dirt drive, throwing sand as the car fishtailed.
Sitting in the passenger seat, Raylan had the M4 in his hands and his window down.
Carla hit the paved road doing thirty, executing an impossible turn, tires smoking. In seconds, they were barreling down the road at one hundred. She looked in the rearview mirror. “We have a tail, coming up on us fast. Looks like the thugs I saw before.”
“I want them,” Raylan said. “Leaving their bodies behind will make it less likely we get blamed for the murder of that couple.”
She stared down the road and pushed her right foot to the floor. The engine roared. “Sharp curve ahead. Be ready to bail.”
He grabbed the door latch. “When you slow, keep the car on the edge of the road, so I can roll onto the shoulder and not hard asphalt.”
She nodded, “Right. How fast do you want it?”
“Better slow to ten. I’m getting too old to bail out of a car moving much faster than that.”
She smiled. “You got it.” After another glance in the mirror she said, “They’re far enough back, you can run across to the inside of the curve if you’re quick about it.”
“Good. That assumes I don’t break a leg when I roll out.”
“Yeah, don’t do that. You’re going to be alone back there.”
“I want them,” he repeated.
“Hold your temper, Raylan. That old couple’s not worth dying for.”
Raylan’s muscles tensed. She slammed on the brakes, leaving black marks and billowing smoke behind. He allowed the momentum of the car traversing the curve to swing the door open as he rolled out of his seat and held the carbine close to his chest. The world spun at high velocity. Dirt flew. He was as worried about damaging the carbine as breaking an arm or leg. He didn’t want to face a carload of killers with just a pistol if he could help it. Coming up with dirt in his mouth and eyes, he ran across the road to a position he thought best. The Buick appeared, racing around the curve, tires screaming. Raylan brought the carbine up and clicked the selector to full auto. Concentrating on the driver, he dumped ten rounds into the left window as the car flew by. They saw him standing beside the road, but there was no time to react, and the driver had his hands full keeping the car from skidding off into the trees. The window shattered and Raylan saw several bullets connect with flesh. The car now driverless, he allowed physics to do the rest. The Buick veered off the road and slammed into trees.
When the noise and smoke cleared, it looked as if a bomb had gone off. Raylan approached the wreck with his carbine shouldered. The back half had been sheared off by a stout pine, and two men riding in the back seat had spilled out, their bodies dashed against an old windfall. One coughed up blood as Raylan walked over to him, hoping he could talk. “Who sent you?”
The man just lay there, breathing with difficulty. One of his legs had suffered a compound fracture, splintered bone stuck out two inches. Rayland stepped on it. The man was too weak to do more than moan. Realizing he would not get any information from him, Rayland put a bullet in his head. He searched the pockets of two of the men, finding nothing to identify them.
Carla raced up and spun the car around. He jumped in. She hit the gas and looked him over for injuries. Seeing none, she said, “Feel better?”
He looked out his window. “Much.”
~~~
The freezing Moscow wind sent a flurry of snow to pelt the careworn pedestrians as they slogged down the sidewalks on their way to their individual destinations. The stink of exhaust soured the air, belched out by the decrepit Soviet-era sedans that rattled along next to late-model luxury cars. The disparity between rich and poor was evident on the clogged streets of this grimy city, where the ruling elite that included the Russian Mafia were transported in warm luxury while the rank and file trudged through the sleet or drove worn-out vehicles.
Mikhail Janowski stood
Sitting in the passenger seat, Raylan had the M4 in his hands and his window down.
Carla hit the paved road doing thirty, executing an impossible turn, tires smoking. In seconds, they were barreling down the road at one hundred. She looked in the rearview mirror. “We have a tail, coming up on us fast. Looks like the thugs I saw before.”
“I want them,” Raylan said. “Leaving their bodies behind will make it less likely we get blamed for the murder of that couple.”
She stared down the road and pushed her right foot to the floor. The engine roared. “Sharp curve ahead. Be ready to bail.”
He grabbed the door latch. “When you slow, keep the car on the edge of the road, so I can roll onto the shoulder and not hard asphalt.”
She nodded, “Right. How fast do you want it?”
“Better slow to ten. I’m getting too old to bail out of a car moving much faster than that.”
She smiled. “You got it.” After another glance in the mirror she said, “They’re far enough back, you can run across to the inside of the curve if you’re quick about it.”
“Good. That assumes I don’t break a leg when I roll out.”
“Yeah, don’t do that. You’re going to be alone back there.”
“I want them,” he repeated.
“Hold your temper, Raylan. That old couple’s not worth dying for.”
Raylan’s muscles tensed. She slammed on the brakes, leaving black marks and billowing smoke behind. He allowed the momentum of the car traversing the curve to swing the door open as he rolled out of his seat and held the carbine close to his chest. The world spun at high velocity. Dirt flew. He was as worried about damaging the carbine as breaking an arm or leg. He didn’t want to face a carload of killers with just a pistol if he could help it. Coming up with dirt in his mouth and eyes, he ran across the road to a position he thought best. The Buick appeared, racing around the curve, tires screaming. Raylan brought the carbine up and clicked the selector to full auto. Concentrating on the driver, he dumped ten rounds into the left window as the car flew by. They saw him standing beside the road, but there was no time to react, and the driver had his hands full keeping the car from skidding off into the trees. The window shattered and Raylan saw several bullets connect with flesh. The car now driverless, he allowed physics to do the rest. The Buick veered off the road and slammed into trees.
When the noise and smoke cleared, it looked as if a bomb had gone off. Raylan approached the wreck with his carbine shouldered. The back half had been sheared off by a stout pine, and two men riding in the back seat had spilled out, their bodies dashed against an old windfall. One coughed up blood as Raylan walked over to him, hoping he could talk. “Who sent you?”
The man just lay there, breathing with difficulty. One of his legs had suffered a compound fracture, splintered bone stuck out two inches. Rayland stepped on it. The man was too weak to do more than moan. Realizing he would not get any information from him, Rayland put a bullet in his head. He searched the pockets of two of the men, finding nothing to identify them.
Carla raced up and spun the car around. He jumped in. She hit the gas and looked him over for injuries. Seeing none, she said, “Feel better?”
He looked out his window. “Much.”
~~~
The freezing Moscow wind sent a flurry of snow to pelt the careworn pedestrians as they slogged down the sidewalks on their way to their individual destinations. The stink of exhaust soured the air, belched out by the decrepit Soviet-era sedans that rattled along next to late-model luxury cars. The disparity between rich and poor was evident on the clogged streets of this grimy city, where the ruling elite that included the Russian Mafia were transported in warm luxury while the rank and file trudged through the sleet or drove worn-out vehicles.
Mikhail Janowski stood
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