only in pajama bottoms and top, with thin hospital slippers on my feet. My feet were instantly soaked.
I peered around the edge of the van. The Suburban was parked just a few yards away, engine running. Driver was still inside, ready to speed away when the job was done. One man was approaching the still form of Deputy Bronski on the road. Another was flanking him, giving him cover. Made quick professional sense. Taking care of the closest armed opponent. Both had on jet-black fatigues, boots, web belts, black Navy watch caps, with earpieces and microphones set before their mouths. Each had a stubby automatic weapon in his hands, looking like a variant of the popular Swedish-made H&K 95.
I was spotted by the far man and he said something sharp and quick, and I think I surprised all of us when I fired first, sending off at least four shots as they quickly flopped to the ground and rolled to one side, weapons rising up.
By then I was trying to make my way through the woods.
“Trying” was certainly the word of the day. I had to drag my bandaged leg behind me, the slippers were about as useful as wet cardboard, and after a couple of yards I was shivering from the thin clothing I was wearing.
I glanced back several times as I moved as fast as I could, going up a tree-covered rise, not thinking much of anything except to make some distance. Making distance meant time, and time meant the increasing chance that somebody would be coming by this rural road and would think enough of seeing a county sheriff’s van on its side to make a phone call.
Illusions? Had none. These were two very professional, cool, and capable men on my trail.
I paused, panting. Thought I saw some shadows moving down below, about fifty feet away. Two more shots from my borrowed Glock 10mm. Which meant about six rounds left.
Hell of a last stand.
I kept moving, tripped, and fell. Yelled out. Rolled over, sat up, looked at my leg.
The bandage on my right leg was seeping blood through my thin cotton pants.
“Day just keeps on getting better,” I whispered.
I got up, my slippers now black with dirt and debris, as well as my pants legs below my knees. Shivering hard now. Watching through the woods, boulders, and brush. Feeling at that very moment what a deer felt like in these woods every November.
More shadows moved down there.
Damn, they were good.
I kept moving, panting, crying out every now and then as a sharp rock or stick poked into my feet.
More distance made, but I was slowing down. To the right, an old cellar hole appeared, from some farm that had tried to make it here a century ago and had failed. I had a brief thought of going into the hole, burrowing in, and hiding, but those guys back there probably had thermal detection devices with them. Trying to hide in a hole like that would just make their job easy.
Above all, I didn’t want to make it easy for them.
I kept moving.
The hill got steeper and steeper. It felt like ice picks were being jabbed into my lungs. A shot from behind me.
I whirled, saw one of the gunmen slipping behind a birch tree. I brought up the pistol and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
Nothing happened.
I moved another foot or two, tripped once more, swirled and fell flat on my ass, my bottom now soaked through. I grimaced and stretched my legs out. I was sitting against a thick old pine tree.
I pulled the trigger again.
Nothing.
It was jammed.
I clawed at the action.
Jammed.
A spent 10mm cartridge was jamming the works.
I looked up.
The two gunmen were moving quickly and silently up the slope of the hill, not too far away.
Looked around on the ground for a stick or a length of wood or an abandoned screwdriver to pry out the empty cartridge.
Nothing.
Tried with my finger, broke a fingernail.
Raised my head.
The two men were so close that I could see that the one on the left had black bushy eyebrows, and the one on the right had thin fine blond eyebrows. Both had their weapons up to their shoulders, aiming right down at me. I even saw that the guy on the right had a shotgun-type weapon slung over a shoulder, which I thought was overkill.
Hah.
I threw the jammed pistol at the near gunman. Here we go, I thought. The circle was about to be closed. Was almost killed by my government some years ago in Nevada, and now the job would be finished in a minute or two, in my home state, by my government or somebody else out there associated with them.
They came closer.
I cleared my throat. “If you’re hoping for some begging, you’re wasting your time.”
The gunman on the left brought a gloved hand up to the microphone in front of his lips, murmured something, paused, and then nodded his head, like he had just been told something. He held up his right hand, palm up, and turned, ensuring that his partner saw the motion.
He came closer, knelt down on one knee in front of me.
“How you doing?” he asked, his voice deep Southern and relaxed.
“Had better days.”
“No, you haven’t,” he said.
“I think I’ll be the judge of that.”
He grinned, revealing white teeth that could put him on a GQ magazine cover. “Nah, you’re wrong, Mister Cole. ’Bout ninety seconds ago, we just got orders to cancel the op. So you’re good to go.”
I took a breath. The cold air tasted pretty fine. “You wouldn’t be lying, would you?”
He shook his head. “Nossir, wouldn’t do that.” He eyed me and said: “Can see you’re bleeding like a son-of-a-bitch. Wish I could stick around and help ya, but we gotta get movin’.”
“Like you helped the two deputies?”
“Ah, they’ll be copacetic, just you wait and see. Guy in the van’s got a dinged head, other guy’s out with a nap.”
“Looked pretty permanent to me.”
“Nossir,” he said emphatically. “Ivan over there nailed ’em with a vortex gun. Drops ’em for about a minute or two, long enough to secure ’em.”
“What the hell is a vortex gun?” I asked, again looking at the stubby shotgun-like weapon on the second gunman’s back. Ivan spotted me doing it and said something loud and piercing in what seemed to be Russian. The man in front of me turned his head, spoke Russian crisply right back at him. A long time ago I could have puzzled out what they were saying, but those days were long gone.