“I suggest you get off the road as fast as you can.”
“That’s the best you’ve got?”
“That’s all I’ve got.”
“Can’t you shoot its tires?”
“Sure, but it won’t do anything to stop the Mercedes,” Genevieve countered. “Those are run flat tires. I could shoot at them all day and the damned thing would keep moving.”
The Mercedes G63 slammed into the back of them.
Tom worked the steering wheel, trying to keep the car from flipping off the side of the road, into the terraced landscape below.
Behind them, the Mercedes slowed.
Tom won the battle for control of the Montecarlo, finally ending the spin, facing the opposite direction from which he’d started.
The Mercedes drove right at them.
Tom planted his foot on the accelerator, locked the wheel full right, and turned into a private driveway.
The Mercedes didn’t stop.
It drove past them, continuing its pursuit of Sam Reilly.
Tom reversed down the driveway, back onto Strada Provinciale delle Cinque Terra and continued his journey south to La Spezia.
Genevieve glanced at him. “Nice driving.”
“Thanks.”
“You know you’re not going to catch up with Sam, right?”
“I know. I’m hoping we don’t. Otherwise it means Sam’s come off his bike. But just in case, I want to follow him all the way to the airstrip.”
“Good idea.”
Tom’s cell phone rang. He picked it up. Listened and thanked the person on the other side.
Genevieve took one look at his expression and asked, “What is it?”
“That was Gabriele Valentino.”
“Who?”
“The Italian Police Chief who you accidentally abducted.”
Her face tightened. “Hey, it was dark. Besides, we put him back, and told him what was happening. Hell, his own boss had signed off on the project. No harm no foul, right?”
“Right.”
“So what did he say?”
“The plan didn’t work. They set up a line of road spikes across the Strada Provinciale delle Cinque Terra tunnel.”
“What did Sam do?”
“He turned around.”
“Ah shit… he’s going to try and get to the airstrip through the second route, isn’t he?”
“Yeah… you wrote it down before, what was its name?”
“Via Fabia Filzi.”
“That’s right.”
Tom pulled his handbrake and swung the Montecarlo round in a single movement, before exchanging the brake for the accelerator again.
He swore loudly.
Genevieve asked, “What?”
“Sam’s still heading for the original rendezvous point!”
Realization dawned on her face. “Oh shit!”
“It’s all over if Sam boards that aircraft!”
Genevieve loaded a new magazine into her Uzi. Her face was set with defiance. “Then, we’ll have to just make sure he never reaches the rendezvous point.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Andre Dufort paced the aircraft.
It stood at the very end of the grass runway, lined up ready to take off at an instant’s notice. Its massive, steel, tail gate was fully down and level with the ground, filling the massive cargo hold with sunlight and a warm breeze.
The elite team of mercenaries wore black uniforms designed for night missions, along with Kevlar vests and helmets. They checked their weapons and waited. The men had been recruited from around the world, each, having served in some of the world’s best military special services. There were two US Navy SEALs, one French Groupe d'intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale (GIGN), one Polish member of GROM, two from the British Special Boat Service, and a member of the Sayeret Matkal of Israel. They were a lethal team, his men, all discharged from their respective services, now loyally serving the highest bidder.
They wore no national flag on their uniforms.
As far as anyone was concerned, these men were stateless — on a mission that no one government would publicly sanction.
The men talked among themselves. It was typical, pre-battle banter. They had all read their target’s profile. They knew the man as well as he knew himself — or, in this case — better than he knew himself.
What they couldn’t work out was why someone had paid their exorbitant fees.
Naftali, the only previous member of the elite Sayeret Matkal of Israel, was the only one to say what they were all thinking out loud. “I mean, the guy’s basically a rich kid with a penchant for archeology.”
Edward, a British Special Boat Service member, grinned. “Did you read his service in the US Marines?”
“There wasn’t much in it. He trained as a helicopter pilot, toured in Afghanistan, but came back early and had an honorable discharge,” Oliver, a Polish member of GROM said. “My guess, his father pulled strings in Washington and had his boy come home unharmed.”
Edward shook his head. “No, if Sam Reilly was trying to avoid putting himself in the way of danger, he would have made some very different life choices.”
“How so?” Naftali asked.
“Think about it. If you’re rich, capable, and keen to avoid getting killed, you wouldn’t get involved in half the maritime rescues that Sam Reilly’s been involved in. Besides, according to some of these files, he’s tougher now than he was after he finished his induction training with the marines.”
The lines in Andre’s face darkened. He said, “I can tell you from personal experience, the man’s dangerous. Some people can be made into fighters, like iron can be forged into a steel blade, but the deadliest are born that way. They have a survival instinct that can’t be shaken. Sam Reilly is one of those men.”
Dwight, one of the ex-Navy SEALs who had been stationed outside keeping watch, came running up the open tail gate. In his right hand he carried a pair of digital binoculars. “Sam Reilly’s got company!”
“Who?” Andre asked.
“I don’t know. There’s an antique green car sports car. Someone inside it appears to be shooting at him.”
Andre’s voice hardened. “Is he hit?”
“No. I don’t think so.” Dwight said, “He’s also being pursued by a Mercedes-Benz and also a couple police cars.”
Andre stood up. To his men, he said, “You’re authorized to kill anyone who comes close to our man.”
“Understood,” the mercenaries replied in unison.
Andre headed forward toward the cockpit. He opened the door. Two pilots with American flags fixed to their uniforms were slumped dead in the aft section of the cockpit, usually reserved for the flight engineer. Both pilots had execution style bullet wounds to the back of their heads.
The sight made him frown.
It was a necessary evil, but it was a terrible business. The men were doing their duty just as much as he was. More so than he was, they were doing it for their country, whereas he was doing it for the highest bidder.
His pilots — both Russian — looked over their shoulders. “What is it?”
Andre said, “Sam Reilly’s got company! Prepare to take off hot!”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Sam’s heart hammered in his chest.
A stray of bullets raked the ground just to his left. He swerved right. Cutting through a gap in the trees, and turning onto the airstrip grounds. It was basically a long straight field, with rows of oak trees lining the outside edge.
The green Montecarlo followed about ten seconds behind.
At the far end of the airstrip, Sam spotted the C17. It had turned around with its nose into the wind, ready for takeoff. Its four Pratt & Whitney F117-PW-100 Turbofans were turning, making a sharp whining sound.