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Authors: Matt Hilton
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settled into the corner as if deep in slumber. The cop would have to lean down on my side to see Kirstie, and I’d do my best to block his view.
The flashlight beam stroked the windscreen, sending daggers of light inside.
‘Asshole,’ Rink said. ‘He’s deliberately trying to blind us.’
‘Playing the big man, trying to intimidate us,’ I muttered.
I ignored the approaching figure, peering into the deep shadows between the buttresses of rock nearby. Nothing.
‘Son of a bitch!’ Rink transferred his foot to the gas and pushed the car forward.
Immediately I snapped to battle mode, grabbed Kirstie and shoved her down into the space in the well behind Rink’s seat. In the next instant I slipped out my SIG and racked the slide. Then I snatched a look to see what the fuss was all about.
The figure approaching us was deliberately blinding us, to conceal the shotgun he held braced to his shoulder with his opposite hand. As Rink pushed the car towards him, he had to move out of the way, drop the torch in order to get full control of the gun. He was wearing a uniform, I noted, but this was no random police stop. He fired the shotgun, and flame jetted through the air currents a full foot in length from the muzzle. Thankfully he was off balance and his shot ill-aimed. The lead pellets struck the top right of the windscreen, starring it, but the angle and velocity of the car helped redirect the shot up and away.
Rink yanked down on the wheel, aiming the car sideways at the cop, who had to leap for his life. He went down on his knees, but then twisted quickly and fired off another wild shot. Hitting the window button, I swung my SIG to cover him but was loath to shoot him. Despite firing on us, he was still a cop and out of bounds where my codes of practice were concerned. In the dark I caught only brief details of his uniform, but it appeared official – though I wasn’t familiar with the local police dress code. Then again, his approach – not to mention his choice of weaponry, which I now recognised as a sawn-off pump-action shotgun – wasn’t regular police tactics.
We tore away from him as Rink trod on the gas.
The cop fired another load of shot after us, and the dull concussion echoed through the car as the pellets struck the trunk. I checked Kirstie was unhurt. Her face was a pale oval, her eyes large and startled, but there was no hint of pain. Up close a sawn-off is a devastating weapon, but not much use against a car moving at speed.
Then we were flashing past his parked car, and there was nothing that marked it as an official police vehicle. It was a bottle-green pick-up truck, the wheel arches corroded. The rack of lights on top looked jerry-rigged, fed by a cable running through the open driver’s window, probably to the cigarette lighter inside.
‘That was no cop,’ Rink said.
‘What the hell was he then?’
‘Carjacker? Robber? Beats me.’
‘Probably not alone in that case.’
My words proved prophetic. A hundred yards ahead of us another pick-up truck burst from hiding in a ravine that cut like a knife slash through the cliffs. The headlights were dead, but only until the truck hit the highway and swung towards us. Then they flicked to high beam.
‘Bastard!’ Rink cried as the harsh light invaded our car.
Quickly checking behind, I saw the first man running for his vehicle, even as a third truck burst from concealment in our wake and accelerated after us.
‘We should’ve expected something like this,’ Rink growled. ‘Especially after what happened at the border.’
Even though the cameras at the checkpoint had observed us, it didn’t follow that an ambush should have been laid for us here. I trusted that Harvey or one of the others would have spotted an obvious tail, so there was no way anyone could have known where we were heading. This had to be random: robbers lying in wait for the unwary. Yet something about the scenario troubled me more than the prospect of fighting off
The flashlight beam stroked the windscreen, sending daggers of light inside.
‘Asshole,’ Rink said. ‘He’s deliberately trying to blind us.’
‘Playing the big man, trying to intimidate us,’ I muttered.
I ignored the approaching figure, peering into the deep shadows between the buttresses of rock nearby. Nothing.
‘Son of a bitch!’ Rink transferred his foot to the gas and pushed the car forward.
Immediately I snapped to battle mode, grabbed Kirstie and shoved her down into the space in the well behind Rink’s seat. In the next instant I slipped out my SIG and racked the slide. Then I snatched a look to see what the fuss was all about.
The figure approaching us was deliberately blinding us, to conceal the shotgun he held braced to his shoulder with his opposite hand. As Rink pushed the car towards him, he had to move out of the way, drop the torch in order to get full control of the gun. He was wearing a uniform, I noted, but this was no random police stop. He fired the shotgun, and flame jetted through the air currents a full foot in length from the muzzle. Thankfully he was off balance and his shot ill-aimed. The lead pellets struck the top right of the windscreen, starring it, but the angle and velocity of the car helped redirect the shot up and away.
Rink yanked down on the wheel, aiming the car sideways at the cop, who had to leap for his life. He went down on his knees, but then twisted quickly and fired off another wild shot. Hitting the window button, I swung my SIG to cover him but was loath to shoot him. Despite firing on us, he was still a cop and out of bounds where my codes of practice were concerned. In the dark I caught only brief details of his uniform, but it appeared official – though I wasn’t familiar with the local police dress code. Then again, his approach – not to mention his choice of weaponry, which I now recognised as a sawn-off pump-action shotgun – wasn’t regular police tactics.
We tore away from him as Rink trod on the gas.
The cop fired another load of shot after us, and the dull concussion echoed through the car as the pellets struck the trunk. I checked Kirstie was unhurt. Her face was a pale oval, her eyes large and startled, but there was no hint of pain. Up close a sawn-off is a devastating weapon, but not much use against a car moving at speed.
Then we were flashing past his parked car, and there was nothing that marked it as an official police vehicle. It was a bottle-green pick-up truck, the wheel arches corroded. The rack of lights on top looked jerry-rigged, fed by a cable running through the open driver’s window, probably to the cigarette lighter inside.
‘That was no cop,’ Rink said.
‘What the hell was he then?’
‘Carjacker? Robber? Beats me.’
‘Probably not alone in that case.’
My words proved prophetic. A hundred yards ahead of us another pick-up truck burst from hiding in a ravine that cut like a knife slash through the cliffs. The headlights were dead, but only until the truck hit the highway and swung towards us. Then they flicked to high beam.
‘Bastard!’ Rink cried as the harsh light invaded our car.
Quickly checking behind, I saw the first man running for his vehicle, even as a third truck burst from concealment in our wake and accelerated after us.
‘We should’ve expected something like this,’ Rink growled. ‘Especially after what happened at the border.’
Even though the cameras at the checkpoint had observed us, it didn’t follow that an ambush should have been laid for us here. I trusted that Harvey or one of the others would have spotted an obvious tail, so there was no way anyone could have known where we were heading. This had to be random: robbers lying in wait for the unwary. Yet something about the scenario troubled me more than the prospect of fighting off
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