Read Online Operation Z-Day (The Raven Falconer Chronicles) by Dennis Larsen - Free Book Online
Authors: Dennis Larsen
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Bobi said, squaring herself in the seat and preparing to deliver the performance of a lifetime.
The two native men split off, one on either side of the highway, as Mick brought the Jeep almost to a complete stop. Those with guns stood in the wide-angled beam of the headlights and pivoted their rifle barrels forward and in direct line with the girls’ ride.
“What do they think they’re doing?” Mick asked, somewhat alarmed.
From outside the Jeep, the young man on the driver’s side hollered, “Hold up there, STOP!” He emphasized his point by taking two quick steps toward the jeep and thrusting his hand up, palm flat. A black bandana pulled low across his brow did little to hide his facial features, which were fiercely intense. Rotating lights bathed him in alternating blue and red streaks, adding to the harshness of the scene. He was near twenty with sharp cheekbones, a prominent, jutting forehead and deep-set black eyes. On his hip, a long slender handgun was holstered and cradled tight against his thigh. The young native’s hand rested comfortably on the wooden grip, pivoting right and left as if scratching the center of his palm with the handle’s butt.
As Mick brought her foot to bear on the brake, bringing them to a complete stop, Hannah yelled from the backseat with panic in her voice, “Don’t stop, don’t stop!” She had inspected the front seat of the RCMP vehicle as they’d slowly inched by and could see the officer pitched sideways in the car, blood splattered across the dash and half of his face blown away. “Mick, get us out of here. The cop is dead. Gun it!”
Without hesitation, Mick slammed her right foot down on the accelerator and pulled the steering wheel hard to the left, sending them off the road and into the v-shaped median. The bandana-clad native bolted away, rolling to avoid being hit. He withdrew the sidearm and began yelling at the others, “Shoot ‘em, don’t let ‘em get away.” Suddenly a new world, unlike anything they’d ever experienced, opened up around them: heavy lead slugs ricocheted and whistled as the native men cycled through their magazines. Blasts and concussions filled the air while the men scrambled to take their prey before they could get away. The sound of gunfire and the screaming of the Jeep’s engine overshadowed vulgar, slang-filled commands, not unlike the howling that was taking place inside with the women.
The spinning wheels bit into the sod between the east and westbound blacktops, throwing a rooster tail of rocks and dirt back at the assailants. The nose of the Jeep pitched down as they shot forward, and then hitting the bottom of the burrow pit, arched up, bouncing the women and throwing the contents of the vehicle into disarray. Mick kept her foot mashed to the gas pedal, practically pushing it through the floorboard. The back end whipped side-to-side as the tires tried to maintain traction, the act ultimately saving their lives, as most of the bullets sailed wide. Their getaway vehicle took some strikes, shattering a taillight and taking off the side mirror next to Bobi, but the friends remained unharmed.
Hannah knelt on the backseat, her eyes just over the cushion, trying to see what was happening in their wake. “Keep going, Mick! Don’t slow down,” she shouted, a rising hysteria ripping at her vocal cords. Milliseconds after delivering the words of encouragement a spinning slug, fired from the leader’s pistol, crashed into the upper corner of the rear window, blowing it out and sending glass shards over the interior. Hannah’s forehead was peppered and sliced, tiny crystalline spears penetrating the flesh and releasing a steady stream of blood down her face and into her eyes. Once she’d recovered from the shock of the impact, she wiped at her eyes and lifted her head to see if their attackers were giving chase. “Those bastards are coming! Mick, they’re coming –
The two native men split off, one on either side of the highway, as Mick brought the Jeep almost to a complete stop. Those with guns stood in the wide-angled beam of the headlights and pivoted their rifle barrels forward and in direct line with the girls’ ride.
“What do they think they’re doing?” Mick asked, somewhat alarmed.
From outside the Jeep, the young man on the driver’s side hollered, “Hold up there, STOP!” He emphasized his point by taking two quick steps toward the jeep and thrusting his hand up, palm flat. A black bandana pulled low across his brow did little to hide his facial features, which were fiercely intense. Rotating lights bathed him in alternating blue and red streaks, adding to the harshness of the scene. He was near twenty with sharp cheekbones, a prominent, jutting forehead and deep-set black eyes. On his hip, a long slender handgun was holstered and cradled tight against his thigh. The young native’s hand rested comfortably on the wooden grip, pivoting right and left as if scratching the center of his palm with the handle’s butt.
As Mick brought her foot to bear on the brake, bringing them to a complete stop, Hannah yelled from the backseat with panic in her voice, “Don’t stop, don’t stop!” She had inspected the front seat of the RCMP vehicle as they’d slowly inched by and could see the officer pitched sideways in the car, blood splattered across the dash and half of his face blown away. “Mick, get us out of here. The cop is dead. Gun it!”
Without hesitation, Mick slammed her right foot down on the accelerator and pulled the steering wheel hard to the left, sending them off the road and into the v-shaped median. The bandana-clad native bolted away, rolling to avoid being hit. He withdrew the sidearm and began yelling at the others, “Shoot ‘em, don’t let ‘em get away.” Suddenly a new world, unlike anything they’d ever experienced, opened up around them: heavy lead slugs ricocheted and whistled as the native men cycled through their magazines. Blasts and concussions filled the air while the men scrambled to take their prey before they could get away. The sound of gunfire and the screaming of the Jeep’s engine overshadowed vulgar, slang-filled commands, not unlike the howling that was taking place inside with the women.
The spinning wheels bit into the sod between the east and westbound blacktops, throwing a rooster tail of rocks and dirt back at the assailants. The nose of the Jeep pitched down as they shot forward, and then hitting the bottom of the burrow pit, arched up, bouncing the women and throwing the contents of the vehicle into disarray. Mick kept her foot mashed to the gas pedal, practically pushing it through the floorboard. The back end whipped side-to-side as the tires tried to maintain traction, the act ultimately saving their lives, as most of the bullets sailed wide. Their getaway vehicle took some strikes, shattering a taillight and taking off the side mirror next to Bobi, but the friends remained unharmed.
Hannah knelt on the backseat, her eyes just over the cushion, trying to see what was happening in their wake. “Keep going, Mick! Don’t slow down,” she shouted, a rising hysteria ripping at her vocal cords. Milliseconds after delivering the words of encouragement a spinning slug, fired from the leader’s pistol, crashed into the upper corner of the rear window, blowing it out and sending glass shards over the interior. Hannah’s forehead was peppered and sliced, tiny crystalline spears penetrating the flesh and releasing a steady stream of blood down her face and into her eyes. Once she’d recovered from the shock of the impact, she wiped at her eyes and lifted her head to see if their attackers were giving chase. “Those bastards are coming! Mick, they’re coming –
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