Running along the top of the moving train was disconcerting. Though he poured all his remaining energy into the effort, he felt like he was losing ground with every step. His progress along the top of the tanker remained unimpeded, but the simple truth of the matter was that the train was still taking him in the wrong direction at a pace nearly equal to his own.
At the end of the tank car, he made a relatively simple leap over the intervening distance, onto the next cylindrical body. Though mindful of the moving surface beneath him, he nevertheless went sprawling as soon as his feet touched down. Fortunately, the opposing forces of motion were in line and he did not slip from the narrow metal walkway, but another moment of advantage had gone to the fleeing killer. Kismet scrambled up and took off again.
By the time he reached the far end of that second rail car, the train had slowed almost to a full stop. His next leap was far less dramatic, and as he ran along the top of yet another tank car, the movement beneath him ceased altogether. Fatigue from his aerobic effort was settling into his legs and chest, but he pressed on, prompted to still greater exertion by the fact that he was finally getting somewhere. However Delta 42 was slowing, hampered by the ruined tire and the driver’s uncertainty about how to negotiate the maze of train cars parked on spur lines at every turn. He closed the distance on the Humvee in what seemed like only a few seconds, then continued ahead along two more rail cars before turning to face the killer.
He moved out to the edge of the catwalk, calculating the effort required to cross the distance and fixing in his mind the exact moment at which he would have to jump. There would be only one opportunity for him to make the crossing — no false starts, no second-guessing. Yet his earlier successes now filled him with confidence, overriding that instinctive fear of falling. As the Humvee crept closer, he drew in a deep breath, then let it out.
Suddenly his world seemed to collapse inward. Blood, rushing to nourish and repair his exhausted extremities, seemed to have been shunted away from his brain, and darkness began closing in around the periphery of his vision. He felt an overwhelming need to vomit.
The Humvee was nearly below him. It was now or never; Kismet had no choice but to make a leap of faith.
The transition from the top of the train car onto the moving hood of the vehicle was not so much a jump as a controlled fall. Kismet made no effort to keep to his feet as he slammed into the molded fiberglass cover, but instead redirected the momentum of his drop into a sprawl across the broad windshield.
Through the dark haze occluding his vision, he could not make out the assassin’s reaction to the sudden assault, but he was not expecting a hospitable welcome. He had not forgotten that the killer was armed with a silenced pistol, but there was a much simpler way for repelling boarders against which Kismet would have little defense. His earlier misadventure had revealed just how difficult it would be to cling to the smooth shell of the vehicle.
The Humvee immediately began to swerve back and forth, but Kismet was ready. Blindly grasping the top mounted windshield wiper arms, he held on as the vehicle bucked beneath him. The driver’s attempt seemed half-hearted. The lost rear tire was proving more troublesome than expected, and after only a couple attempts, the Humvee’s path straightened once more. Kismet did not wait to see what would happen next. He scrambled onto the roof of the vehicle, removing himself from the killer’s line of sight.
The momentary dizzy spell seemed to relent as he resumed moving. It was the rest, not the exertion, that had compromised his blood pressure. He did not find this realization especially encouraging. He knew the effect would only worsen as the struggle continued, eventually reaching a point where he would simply collapse. It wouldn’t do at all to finally capture his foe and then pass out before commencing the interrogation.
The Humvee shifted to the left beneath him, not in an attempt to shake him loose, but simply a turn leading them one step closer to the edge of the maze. As the platform beneath him stabilized once more, Kismet turned his attention to the hatch covering the turret. The sheets of metal were secured from within by several snap-down clamps. He contemplated trying to use the kukri to pry it open, but rejected that plan. His forced entry would likely be so noisy that the assassin would be waiting to dispatch him with a gunshot as soon as he tried to pass through. He would have to find a better solution.
Spread-eagled prone on the roof and still fiercely gripping the driver’s side windshield wiper pivot with his right hand, he drew the gun from his waist pack and wormed toward the left side of the car. He ducked down long enough to look in through the window then pulled back quickly in case the assassin was waiting with gun drawn. Seeing no evidence that such was the case, he reached down with the gun and hammered on the pane.
“Stop now!” He repeated his order twice more, shouting each time and punctuating his words with taps on the plastic surface.
His demand was ignored. Delta 42 continued limping across the rail yard, angling toward the gaps between parked trains and scraping over the metal tracks. Like a table with one short leg, the entire vehicle wobbled uncertainly as it moved, dropping down on the chewed-up remains of the rear wheel then rebounding onto the three good tires. But then, as the path out of the maze became apparent, the driver did something that seemed completely counter-intuitive. The Humvee began to accelerate.
He was forced to stow the gun once more and hold on with both hands as the vehicle picked up speed. The last set of tracks fell behind as it pulled onto a graveled road, and as the engine poured more and more power into the three good wheels, the vehicle seemed to stabilize. Kismet however, began to feel more and more uncertain as their velocity increased, and a glance into the hot wind blasting against his face supplied more than adequate reason for concern. The road on which they were now hurtling forward ended in a locked gate.
Reason dictated that the driver was bluffing. Surely no sane person would charge such an obstacle headlong. Yet, as the barrier drew nearer, Kismet became more certain of the assassin’s intentions. When the Humvee hit the simple iron gate, the sudden stop would catapult him forward, hurling him from his precarious perch and launching him like a missile. It was conceivable that he might survive with only a few broken bones, but the odds did not favor that outcome. The only safe choice was to abandon the vehicle.
With only seconds remaining before the collision, he scooted headfirst toward the sloping rear hatch of the Humvee, and reached down to the familiar United Nations banner that had adorned each vehicle in the ill-fated convoy. From this perspective, the damage wrought by Bravo 25’s machine gun was evident. A series of ragged holes marred the smooth shell of the vehicle and had punched through the white flag in several places. A dark stain — diesel fuel from the resupply cans — was spreading like blood from some of the wounds.
Kismet grasped the damaged banner with both hands, then allowed his weight to fall sideways. His feet came around in a broad arc and abruptly all of his mass was depending from the torn flag as his boots dragged along the gravel roadway.