by Andrew Mayne
Not that I would ever use some poor kid as a human shield – sure I'll kick them in the nuts and steal their stuff if they're a violent sociopath – but having people on the field would certainly make my life a little easier.
Focus, David.
BOOM! There's an echo that sounds a lot like Workman jumping onto the lower level.
I bolt, trying to keep my body as low as I can behind the barrier that separates the field from the seats.
I pass by a row of cowering students. They're watching me with frightened eyes, not sure if this is some kind of random shooting where anyone could be a victim – only if they get close to me.
Ahead of me, there's a tunnel leading to the outside of the stadium. If I can make it there...
BANG!!! Concrete chips fly off the wall in front of me.
How the hell?
I change my direction and go diagonally. Out of the corner of my eye I spot another workman on the opposite deck, leaning on the railing with a rifle.
He'd been using the wall I was running behind to range me. Fuck.
Now I'm a wide open target in the middle of an empty soccer field. I should have climbed over the wall.
And then what? Wait for them to come get me?
No dice.
I'm not sure if I can make it to the tunnel before one of these assholes puts a bullet in my head.
I need a better way.
I need a miracle.
Holy crap. Was that thing here all along?
The stadium is so fucking huge I didn't even notice it.
Please work. Please, please...
24
EMT
THIS IS EITHER GOING to look like a master-stroke of evasive maneuvers in about two seconds or I'm going to be dead.
The stadium is so damn huge the ambulance was just one tiny detail against the wide-open expanse of bright green grass. Now it's my one chance of not getting murdered.
PING!!! A bullet whizzes past me and strikes the side of the van. The next one is going to hit me if the driver locked the door.
I mean, who the hell locks an ambulance in the middle of a soccer stadium sideline? What are the chances someone will try to steal it?
Thankfully the door opens and I slide my body inside just as a bullet shatters the left-side mirror with a CRACK!!!
PING! PING! PING! The sides of the ambulance are being battered by the Workmen firing on me from both sides. Fortunately, neither of them has a direct angle at me...yet.
Please have keys! Please have keys!
Fuck! No keys!
"Que porra você está fazendo?" screams a man from the back.
I look behind me and see an EMT getting up from a nap on the stretcher.
PING! A bullet puts a hole in the wall near his head. He reflexively ducks down.
"Keys now!" I yell at the top of my lungs. "Llaves!" I shout in Spanish, praying that's not Portuguese for abandon me.
Scared, he fishes a metal ring from his pocket and tosses it in my direction. I find the ambulance key and twist it in the ignition right as one of the Workmen runs to the far side of the upper section on the lower deck to take a new firing position.
CRACK!!! Glass shatters from my right as the other asshole also finds a new place to shoot.
I jam my foot on the accelerator and send the ambulance down the sideline, trying to keep my body below the dashboard as much as possible – which makes for some exceptionally shitty driving.
I scrape the left side against the concrete wall to the left then overcompensate and smash through a line of chairs that was holding an entire soccer team just a few seconds ago.
Seats go flying into the air and I try to keep the van from flipping.
My companion in the back lets out some Portuguese swear words and starts to pull himself towards me.
"Stay down!" I yell.
A bullet hits the back window, underscoring how serious it is for him to keep his body flat. I mean, if he'd like to let me lay down and avoid the gunfire while he drives, by all means. After all, he is the one wearing the uniform that means he's supposed to save lives.
I turn the van into a wide arc to steer it into the tunnel without smashing into the side. I'm so focused on not hitting the walls I don't even realize until the last second there's a metal gate down.
In a movie I'd be able to ram right through that thing. In real life, I'm not so willing to take that chance.
I spin the steering wheel, coming inches away from the barrier and drive straight towards where I came from – which leaves the front windshield open to the shooter.
I gauge how far I have to go then just duck down out of sight.
PING! PING! Two bullets hit the hood and the side of the windshield, but nothing actually goes through it, or more importantly, me.
Remember when all I had to worry about was a hole in my spacecraft heat shield? Good times.
I race towards the far tunnel stepping on the gas, not caring what's on the other side. If there's a gate on this one, maybe at least I'll have enough speed to tear it down.
If not, well, I don't have a seat belt on, so I'll die of a concussion real quick when I fly out the windshield. Positive thinking, David.
The EMT behind me is muttering some kind of prayer. He realizes we're being fired upon and probably thinks this is the end of his life. He can't make up his mind if I'm his savior or the devil. I vote both.
PING! PING! PING! Bullets hit the side of the van as I get closer to the tunnel exit. Nothing hits the windshield, which means the Workmen are behind me.
There's no gate blocking my exit this time, so there's that. The downside is the exit actually leads into the lobby of the arena. Wonderful.
The van blows through the tunnel and I have to turn a hard right to avoid slamming into a concrete pillar.
I'm in a food court with rows of colored signs to my right and a long wall to my left.
A few dozen people scatter as they realize the terror from outside has now come into their safe place next to their hambúrguer and cerveja stalls.
PING!!! There's a ricochet behind me as one of the Workmen has taken a new firing position, apparently from the field.
That means he's only seconds away from entering the tunnel.
I mash the gas pedal and send the ambulance flying down the corridor, hitting rows of trash bins and destroying an entire section of high-top tables.
Ahead of me, I see a group of three men who look like cops of some kind. They've got guns drawn and are standing in the middle of the court near a concrete column.
Should I bail out and ask for their help? I start to slow down.
BANG!!! BANG!!! BANG!!! They open fire on me!
I yank the wheel to the left as the windshield begins to crack from several rounds. This brings me to my closest point to them and I get a quick glimpse before I accelerate into what looks like daylight.
These guys aren't Brazilian. They all look like cousins of Commander Yablokov back on the K1.
BANG!!! BANG!!! BANG!!! BANG!!! BANG!!! BANG!!!
The back of the ambulance is assaulted by a barrage of fire. And not just any barrage – congratulations, David, you've just met your first Russian kill team!
And it gets even better...
The bright ray of light that you thought is the outdoors where there aren't any bad men trying to send you to heaven? It is! Except it's also a ramp leading to the upper section of the stadium!
Remember when you wondered how they got all those people in and out of the stadium? The answer is a huge walkway suitable for building the pyramids – and plenty wide enough for one asshole driving an ambulance the wrong way.
25
WALKWAY TO HEAVEN
WITH A RUSSIAN KILL team chasing me, two snipers lurking somewhere in the stadium and a scared passenger in the back who keeps saying the same prayer over and over, I, David Dixon, master pilot and awesome driver, have not only managed to miss the damn exit to this stadium, but done the worst possible thing imag
inable – I've driven my bullet-ridden stolen ambulance onto the walkway that leads to the upper level where I first encountered the snipers.
Yep, I just hit do-over, but this time all the bosses are here and ready to blow me away.
Ahead of me there's a ramp switchback. In the passenger-side mirror I can see the Russian kill team racing after me. Choices...
For a fleeting second I think about not turning the wheel and seeing what would happen if I tried to just drive straight off the ramp.
Would I burst through the wall and fly into the air and then land like The General Lee in the Dukes of Hazzard? Or would I smash into the steel-reinforced concrete and get thrown through the cracked windshield and have my body tumble to the earth, smashing my spine and skull as I hit the sidewalk?
I decide to make the sharp turn.
I get some nice acceleration going up the ramp but have to brake right away as it levels off and I see that beyond the shadow of the roof of the stadium, I'm about to hit a wall.
Whatever fantasy I had about driving straight down the steps and back onto the field to find another exit is destroyed by inconvenient reality. There's not just the wall, there's the fact that this upper section and the lower section are separated by a twelve foot chasm. Feel that sharp pain in your ankles, David? That's what happened last time you tried to make the jump.
The Russians are still probably running up the ramp, which gives me a spare few seconds.
I slam on the brakes after making it a quarter way around the upper deck. "Get out!" I yell at my passenger.
He bails out of the back door without even so much as a thanks and runs into the stadium. And to top it all off, the asshole left the back doors open.
BANG!!! A bullet fires from somewhere. I don't wait to stick my finger in the air and gauge windspeed and direction.
I push the gas pedal into the floor and race the ambulance down the deck, trying to find an exit before the shooters get to me.
I whiz past an entire open section that looks out into the stadium. The field is still clear and I don't see any bodies on the grass; so that's good.
I turn my head back to the path in front of me and see a Workman putting his rifle on top of a trash can and aiming it at me.
How did that asshole get up here so quickly?
My first impulse is to duck and try to swerve past him in the narrow corridor. Then something darker takes over.
Fuck him.
I aim the vehicle straight at him.
His eyes go wide and he realizes that even if he shoots me, the van is going to smash him like a bug.
His own survival instincts take over and he abandons his position and leaps into a row of seats just behind him.
Reinforcing the wisdom of his decision, the ambulance bumper bashes into the trash can and catapults it across the corridor, sending his sniper rifle into a wall.
I'm not sure how I feel about the fact that I didn't get to run him over.
I try to pay attention to the signs, looking for a way out. But I'm faced with two problems; I can't read Portuguese and it's not like I'm in a parking garage where the designers put in signage to help a van-sized vehicle navigate safely through. This was made for people, not psychopaths in stolen ambulances.
Just past the bend up ahead, I spot a wide open section leading to what I hope is another ramp like the one I drove up.
If not, my only alternative is to try to go all the way around and go back down the way I came up – which would be suicide.
I assume all the killers trying to kill me know this place better than me. If there's no other way out, then the smart thing is to just wait for the gringo to come back and ambush him with all the shooty things they have.
I slow down and turn into the open section, hoping that it's just not a cliff they were too lazy to put caution tape over.
Bingo! I'm back in sunlight and heading down another ramp. I take the turn at the switchback a little too hard and scrape the side of the van on the concrete wall.
SHIT! I almost hit a yellow-vested security guard. He jumps clear and starts screaming at me.
I know, buddy. I know. It's that kind of day.
The walkway leads back into the stadium lobby.
Fucking great.
But this is a whole new section I haven't had a chance to destroy yet.
I tear the van through a row of food kiosks and nearly come to an abrupt stop on a concrete pillar.
Seriously guys, less of those next time?
There's a huge glass wall to my right with a set of doors that opens onto a plaza.
The ambulance is too big for the doors, but I decide to take my chances.
I aim straight through the middle, grip the wheel and curse myself for not putting on a seatbelt.
SMASH!!! There's a shower of broken glass and twisted aluminum as I rip the doorway out of the building.
I take the van down the walkway and along the fence until I see a gate being opened by another yellow-vested security guard.
He waves as I pass, probably assuming that I'm trying to take some injured person to the hospital.
26
FUGITIVE
FLYING down the streets of an exotic city in a stolen ambulance is certainly one way to get around quickly, but it also attracts a lot of unwanted attention. I've also noticed that other drivers aren't as yielding to the right of way to emergency vehicles here. They seem a little indifferent to the idea that I could be carrying someone on the verge of death – Hell, I am carrying someone who is precariously balanced on that edge: Me.
I make it two blocks then realize that the back doors are still open. I turn down a side street, put the van in park and shut them.
As I crawl through the back, sunlight greets me through dozens of bullet holes punctured through the walls and cabinets. If that EMT hadn't hit the deck, he'd have been dead. More importantly, if I hadn't put the rear bulkhead between my shooters and myself, I'd be dead.
Let's not get ahead of ourselves.
Right now there's a half-dozen men in that stadium on their way to find me. They'll make that happen if they get the chance.
Were these locals hired on the spot? Or did the Russians know I'd be landing here? I'd love to ask Capricorn or Murdock these questions, but first I need to put some distance between what just happened.
I race the ambulance another several blocks, take a few more side streets then come to the realization that having a screaming siren on top of the vehicle is helping me go a little bit faster, but it's also a big huge "I'm right here!" arrow to anyone searching from the air.
I remember the white helicopter that was searching the neighborhood where I landed; that can't be too far away, plus whoever else is out there looking for me. By now, that would be all of Brazil.
After going another mile, I turn off the siren and go down a less trafficked street.
The map on my stolen phone says there's a hospital three blocks away. I figure that's a pretty good place to leave an ambulance.
I ditch it in a parking lot near the emergency room entrance, but towards the back, so the bullet holes won't get as much attention.
I step onto the asphalt and have a look at the van. Holy crap.
Even with the damage, giving it up isn't easy. Twenty minutes ago I was on a moped, riding through the streets of Rio without a care in the world – except the potential threat of Russian kill teams and spending my life in prison – now I'm a pedestrian with a real kill team after me.
Right now my biggest concern is having the cops stop me on the street or someone recognizing me from the news.
I zig-zag down several blocks away from the hospital then finally catch my breath under a tree next to a side street.
I take out a phone and check twitter for any update from Capricorn.
Nothing.
I get the feeling I'm not going to be hearing from him in a timely manner. I need to figure this out on my own.
It's getting dark and I figure I have a couple
hours before people start watching TV and seeing my face. That gives me only a small window of time to make sure the guy they see on the news clips and the description of what I was wearing at the stadium don't match up with what I look like.
The phone tells me where to find a big box store that sells everything from breakfast cereal to lingerie.
I've got about six hundred Brazilian bucks on me and have no idea what that's worth. With any luck I'll be able to buy a suit and some hair products. If not, maybe a magic marker to draw a mustache and an eyepatch on my face.
27
SHOPPING
MAKING it to the men's section meant running a gauntlet, getting greeted by half a dozen people eager to help me – which only makes me even more anxious.
At any moment I expect someone to make the connection and nervously back away. Nope, all the salespeople in their orange polo shirts are super-friendly.
I just nod and grin and keep the fact I can't speak the language to myself. Every time someone stops me, I point towards another section and smile.
I find a cheap dark suit and white shirt that'll take up half my money. I decide to stay with the sneakers because they're more agile than dress shoes. Although I do spring for some athletic socks. Blisters are already starting to form on my feet.
In the personal grooming section I take a look at the different hair dyes and realize I have no idea how to use them. I'm just as likely to bleach my eyebrows as I am my brown locks. I grab a razor instead.
It's a scientific fact that all well-built bald guys in sunglasses look alike.
For the last step, I find some artificial tanning spray. Brazilians come in a wide spectrum of colors and I don't really stand out all that much. But I could stand out a little less if I had a more tropical shade to my skin.
I pay for my disguise in cash and find the nearest bathroom at the other end of the mall.
My biggest regret is not getting deodorant. I can still smell Rockthrower's stench on me.
I do my best to wipe my body with toilet paper – man is it thin here – then start to use the spray tan and stop myself when I realize I should probably shave my head first. Wouldn't that be hilarious. Christ, I'm not cut out for this.
