The Seraphim Sequence: The Fifth Column 2

by Nathan M. Farrugia

  A necklace of beads and a Christian cross rattled around the rear-vision mirror. Through the mirror he noticed Benito’s jeep, Sophia riding shotgun. Not literally, but she would surely have a round in the chamber of her MP7. That reminded him. He’d need more firepower than the Sig sitting in his lap. As he carved up the right lane he dug into his daypack, still over both shoulders, swapping the Sig for the MP7. He placed the MP7 in his lap and, knees clamping the wheel, flicked the already cocked weapon from safety to semi-auto, grabbing the wheel again just in time to avoid a rapidly braking bus. The passengers looked horrified. They’d probably just seen him take the safety off the MP7.

  In his rear-vision he saw Grace’s van. Further back, he spotted pulsing red and blue lights. Police. Just what they needed right now.

  The cars ahead slowed rapidly. Jay changed into the middle lane, now five cars behind the van. He drew to a halt and couldn’t do much except wait. At least the van was trapped too. He checked his pockets. His GPS receiver was in one. How the hell was he going to get it onto the van?

  He opened the glove box, hoping to find electrical or gaffer tape. He pulled everything out but found nothing except a cigarette lighter and some user manuals and maps. He looked for anything in the car that was adhesive. Nothing.

  Wait.

  The corner of the permit sticker was loose. He leaned over to the passenger side and pulled at it. It was a long rectangular green sticker. He peeled it gradually until it came free from the windscreen. Carefully, he placed the GPS receiver in the middle. There was plenty of room on both sides for it to adhere. He wrapped it around his left forearm tightly. It wasn’t going anywhere.

  He got out of the car. With the GPS taped to one arm, MP7 in the other and his daypack on his back, he ran one lane across from the van so they wouldn’t spot him in the side mirrors. He made his approach from the next lane, keeping low. He needed to cross to the rear of the van at the last moment and slap it on while he was outside their field of vision. They couldn’t know what he was doing otherwise they’d just remove it later or switch vehicles once they lost Jay and his team. They’d probably switch vehicles at some point anyway, so his time frame was slim.

  The lights in the distance switched to green. Fuck.

  He was almost in line with the van when the cars further ahead started to move forward. Beside the van, just a fraction behind it, there was a green jeepney with the word Legendary in graffiti on the side. Jay stayed low and moved to the rear of the jeepney. It was packed with people. They stared at him, mouths open.

  The van took off quickly. He couldn’t catch up now. Double fuck.

  The jeepney started moving as well. He jumped on the back, clinging to the white spoiler on top, MP7 between his teeth.

  ‘Jay, what’s your status?’ Grace said.

  She’d probably seen his abandoned taxi. He tried to talk through his MP7 but that didn’t work. He freed one hand and grabbed the MP7.

  ‘I’m getting there,’ he said over the noise. ‘Keep them distracted.’

  ‘No can do,’ she said. ‘The traffic’s locking us out.’

  As usual, it was up to Jay to pull this off.

  The van was right on his ten o’clock. It was locked in the traffic just as much as the jeepney, sitting pretty at sixty. Jay shoved the MP7 down the front of his waistband, then realized that would get in the way, so he held it between his teeth again. Stepping up onto the wire caging that covered the jeepney’s rear lights, he hurled himself over the spoiler and onto the roof. He kept flat against the roof so the van’s front-seat passenger wouldn’t spot him. The air roared through his eardrums. He spread out flat, arms on both sides and his feet on the spoiler. He used the spoiler to push himself forward. The roof was featureless and there was nothing to help his grip. A sudden turn and he’d slide right off. He hoped the jeepney driver was happy in this lane.

  The van was starting to inch ahead of the jeepney. Jay wasn’t liking this at all. He crawled toward the front of the jeepney with bent knees, relieved to reach a horizontal pole thingie he could grab onto. He checked the GPS taped to his forearm. Still there. Good.

  Then he noticed a slight elevation as the jeepney climbed a ramp. The van was in the lane beside him, also climbing the ramp. The boulevard was rising into a four-lane bridge. He was clinging desperately to the roof of a jeepney on the EDSA flyover.

  ‘What the fuck am I doing?’ he said.

  He rose to his knees, and then to a wide crouch. The rush of air almost blew him backward. The top of the van was higher than the cabin. It was sloped and shiny and white and he didn’t like it one bit. This was a bad idea. The asphalt rushed beneath him in a blur. This wasn’t even his fucking operation.

  He jumped.

  His legs didn’t reach the van, but his arms did. And his chest. His chest hit the van hard, knocking the air from his lungs. He hung from the side, legs dangling. His fingertips tried to clamp on the van’s roof like a gecko might, but it wasn’t enough to sustain his weight.

  The van suddenly veered right. He hung on desperately. Over his shoulder, he spotted the jeepney. The van was sending him right into it. He brought one knee up, over, and managed to keep it there. He hauled himself up, pulling his leg in just as the van smashed against the jeepney. The MP7 slipped from his teeth. It bounced off the roof and fell behind the van. He didn’t care as long as he was on the van.

  He moved further into the center and spread his body and limbs out as much as possible. He was slipping slowly backward but at least he wasn’t sliding off the side. He remembered to breathe. Elbows wide, he tore at the permit sticker wrapped over his forearm. When it came off, it took all his forearm hair with it. He yelled, but the sound was lost in the rush of air. He placed the GPS receiver on the van roof, sticky side down and facing sideways. Then he worked the sticker with his fingers, making sure it was as stuck as he could possibly get it. He kept a hand over it, using it to keep from sliding off. It stuck. Thank fuck for that.

  The van rammed the jeepney again. The jeepney tried to pull away but there was nowhere to go. Jay slipped sideways, his legs dangling over the edge again. He hung onto the roof with nothing but his fingers. Again.

  The van veered toward the jeepney for a third impact. Jay pulled his knees to his chest. His grip started to slip. He kicked off the side of the van and fell backward, down onto the jeepney roof. He landed on his stomach and bounced, and dropped off the side. The asphalt rushed to meet him.

  His hands found something to hold. The open windows on the side of the jeepney. He stopped falling. The tips of his sneakers dragged along the road’s surface. The people sitting by the window were quick to move away from him. He didn’t need a second invitation; he hauled himself in, landing shoulder-first on the vinyl seat. He tumbled into the aisle, then rolled backward as the jeepney lurched to a sudden halt.

  Everyone immediately vacated. Jay watched them disperse, weaving between the cars ahead, possibly in search of other jeepneys. His lane had slowed to a crawl, but the other lanes were still going steady.

  ‘GPS on van,’ he said, out of breath.

  ‘Tracking them now,’ Grace said. ‘Pull back.’

  ‘Pulling back,’ Jay said.

  He collapsed on the floor. The jeepney shuddered. The impact almost sent him out the window again. The van had rammed the jeepney again, only this time it was trying to ram through it, seeking an escape route through the gap in front.

  The traffic was moving again, faster. Jay got to his knees in time to see the side door of the van open. He reached for the Sig in his daypack, but the side door closed before he could draw. A grenade popped into the jeepney’s driver cabin.

  ‘Shit,’ Jay said.

  The jeepney driver must have seen it because he accelerated out of panic, ramming the back of the van as it overtook him. Then he leaped from the cabin, straight onto the hood of a passing car, and rolled over its roof. The car behind it screamed to a halt to avoid hitting him, but he was on his feet and run
ning, yelling.

  Jay realized he should probably do the same.

  He leaped from the back of the jeepney, pushing off the step, and landed with both feet on the hood of the car behind. The grenade detonated. Heat licked the back of his neck and shrapnel cut through his T-shirt. The momentum of his jump and the movement of the car sent Jay tumbling over the roof. As he rolled, he caught sight of the jeepney flipping backward behind him. He realized it was going to land upside-down, right on top of him.

  He unfurled himself over the car’s trunk. With cars rushing past on either side, his only escape was behind. He leaped toward the car in back of him. It was braking behind the exploding jeepney, so swerving to avoid him was out of the question. He landed on the second car’s hood and managed not to fall off. Behind him, the jeepney smashed down onto the car’s roof. He planted his hands on the windshield and found himself face to face with the driver. She stared in horror and hit the brakes even harder. The tires screeched as her car came to a complete stop, throwing Jay forward. Just as he hit the asphalt, the jeepney flipped the right way up and landed on top of him.

  Jay opened his eyes, confused as to why he was still alive. The jeepney’s rear wheel was spinning above his head.

  The jeepney was perched between both cars, forming a bridge. That left a mere two feet of wiggle room for him to get out. He crawled from under it, pleased to discover he hadn’t broken or dislocated anything. A trail bike approached at a slow speed, surveying the chaos.

  Jay threw himself forward as the motorcyclist weaved to avoid him. The bike wobbled and the rider came off, rolling a few times.

  Jay ran toward him. ‘Are you OK?’ he said.

  The rider hadn’t been going that fast. He got to his feet and inspected a graze on his elbow, then nodded and started giving Jay a lecture on road safety.

  Jay was already on his bike. He thanked the rider for the lecture and took off. He cut between the lanes and found the van. It was busy smashing its way through cars, forging a path to the extreme left. He followed the trail of broken headlights and chipped panels.

  The van bumped a car out of the way and tore over the median strip onto the other side of the boulevard. There was a break in traffic on that side so it accelerated quickly.

  Jay followed, coaxing the bike over the median strip only to realize he was now on a collision course with oncoming traffic.

  ‘Shit.’

  He weaved the bike around the first car and jumped into a center lane. More cars appeared, and a bus. Fucking buses. The bus hit the brakes and turned. Jay took a wide arc around it, but another car jerked to avoid the bus and came straight for him. It was going to collide with the back of his bike. He took a sharp right, pulling his rear wheel in. His elbow smacked the car’s side mirror as he drove past it. The mirror came off. His arm went numb, but he ignored it.

  This was a lot harder than it looked in Hollywood, he thought. In the movies, the cars continued on their predictable paths so the driver could safely negotiate passage. But here, the cars were swerving to avoid him, which just made it worse.

  He whisked the bike between the cars and jeepneys, trying desperately to predict their panicked reactions and avoid hitting them. Ahead of him, the van had punched right again, back over the median strip. Jay clenched his teeth and pulled the bike past a car as it hit the brakes. The car screeched to a stop and Jay shot in front, missing it by a hair. He jinked the bike left, scraping the side of the car, and narrowly avoided another jeepney.

  There was a brief gap ahead. He took it and launched the bike over the median strip. The bump over the curb almost threw him off. If the median strip wasn’t all poles and ferns he would’ve stayed there where it was safer to drive. Instead, he pulled out in front of a 4WD and escaped between lanes.

  The van was ahead of him. It screamed from the far right lane and took a new road.

  ‘Jay, hang back,’ Grace said. ‘We have the van, we don’t need visual.’

  He ignored her. He was getting that egghead back.

  On his left, the US embassy. Why didn’t the captors try for there? Instead, the van took off in the opposite direction. He followed it, but not too closely. There were enough bike riders around that he didn’t stand out, and in a blur he hoped his skin color would pass for a local.

  The van was about three cars and one bike ahead of him. He slowed to a normal speed and played by the rules, as long as he could see the very top of the van over the car roofs. The van slowed, then stopped in the middle of the street. Everyone was moving gradually.

  Then he noticed a gray, shabby van approaching from the other direction. It stopped right beside the white van. They were so close their paintwork almost touched.

  Jay kept his position behind the other cars.

  ‘They’re transferring,’ he said. ‘Into a gray van. Schlepper’s in the gray van.’

  ‘Schlosser,’ Grace said. ‘Numberplate?’

  He read the plate to her.

  ‘Copy that,’ Grace said. She repeated the numberplate back to him and he confirmed it. ‘We’re on Santa Monica,’ she said. ‘Three blocks west of the GPS receiver. Sophia, where are you?’

  ‘We’re south, six blocks from the receiver,’ Sophia said. ‘We’re coming in slow with the traffic.’

  ‘Sophia, follow the receiver. We’ll intercept the gray van while we have the chance,’ Grace said. ‘Jay, stay with the white van. Just in case.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jay said. ‘I’m on it.’

  The white van suddenly lurched right, past a shopping mall. Jay weaved around the cars and followed. There was a shitload of traffic ahead. The van wasn’t going anywhere. With one hand, Jay pulled the Sig from his daypack and racked it with both hands. The van overtook a few cars, then pushed its way through a group of pedestrians.

  Jay accelerated to catch up. He kept his Sig wedged in his right hand. His numb left hand barely kept the bike on track. He aimed the pistol at the van’s rear tires. Pedestrians were crossing behind the van. He sped through, forcing them to jump aside. The pistol probably helped.

  He had a clear shot.

  The van shifted gears and accelerated harder along the narrow street.

  Jay took the shot. And a second. The tire popped. But the van wasn’t slowing down.

  ‘Run-flat,’ he said. ‘For fuck’s sake.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Damien felt their van swing to one side. He pulled the MP7 from his daypack.

  ‘Gray van has turned,’ DC said. ‘Down a side street.’

  ‘They’ve seen us,’ Grace whispered.

  DC floored the gas. Damien fell into Big Dog’s lap as they shot toward the gray van, its left side exposed.

  ‘Aim for the cabin!’ Grace yelled. ‘Don’t injure the scientist!’

  ‘No promises,’ DC said.

  Damien peered ahead through the windshield to a row of parked cars. DC’s van scraped across them, grinding through as he aimed for the side of the gray van. He hit the rear corner. The van screeched from the blow and DC followed through, hands spinning the wheel. He hit the gas again, punched the van in the side. The van pitched and flipped onto one side. DC hit the brakes.

  ‘Move! Move!’ Grace yelled.

  Chickenhead opened the rear door and Big Dog leaped out, L22 in hand. Damien followed, cocking his MP7. Freeman remained inside with DC, who thoughtfully kept the engine running.

  Grace climbed up onto the van’s side and put two rounds into the semiconscious driver’s head. She crouched and grabbed the driver’s door handle. Damien trained his MP7 on it and gave her a nod. She opened it.

  No one.

  Damien climbed up onto the driver’s cabin side to get a better look. Still nothing.

  ‘Misdirection,’ Grace hissed.

  Chickenhead and Big Dog hustled back into DC’s van. They couldn’t stick around for long. In and out.

  Grace leaped down to the pavement. ‘Passenger is in the white van,’ she said. ‘I repeat, passenger is in the whit
e van.’

  ***

  Jay gripped both handlebars, pistol sandwiched in one hand, and accelerated harder. The white van brushed past three cars that were stopped at traffic lights. Jay heard the metal screech. He hit the rear brakes and slid the bike into the back of the cars. He half-rolled, half-stumbled onto one car’s trunk, then Sig in hand, sprinted over the others. The van was grinding against the front car, almost free. Jay aimed his pistol at the driver’s window and fired. Glass fragmented. He fired again, punching a hole through the safety glass and crystallizing the windshield. The round caught the driver in the ear. He slumped back in his seat. The windscreen was intact but fractured. It dripped cerise.

  Jay kept running.

  Someone shoved the dead driver out the door and took control. Jay reached the front car just as the van accelerated. He jumped. Landed on the van roof. He stuffed his Sig into his jeans and dug the EMP grenade from his pocket. The van hit the brakes. A bus roared past, just missing them. The sudden halt sent Jay sliding forward. He cartwheeled over the van’s roof. In desperation, he caught hold of the roof rack and hung on, pulling his cartwheel into the driver’s cabin—feet first. He kicked the windshield into the driver, trapping him behind a panel of glass.

  He hurled himself inside the cabin, beside the driver, who was pushing at the sheet of safety glass. Jay clicked and pushed the arming button on the EMP grenade. It slotted into place. He brought his knee up, slamming it through the safety glass panel and breaking the driver’s nose. The glass cracked into quadrants, held together by film on both sides. Jay dropped the armed EMP grenade and elbowed the driver in the neck. The driver blocked with his arm.

  Pain flashed through Jay’s body. His head felt on fire. His arms and legs locked up in pain. He couldn’t move them. EMPs had no effect on the human body—yeah, right. He felt a white-hot filament shoot up his spine. And then, as quickly as it had seized him, it vanished.

  The driver had the muzzle of a firearm pressed against Jay’s temple. Game over.