by Zoe Dawson
They filed down the stairs, 2-Stroke dropping his gear by the door, then heading back up. When he entered the bedroom, Chry was up and dressed, but moving slowly. “You okay, babe?”
She nodded. “It’s manageable with pain relievers.”
“You ready to go? Striker and the others should be causing a ruckus soon.”
“I’m ready,” she said, and he walked with her to the stairs, taking her arm as she descended. At the bottom, they donned their coats, gloves, and hats. Shouldering the gear bags, Saint was the first one to open the door and step out onto the front porch.
A shot cracked in the dark night and thunked into the wood just over Saint’s left shoulder.
“We’ve been compromised!” he yelled.
Striker grappled with the big shadow, the man solid and strong. Alek pushed off the covers and streaked away. The man brought his free hand around and clamped onto Striker’s throat and with brute strength pushed him up against the wall. His back hit hard, knocking even more air out of his lungs, and with the bastard’s hand cutting off his oxygen, he couldn’t breathe. With his free hand, Striker tried to pry the fingers off his neck. He refused to let go of the knife hand as gray sparkles played around the corners of his eyes. He tried to catch the guy’s leg and flip him down and off him, but the man was a bull and Striker couldn’t get purchase.
Heavy footsteps and a flash of blond hair, then Iceman punched the guy in the kidneys, and he let go of Striker with a bellow. Air flowed and Striker shoved the man back, coughing as the assassin whirled and swiped at Iceman with the wicked blade. Iceman jumped back in time.
“Get Alek out of here to the rendezvous. Now!”
The assassin had recovered, and he lunged at Striker, just barely missing his gut with the tip of the blade. Iceman, looking torn, hesitated.
“Go!” Striker ordered, and he turned and ran from the room.
The assassin rushed him, and he jumped back from another swipe of the blade, looking for his opening.
From the open door, Preacher came in with a handgun. Before he could pull off a shot, the assassin threw the blade, and Preach made a grunting noise as it sank into his shoulder. The handgun discharged and the bullet hit the assassin, knocking him off his feet. He fell to the floor as blood pooled beneath him.
Striker loomed over him. The assassin grinned and said, “You’ll never get out of here alive. They know where you are—all of you.”
Striker strode over to Preacher, who was on his knees, the blade now out of his shoulder as he worked to stem the blood. Striker snatched up the handgun and walked to the prone assassin and put a bullet in the man’s head.
He ran back over to Preacher. “We need to get out of here.” Striker bent down and lifted him to his feet, and they exited the hotel room just as the stomping of heavy boots sounded in the hall behind them.
They hit the stairwell at a run, Preacher sweating and grunting now. There was no time to deal with his wound. Striker pulled out his phone and speed-dialed 2-Stroke, but there was no answer. “Dammit,” he growled.
They heard a shout, and the door at the top of the stairwell crashed open. Halfway down, the two of them paused, Preacher breathing hard. The metallic ringing of a dozen boots sounded from below, moving up. They were trapped between them.
“What a goatfuck,” Preacher said.
“Make for the van!” 2-Stroke yelled, shielding Chry. Aella had already pulled out her sidearm and was returning fire while bullets peppered them. They made it to the van and ducked inside as Aella cried out and went down.
Saint yelled her name and chucked his gear in through the open door, then ran for her. She was already struggling to her feet. He grabbed her and hustled her to the open door, pushing her inside.
Chry crawled to the passenger side of the van, and 2-Stroke shouted, “Keep your head down!” He got into the driver’s seat as Saint jumped in after Aella and slammed the side door closed. 2-Stroke turned the key in the ignition and the van roared to life. Behind them, the revving of motorcycles filled the evening air.
He buckled his seat belt, put the van into gear, and stomped on the gas pedal. The van shot off into the night. In the rearview he saw bike after bike gather from the main street, side streets…everywhere.
The Bears were in pursuit.
“Are you all right?” Saint asked, pulling Aella’s bloody jacket off and checking the extent of the injury to her arm. “Flesh wound.”
“Hurts like hell,” she said.
He nodded, did a quick patch and she pulled her jacket back on.
Three armored jeeps from the north, east, and west pulled in behind the bikers.
2-Stroke saw Darko and Zasha’s faces as one of the jeeps passed under a streetlight.
He had memorized the map, and he sped south toward the road out of Banja Luka, hoping they wouldn’t cut him off before he could get there.
Traffic was nonexistent, but he was forced to slow down to navigate a particularly steep turn. As soon as he could, he accelerated on to the straighter part of the two-lane road.
“Saint do something about our unwanted tail,” 2-Stroke yelled. At the sound of breaking glass, 2-Stroke saw in the rearview that Saint had broken out the back window of the van and he and Aella were laying down fire. Several bikes swerved, some bikers went down, but others kept coming.
Striker turned to look at Preacher. “We go out fighting,” Preach said.
“Damn straight.”
They started back down the stairs as Darko’s men started firing at them, pinning them down. Then bam, bam, bam came from the lower level and the shooting stopped.
“Boss?” Iceman called.
Striker and Preach exchanged another completely different look and started down the stairs just ahead of the group of Darko’s men pursuing them from the upper floor.
As soon as Iceman saw his teammates, he grinned. “Come on, you slowpokes.”
“I thought I told you—”
“Oh, is that what you said? I could have sworn I heard you say to grab a vehicle and save your asses.”
“You defiant son of a bitch,” Striker said.
Then all of them laughed as Preacher, holding onto Striker, shuffled quickly to a car waiting at the back door. Alek was in the back seat keeping low. When they opened the door, his fear-filled eyes were as wide as saucers.
“It’s all right, kid,” Striker said as he loaded Preacher into the car. Just then the men broke from the building and opened fire. Iceman unloaded on them as Striker jumped into the driver’s seat and closed the door.
“Get in!” he yelled to Iceman, who peppered the remaining men with cover fire. He jumped in and they took off.
As Striker left the hotel, he yelled, “There’s no way we’re going to cause a distraction now, and 2-Stroke is already compromised. Let’s hope my little brother got away. We’re heading for the chopper, and instead of blowing it up, we’re going to steal it. You down with that?”
Iceman was busy patching Preacher up, but the look in Preach’s eyes told Striker, wound or not, he was ready to do his part. So far, there was no pursuit that he could see. He drove straight to the airfield where they had reconned the chopper, hoping like hell it was still on the ground. When he approached the facility, guards tried to stop him, but he drove right through while Iceman took care of the guards.
He rammed through the fence and drove onto the tarmac, sighing in relief. The chopper was still there, but it looked like it was being loaded up for flight.
He barreled toward several men who started firing on them and mowed some down while Iceman and Preacher cleared out the rest of them.
He jumped out of the car as Iceman helped Preacher. “Alek, get in the chopper!” The boy sprinted out of the car and climbed inside.
Iceman helped Preacher inside. “Alek press your hand here and keep it tight,” Iceman said. Alek scooted closer and did as he was instructed. Iceman ruffled his hair. “It’s going to be okay.”
“How is he?”
Striker asked.
“He needs medical attention ASAP,” Iceman said in a low tone, his mouth twisting into a grim line.
“Word is that you can fly this thing.”
“Like a boss, boss.”
Iceman got into the pilot’s seat and soon lifted off. Striker loved the .50 cal mounted to the side of the helo. Looked like it could do some damage.
As they sped past a long stretch of forest that ended with a grouping of homes across the river, 2-Stroke looked back to see two motorcycles move up on either side of the van.
“Saint!” 2-Stroke yelled.
“On it!” Saint yelled back and broke out a side window. In the rearview 2-Stroke saw the passenger on the bike aim for the tire, but before he could get off a shot, Saint took him out. The motorcycle twisted as the rider and passenger veered off and crashed along the side of the road in a tangle of body and metal.
Aella had fired at the same time as Saint, and that motorcycle threat was neutralized. They couldn’t keep this up. Sooner or later, there was going to be a lucky shot and they were either going to lose tires or a bullet would hit the gas tank and it would all be over. But at this point, there was nothing he could do except try to outrun them and possibly lose them.
The men in the jeeps started firing at them again after the two motorcycles failed to stop them. Thank God this van was a Mercedes. It was built like a tank and provided some shield from the bullets. He had to keep them all safe. Well, as safe as he could, providing he didn’t get hit and they didn’t crash, and providing everything else went all right.
“Get down, stay down,” he said to Chry.
Bursts ping, ping, pinged against metal. The van’s passenger side mirror exploded. Bits of glass flew as the mirror disintegrated, leaving only a part of the shell hanging from the support.
She looked at him and complied.
“Oh, dammit,” Chry swore. She was in almost a fetal position now, her legs drawn up under her, her shoulders hunched around her knees.
If only he could gain on them a bit, he could pull off onto one of those side roads and hopefully lose them. But Darko and his hired muscle were sticking to them so tight, there was no way to pull a fast one.
He pushed the van hard, screaming around the curves, looking for those extra few seconds to put them out of sight.
They passed more houses, then there was nothing but dark on either side of them as they accelerated up into what looked like a mountainous road. He had a white-knuckled grip on the wheel as he looked out his side window to see a drop off.
Darko always played for blood and shoving them off a mountainside would work for him quite handily. The rest of his pay-for-hire goons weren’t any better, but with at least a dozen bikes and three jeeps full of submachine-gun-toting a-holes, those were ugly odds. He couldn’t outrun them.
Nevertheless, he had no choice. He gunned the engine and came around the next curve—almost head-on into the rear end of a freaking truck laden with vegetables. A humongous RV was approaching in the other direction, both of them poking along. He tapped the brakes, hard, shooting everyone forward.
This was absolutely the worst time for these two vehicles to block his way.
The RV slowly rumbled forward, blocking off any escape. Chry was huddled down in her seat. It crossed his mind to yell for everyone to brace. The truth was, she was never going to know what hit her. They were going to annihilate the veggie truck and themselves in about two seriously harrowing seconds with the phalanx of dangerous gunslingers behind them.
Everything happened in split seconds. He held on to the wheel, played the brakes and prayed and cursed at the same time. Just a millisecond from impact, the RV rolled far enough past the veggie truck to create the narrowest of openings, and 2-Stroke shot through. The fit was so tight, the rear light of the RV went by him less than six inches from Chry’s window. The shattered remains of the van’s side mirror were sheared off.
They barely maintained purchase on the road into the narrow shoulder over the drop-off, overshooting the road by two feet before he was able to muscle the van back onto the asphalt in front of the veggie truck. The RV slowed their pursuers down and the jeeps held onto the road by the same hairsbreadth, sending up a plume of dust before screeching in behind the van.
More shots dinged into the van’s rear end. Now it was an all-out run, and it was going to be all about speed. There was a straightaway up ahead as they rolled down off that scary piece of road. A straight stretch he could use to try to gain some speed that the armada of vehicles behind him had lost.
“Hold on,” he warned as they flew up a small rise. At the top, one look proved the straightaway was clear of traffic, and from what he could see, there was a side road. He didn’t hesitate. He stomped the gas pedal all the way to the floor, blasting away from the group like a rocket taking off.
“What the hell are you doing?” Saint yelled.
“We’re going to make that turn!”
Saint came up behind his seat and looked at the road ahead of him. 2-Stroke noticed in the rearview how his eyes widened.
“You can’t make that turn. We’ll tip the fuck over!”
“We don’t have a choice!”
“Everyone to the left side of the van. We’re going to need the weight! You, too, Chry!”
He looked in the rearview and they were only going to be out of sight for seconds.
“Get ready!” 2-Stroke yelled.
As soon as the road dipped, he was almost to the turn. Fuck me, he thought. He wasn’t exactly a bus going like hell, but this reminded him of that crazy-ass turn in the movie Speed. He pushed the van harder, looking for any seconds he could get. When the headlights disappeared from behind him, and there was nothing but black, he jerked the wheel. The van zoomed, the centrifugal force dragging at him. Even with everyone on his side of the van, he could feel the tires lift.
Then they were around the bend and 2-Stroke hit the lights and hit the brakes hard, catching his breath and lurking on the road in the dark.
Damn, his heart was pounding. Sweat poured down the sides of his face and under his arms. His heart was in his throat, but he didn’t waste a second. He pulled his weapon at the ready as the first sets of motorcycles zoomed past, then a second set whizzed and finally the jeeps.
Then Saint lifted his head and said, “What is that?”
The whop, whop, whop of a chopper sounded as they exited the van and ran to the road. The whole group of vehicles had stopped just up the road. They must have realized that they had lost them. But luckily there were many side roads peppered along the way, and they would have to do a search of all of them.
“Dammit. That chopper is bad news,” Aella said between gritted teeth.
“We’ll have to run without lights,” 2-Stroke said.
“Are you crazy! Pitch dark, mountainous region. We’re likely to fall off the edge of a cliff.”
“What choice do we have? Do you want to go on foot? Chry isn’t in any shape to hoof it all the way to Sarajevo!”
“I’ll carry her if we have to. It gives us a better chance to live through this. Besides, we can get another vehicle along the way.”
“What is that chopper doing?” Chry asked.
They all looked back at the helo and it was not only getting low, but that .50 cal was swiveling around. Suddenly, it opened fire and cut down five of the front-line motorcycles. Men shouted and the jeeps turned around and started to come back their way.
But the chopper wasn’t done. A rocket accelerated toward the jeeps and hit, causing a crater in the road and sending the three jeeps off in different directions. One completely flipped over and crashed down on the people inside, and one swerved and hit a tree, sending its passengers flinging out every which way. The third jeep careened into the brush and rolled as people jumped from it.
The .50 cal sounded again and cut down the rest of the fleeing motorcycle riders. Then a rope dropped from the chopper
“That’s Striker,” 2-Stroke ye
lled, relief washing through him. Leave it to his brother to commandeer a chopper and turn it against the enemy. He was as badass as SEALs got.
His brother hit the ground and started running toward them as he returned fire from several of the conscious jeep riders. 2-Stroke, Saint, and Aella also fired back at them.
The chopper rose quickly, got off some more blasts from the .50 cal, then climbed and banked to the south. It disappeared over the trees.
Striker reached them. “That was some crazy-ass shit!” Striker yelled, shaking him.
“You saw that?”
“Yeah, from the air before we took out those guys. Geezus, you’re a mad son of a bitch!”
Saint just chuckled as 2-Stroke grinned.
“Who was in the chopper?”
“Iceman is flying. Preach got stabbed bad and is bleeding out. He’s on his way to Sarajevo for treatment.”
“Alek?” 2-Stroke asked, his heart tight. If anything happened to that kid, he was going back for Darko right now.
“Someone tried to murder him, but we took him down and got out of there. I take it you were also compromised.”
“I think it was Zasha,” Chry said. “She had access to all CIA information. She must have figured out what safehouse we were staying at when we didn’t try for the consulate.”
2-Stroke noted how pale she was. At least they would have a nice head start before they were pursued again. For some reason, he assumed Zasha and Darko had escaped any real harm and would be looking for them again. Their luck couldn’t be that good. He was going to err on the side of caution, though. 2-Stroke slipped his arm around Chry and she looked up at him with gratitude.
“That fucking bitch. I hope she got the bad end of one of those wrecks along with her ruthless lover,” Striker said.
“You all right?” he asked. She was clutching her side and she nodded.
“I’ll make it,” she whispered.
