Santos smiled, the tip of the cigar glowing as he took another drag. ‘That’s right, English. We don’t like outsiders who—’
Eddie punched him in the face. ‘Thought so!’
The unexpected blow sent Santos reeling. He collided with the younger and more slender of the other cops, knocking him down. The comandante regained his balance, but was left choking and spitting — the crushed cigar had been driven into his mouth.
The remaining cop jumped back, startled, then fumbled for his gun—
Zane’s leg swept up. His foot caught the cop’s hand just as the weapon cleared the holster, sending the pistol spinning across the room. The man screeched in pain.
Silva gasped, then fled for his office. The other patrons also scrambled for cover. Eddie ignored them and ran for the main entrance. ‘Jared!’
But the Mossad agent was still fighting the third cop, delivering another brutal kick to his chest that sent him crashing against the bar. ‘Come on!’ Eddie yelled. Zane’s gaze flicked between the Englishman and the dropped passports — then he ran after his companion.
The police chief spat out the remains of his cigar and drew his gun. The Israeli immediately changed course, rolling on to a table and grabbing its edge with one hand as he slid off the other side. His weight pulled it over behind him, the hefty wooden top slamming against the floor.
Santos fired twice. The bullets hit the table’s underside — but didn’t fully penetrate, the varnished surface cracking.
Zane flinched as splinters hit him. His impromptu shield had saved him, but now he was trapped behind it, cut off from the exit. And the cop was already moving to get a clear shot—
Santos was suddenly sent sprawling as a chair smashed on his shoulders.
Eddie had returned. ‘Have a seat!’ The Argentinian fell to the floor, broken wood clattering around him. Zane jumped up and sprinted for the door. Eddie turned to follow—
Someone grabbed him from behind.
The youngest cop was back on his feet and trying to tackle him. He didn’t have the mass or muscle to overpower the Englishman, but he was still wiry enough to hold him while his comrades recovered.
Sharp jabs to the chest from Eddie’s elbows made the cop gasp, but he didn’t let go. Changing tactics, Eddie pulled up his legs. The young man lurched with the shift of weight. Eddie kicked down again, twisting to ram his attacker against the counter—
The cop released him — not because he had realised what Eddie was about to do, but simply because he lacked the strength to maintain his grip. Both men hit the bar, the cop collapsing with a pained squawk beside his winded companion. Eddie grunted as he took the blow, using his momentum to roll over the countertop. Bottles went flying. The barman, who had watched the brawl with dumbstruck confusion, finally broke free of his paralysis and ran for the stairs.
Eddie stood. Harsh daylight glared through the door as Zane threw it open. ‘Eddie!’ he shouted. ‘Get to the car!’
Two heads popped up on the other side of the counter. Both the young cops were now back in the fight, the beefier of the pair red-faced with anger. He clawed at his holster, only to find it empty. ‘Dispárale!’ he bellowed. The thinner man fumbled for his own gun.
Santos was also recovering. He was between Eddie and the exit. If the Englishman tried to go around him, he would be tackled — or shot.
Which left—
Eddie vaulted on to the bar and ran along it — then veered towards Santos and leapt…
Grabbing a chandelier.
Light bulbs flashed and popped as the jolt broke their filaments, but he ignored the sparks as he swung across the room — bringing up both feet to catch the startled police chief in the chest. Santos tumbled backwards, scattering chairs as Eddie flew over him. The Yorkshireman landed with a bang on the scuffed wooden floor and raced through the door.
Zane was already in the Jeep. Eddie jumped in as he started it. ‘So much for subtle!’ the Israeli shouted as he put the 4x4 into gear and floored the accelerator.
‘Well, at least now we know we’re in the right place!’ Eddie turned, seeing the three cops barrelling out of the hotel. ‘So you can call your Mossad mates and — whoa, incoming!’
The burly cop had recovered his gun, and he and Santos both aimed at the retreating Jeep. The third man protested, but a double crack of gunfire as Eddie ducked showed that his objections had been ignored. One bullet whipped past, the other striking the rear door.
Zane slammed the steering wheel hard over, hurling the Jeep into an evasive weave. Eddie was thrown against the door. ‘Jesus!’ he yelped — before being flung the other way as the 4x4 swerved again.
More shots. The rear windscreen shattered. Zane spun the wheel again to send the Jeep down a side street, out of the line of fire—
A bullet ruptured the front tyre.
The Jeep slithered off course. Zane tried to pull it back in line, but the 4x4’s back end had already skidded wide.
Choking dust gushed in through the broken rear window. Coughing, the Israeli forced the wheel to full lock and applied more power to catch the skid. But the flat tyre was dragging on the dirt road. By the time he compensated, it was too late—
The 4x4 pounded sidelong into the corner of a building. Plaster exploded and stone cracked, but the Jeep came off worse, the rear wheel ripping from the axle. Zane’s head struck the driver’s window hard enough to crack it, leaving a bloody smear on the glass.
Eddie sat up painfully. ‘Jared? We need to move.’ He squinted at his companion, who was slumped against the door. ‘Jared!’
For a moment it seemed he was either unconscious or dead, but then the Israeli opened an eye. ‘Benjamin?’
‘No, it’s me, Eddie.’ The Englishman pulled him upright, wincing when he saw the damaged window. At best, the Mossad agent would have a splitting headache; at worst, concussion or even a subdural haematoma. ‘They’ll be here any second — we’ve got to—’
A shout told him they were out of time. Santos and his two subordinates charged towards the wrecked Jeep, guns raised. Eddie thought about running, but by the time he got out of the car they would be upon him. Even if he had been able to make a break for it, he was unwilling to leave a wounded man behind.
All he could do was surrender. He raised his hands.
‘Get out!’ Santos bellowed, gun pointed at Eddie’s head. The more aggressive of his comrades circled the crashed vehicle to cover its driver, while the third man held back, uncertain.
Eddie stepped warily from the 4x4, facing Santos. The big man’s sunglasses were back on, eyes unreadable. Was he going to kill him there and then?
‘Jefe!’ cried the youngest man with the same fear. ‘No puedes matarlo!’
The mirrored eyes remained locked on Eddie, his reflection staring back at him twice over behind the gun’s muzzle… then the weapon twitched downwards. ‘On the ground,’ Santos snarled.
Eddie reluctantly lowered himself to his knees. ‘Hands behind you,’ said Santos. ‘Miranda, espósalo.’
The young policeman took a pair of handcuffs from his belt and snapped them around Eddie’s wrists. ‘Vargas?’ called Santos. A reply came as the third cop dragged the semi-conscious Zane from the Jeep and cuffed him. The chief looked back at Eddie. ‘So, English. You thought you could get away? Only your friend is not a good driver.’
‘Yeah, he crashed a Ferrari the other day,’ Eddie replied, already tensing himself for what he knew was coming. ‘Don’t think I’ll let him drive again.’