Dagar didn’t say anything to that. He allowed Avery to lead the way out of the bazaar and onto the quiet, residential side streets. He resisted the urge to turn around and look back for his IMU backup. He hoped that they were nearby and prepared to intervene.
After two blocks, Avery heard Reaper’s voice in his ear, warning him that they were likely being followed. The Sideshow operators could spot the IMU watchers now that they were clear of the bazaar. Avery said nothing and didn’t react to the news. He thought that by this time Reaper would have likewise signaled Poacher, who was standing by in his own vehicle, a Datsun, waiting to tail Avery and Dagar.
Four blocks later, Avery and Dagar reached the Lada and got in. Avery locked the doors, keyed the ignition, put the car into gear, and accelerated down the street. He took a couple unnecessary turns along the way, to give the IMU an opportunity to reveal themselves to the Sideshow team.
They drove in silence for several minutes before Dagar asked, “Why not go to your embassy?”
“The embassy’s not safe either.”
“Will you leave the country?”
“No, my job here isn’t finished yet.”
“I see.” Dagar tried to sound thoughtful. “So you did not find anything in Yazgulam?”
Avery merged onto the A384 highway going south. In his rearview mirror, he spotted a van slipping into traffic behind him, with another car in between them. He hadn’t caught sight of Poacher’s Datsun yet, but knew he was back there somewhere. “Not exactly. Cramer’s dead, but I’m still going to find those responsible.”
“Oh,” was all Dagar said. He’d heard what he needed to know and decided to give up on the friendly interrogation.
As he drove, Avery heard the rustling and zipper of Dagar’s jacket and became aware of movement through his right peripheral, Dagar’s hand coming up with something black. When Avery turned his head, he was staring down the barrel of a CZ-999, the Serbian version of the SIG Sauer P226. Behind the pistol, Dagar’s face was sweating rivulets.
Avery looked ahead and returned his focus to his driving. He kept both hands firmly on the wheel and remained relaxed, but internally there was the onset of panic. Although he’d anticipated something like this and knew he was still in control of the situation, having a gun pointed at your face was always a disconcerting experience. Avery’s Glock was holstered at his side, beneath his windbreaker, but there was no chance of reaching it.
He’d considered disarming Dagar earlier, but he hadn’t wanted to play his hand too soon. He also hadn’t expected the Tajik to do something as amateurish as this. He was edgy and being impulsive, not thinking his actions through. In many respects, this was even more worrying than a calm, collected professional.
The van was now right behind them and close, Avery noted.
“Get off at the next exit,” Dagar commanded.
The turn approached.
Half a mile, a thousand feet, three hundred feet, then they passed it.
“What are you doing?” the Tajik shouted.
“Take a deep breath and relax, Dagar,” Avery said. “We’re doing fifty-five. Pull that trigger, you’ll waste me, but my foot is on the gas and I’ve got the wheel. What the hell do you think will happen to you? This piece of shit doesn’t have airbags.”
Dagar considered this and accepted the logic. He regained his composure. “Slow down, please, and pull over to the side of the highway.”
In response, Avery pressed the gas a little harder and picked up speed as he steered the car out of the lane, overtaking another vehicle, and moved over to the shoulder. Horns blared behind him. Before Dagar could protest or make any threats, Avery abruptly applied pressure to the brakes and threw the Lada into a fast and hard full stop.
Dagar jolted forward. He didn’t wear a seatbelt, and his ass lifted off the seat as he was propelled forward against the dashboard. He lost hold of the CZ-999 when his head smacked against the windshield, his forehead putting a crack in the glass. The pistol fluttered out of his fingers and went across the top of the dash.
Behind them, the brakes on the pursuing van screeched as the driver pulled over, halfway off the lane onto the shoulder, no more than twenty feet behind the Lada. Three more cars veered around the stopped vehicles, horns blaring, and continued down the highway, making way for Poacher’s Datsun.
The ex-Delta NCO saw the stopped vehicles ahead. Not knowing what was going on, he braked hard and stopped ten feet behind the van and reached for the SOCOM pistol resting on the passenger seat, while keying his mike to ask Avery for a SitRep. He received no response.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, Avery was aware of this activity and the positions of the other players. Beside him, Dagar, dazed, bled from his forehead and broken nose. Then his eyes lifted and locked onto the CZ-999 on the dash.
Avery followed Dagar’s line of sight to the gun and saw the Tajik’s hand shoot out. Avery reached past Dagar and swept the pistol off the dashboard. He pulled back the slide to eject the chambered bullet and pressed the magazine release. Then, adjusting his grip so that he held the pistol by the barrel, he raised it in the air and hammered the butt against Dagar’s head, once, twice, three times. Dagar groaned and slumped forward.
Drawing his Glock from beneath his jacket, Avery opened his door, got out of the car, and hurled the CZ-999 off the side of the highway. He spun around on his heels and raised the Glock, holding it two-handed in the weaver stance, pointing it at the van.
Doors on each side of the van were already open, and the three occupants stormed out. They carried AKS-74Us — the compact 7.62mm carbine version the AKM; essentially a cross between an assault rifle and a submachine gun. The two men who had been in the back of the van turned at once around to cover the tailing Datsun, where Poacher had just sprung up from behind the open driver side door, while the van’s driver set his sights on Avery.
Avery’s reaction time was faster.
The IMU driver barely got the AK to his shoulder before Avery sighted his Glock, aligning the white dot between the aiming aperture and over his target. His finger broke the trigger with three and a half pounds of pressure. Instantly, recovering from the recoil, he reacquired his aim and fired again.
Both shots struck the IMU in the chest. The Uzbek’s body jerked, and he sluggishly took another step forward. His arms sagged with the AK carbine, as if it suddenly weighed a ton, and he staggered back a couple steps. Avery’s third shot took the Uzbek straight through the face and dropped him.
Sixteen feet away, before Avery fired his kill shot, another IMU directed a stream of fire across the hood and through the windshield of Poacher’s Datsun. Poacher, positioned behind the open driver’s door, got off a couple rounds from his Mk 23 SOCOM pistol. The Uzbek took the hit below his ribs. He stayed on his feet, but he fell back for cover.
Hollywood movies aside, cars are easily perforated by bullets and made for terrible cover. Doubled over and keeping his head low, both hands on the SOCOM pistol, Poacher maneuvered back toward the rear of the car, AK fire following him.
With the Glock angled toward the ground in front of him, Avery advanced along the shoulder of the highway, the van coming up on his left as he closed the gap toward the Datsun.
The van obscured his view, and now he didn’t have eyes on either of the IMU pair, but he heard the familiar crack of AK fire and the return of an unsuppressed SOCOM pistol and two voices calling out in frantic Uzbek.
Avery took wide deliberate steps, covering as much ground as he could with each step, while scanning and maintaining situational awareness. He swept his eyes over the interior of the van, through the windshield and open door, as he passed it. It was empty.
As he stepped up alongside the van toward its rear, offering him a view of the Datsun now, Avery heard a new burst of AK fire.