The Belgian Bagman (Justin Hall #11)

by Ethan Jones

  “He’s still there, staring at the Alfa Romeo,” Justin said. “No wait, he’s . . . he’s . . . nodding.”

  “Yazigi just turned on Statiestraat,” Karolin said.

  Justin drew in an easier breath. “Rookie mistake. He nodded at Yazigi. Maybe Aboud’s waiting for Yazigi, to make sure he’s keeping up.”

  “So, I’m not burned?” Dolina said.

  “Uncertain. Let’s not risk it, in case Aboud is really jumpy. Come up on the other side of the square, on Astridplein. Stay out of sight.”

  “Copy that.” Dolina’s voice had a tinge of regret.

  “I’ll take over your task, Dolina.” Carrie folded the map, put it in her coat’s pocket, and smiled at Justin. She walked a couple of steps, then waved at him. She continued down the sidewalk, in the direction of Aboud, who was across the street.

  Justin pulled out his phone and feigned dialing someone. He looked to his left, toward the intersection at the corner of the café and the train station. But he kept Aboud in the peripheral vision.

  A loud beep caught Justin by surprise. It was the ear-piercing backing-up signal of a garbage truck. Two workers in brown-and-orange overalls were gathering the waste from plastic cans of garbage and recyclables at the edge of the square by the train station.

  How did they get the truck there? Justin wondered. The entire square and streets leading to it and to the train station were blocked off with metal or concrete barriers. Maybe some of the metal barriers are collapsible?

  He glanced at Aboud, who was almost at the intersection, about ten yards away from Justin. He expected Aboud to continue toward the train station, but he just stood there at the corner, by the convenience store, and pulled out a cigarette package from one of his pockets.

  Is that a signal? To Yazigi or someone else?

  Aboud popped a cigarette into his mouth, but did not light it. He seemed to be playing with the lighter and glancing around the square. His eyes took in the entire surroundings, including Justin, who did not make eye contact. He nodded and talked on his phone, saying, “Yes, yes, okay. All right, yes, explain that to me,” and again feigned he was listening, pressing the phone closer to his ear.

  What is Aboud doing? What is he waiting for?

  Justin looked to his left. Yazigi had hurried his pace and was maybe fifteen yards behind Aboud. Then Yazigi crossed to the other side, walked by Justin, and headed toward the train station.

  Aboud returned his eyes to the orange garbage truck. The two waste collection workers were finished with the cans. Aboud threw his cigarette away and dashed toward the garbage truck.

  A black Vespa scooter zipped from the other side of the square. It seemed it was also going toward Yazigi and Aboud. All three men—assuming the dark-clad silhouette riding the scooter was a man—were converging on the garbage truck.

  Yes, that’s their goal. A truck attack.

  “They’re going for the truck,” Justin said on his mike. “Ready to intervene.”

  “Are you certain?” Dolina asked.

  “No time.” Justin hurried toward the square. “Everyone on the truck.”

  “Copy that,” Carrie said.

  Justin crossed the short distance separating him from the square. He tried to appear like a passenger dashing to catch his train.

  But Aboud had clued in to Justin’s attention.

  The terrorist pulled out a pistol and pointed it at Justin. He had only a split second to roll onto the ground. As Aboud opened fire, Justin slid behind a streetlight post and a metal garbage container.

  Bullets thumped against the container and bounced near his feet. Justin returned fire, but was not sure he hit Aboud. Justin flattened himself to the ground, as another volley kicked up dirt around him.

  A quick barrage came from his right. Carrie had dropped to one knee near the café’s corner and was squeezing off round after round.

  Justin peeked over the container.

  Aboud was gone, and the garbage truck was on the move.

  The driver aimed it toward a scattering crowd of pedestrians. Most of the people loitering in the square or rushing for their trains had fled in all directions. But the ones coming out of the station may have not heard the gunfire.

  The front of the truck hit a couple of old men who were not quick enough to move out of the way. The driver turned the wheel, and the truck rocketed through the square, zooming toward a group of tourists snapping selfies in front of the train station building.

  Justin fired at the truck. Bullets hammered the back of the truck, but did not stop or slow it down. It plowed through the tourist crowd.

  Justin called at Carrie, “Cover me.”

  “Copy that.” Carrie nodded back.

  He stood up and took a few quick cautious steps. Because of the gunfire, he was not sure how many terrorists had climbed into the garbage truck. One or more could be lying in wait to mow him down.

  Justin’s eyes took on the vast expanse of the square. He saw the black Vespa tossed to the side, then he looked at the train station’s entrance. People were running toward it, which meant in most likelihood none of the terrorists had entered the station.

  “Square seems clear,” he said slowly into his mike. “No sign of shooters.”

  “Copy that,” Dolina said. “I’m very close.”

  “Carrie, check inside the station,” Justin said. “I’m going after the truck.”

  “Roger,” Carrie said.

  “Justin . . . be careful,” Karolin said.

  “Yes, I will.”

  He glanced at a few people lying on the square. Two women were crying and shaking their heads. A man on his knees was trying to help save one of the people who had been run over.

  The jerks.

  Justin bolted behind the truck, which had turned to the left and was heading away from the square. The driver was charging along the sidewalk, trying to hit as many pedestrians as possible. The truck crashed into a couple of cyclists, then the driver swerved and hit one of the small trees near the edge of the sidewalk. The driver turned the steering wheel to the other side, and the truck slammed into the front of a small café.

  Justin cut through the square and the stalled traffic. He skirted a tour bus parked to the side. He thought about taking over the bus, but it would be too cumbersome to maneuver it through the narrow city streets. He needed something smaller than the garbage truck, but heavy and powerful enough to stop the mayhem-causing monster.

  He came upon the almost perfect vehicle. A black box-shaped Mercedes-Benz SUV was parked along the side of Koningin Astridplein street. Justin glanced around for the SUV’s owner, but in the midst of the pandemonium, he could not identify him. And he had no time to waste, since the garbage truck was nearing the next intersection.

  So Justin kicked the SUV, making a large dent in the door. He felt bad for the brand-new vehicle, but once he got behind the wheel, it was not going to be an easy ride for him or the SUV.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” A large man in a black suit came rushing toward Justin from the supermarket next to the café.

  “I need the keys.” Justin stretched out his hand and gestured toward the Mercedes.

  “Huh? What? No, no.” The man shook his head.

  “Keys! Now!” Justin pointed the gun at the man’s head.

  “Yes, yes. Here.” The man reached quickly into his pocket. His shaky hand almost dropped the keys.

  “Thanks.”

  Justin slid behind the wheel. He started the SUV, just as the terrorists’ truck mowed through a bus stop shelter. A couple of the people waiting there jumped out of the monster’s way at the last possible moment. An elderly woman was not that lucky.

  Justin shook his head and stomped on the gas. Let’s put an end to this.

  The Mercedes roared to life and jerked forward. Justin gripped the steering wheel and glanced at the truck, which had just turned onto the next street, Carnotstraat.

  The sidewalk was narrower than the previous one, but no less b
usy. As Justin followed the truck, he saw the carnage it left behind: wounded or terrified people and others lying motionless.

  The truck crashed through a row of parked bicycles, then squeezed next to a city bus. The maneuver slowed down the truck, and Justin was able to close the distance. He drove to the left of the bus, and onto the tramway’s tracks. He was now parallel to the garbage truck and could see the driver.

  But the driver also could see Justin.

  The driver turned the wheel and aimed toward the SUV.

  A yellow-and-blue metallic barrier had fenced off the sidewalk, since a couple of buildings were under construction. The garbage truck threw it to the side as if it were cardboard. The driver forced his way into traffic, by pushing aside a small Nissan.

  Then he crashed into Justin’s SUV.

  Justin held on to the steering wheel. Then he yanked it to the right, and struck the side of the truck.

  The garbage truck was heavy, so Justin’s maneuver did not do much to slow the truck down. Its driver again crashed into the side of the Mercedes. The strong shove threw Justin off the tramway’s platform and into the lane of oncoming traffic.

  He turned the wheel quickly and avoided a head-on collision with a yellow taxi. He stepped on the gas and drove onto the other sidewalk, then he slammed on the brakes as the front of the Mercedes almost crashed into the window of a cell phone store.

  Justin sighed, cursed the driver, and turned his gaze to the truck. It was still storming along the sidewalk across the street, with pedestrians leaping or crawling to safety, if they could.

  Justin honked, then forced his way into a small gap in the traffic. His SUV’s left side scraped against the hood of a van, then he almost crashed into another taxi. But he was able to get back into his lane and give chase to the truck.

  As he closed the distance, he thought of another tactic. Justin pulled out his pistol and held it in his right hand. As he neared the truck, he fired a quick barrage at the truck’s rear tires. Two blew up, and the truck dropped. The wheels began to scrape along the asphalt, kicking up sparks.

  The truck slowed down, but did not stop.

  Justin drove closer to the front of the truck.

  Bullets hammered the side of the Mercedes, shattering the windows. A couple of them pierced through the door and slammed into the seat. Justin fired back, aiming at the truck’s cabin and front tires. Bullets drilled through the door and shattered the window’s glass, but he missed the tires.

  Justin was not sure if he had hit the driver, but the truck began to swerve into oncoming traffic.

  Justin hit the brakes, so he could fall behind the truck. The driver—or the passenger, if Justin’s bullet had wounded or killed the driver—was able to regain control of the vehicle. The truck turned back into its lane, but not before hitting the front of an SUV coming from the other direction.

  That crash sent metal fragments all around Justin. He stepped on the gas, staying behind the truck and trying to come to the side. But the driver was staying at the edge of the lane, stopping Justin’s maneuver.

  He edged right over the dividing line, then took advantage of a gap in oncoming traffic. He floored the engine and caught up to the truck. Justin raised his pistol, but before he could squeeze off a few rounds, the truck came smashing into the Mercedes’s side.

  Justin dropped the pistol.

  Worse than that, the impact sent the SUV toward the sidewalk. He yanked the wheel to avoid hitting a woman on a bicycle, then turned the wheel again to return to the other lane. But the truck driver blocked the move. He sideswiped Justin’s Mercedes, giving it a hard, heavy push toward an oncoming van.

  Justin jerked the wheel, barely missed the van, and drove onto the sidewalk. He avoided a couple of pedestrians and a streetlight post, then the front of his SUV banged against one of the benches and a trash can. He cursed the driver and stepped on the gas pedal.

  The truck shot through the street, going full steam ahead.

  Justin cut through the lane. A small sedan was able to stop in time to allow Justin to squeeze by with only minor damage to the Mercedes. He pulled at the steering wheel, and resumed the chase.

  The truck was maybe thirty yards up ahead. Sparks continued to fly from the back wheels grating on the asphalt. Justin wondered how much longer they were going to last, and what he would have to do to bring this beast down.

  He slammed his foot on the gas. The Mercedes arrowed forward, and Justin gripped the steering wheel. The SUV was rattling and felt uneven. I hope I don’t blow a tire. He got closer to the truck.

  The driver had seen Justin and yanked the wheel. The truck came at the SUV, but Justin was able to veer to the left and avoid the crash.

  He groped around his feet for the pistol.

  The truck hit the SUV.

  Justin’s fingers found the pistol, but before he could use it, bullets struck around him. The windshield erupted in a geyser of glass fragments, and he was glad he had his head down. He aimed his pistol at the truck and fired a couple of rounds. Then he jerked the wheel.

  The SUV went nowhere.

  Justin repeated the gesture, with more force.

  The SUV did not respond.

  Another volley struck the Mercedes.

  Justin returned fire, then glanced at the garbage truck. The SUV seemed to have been stuck to the truck’s side. Probably caught up on the metal bars on the truck’s body.

  He fired again at the truck’s cabin until the pistol was empty. He reached for the fresh magazine in his holster. Before he could reload, a man’s head appeared at the truck’s window. He had no weapon, but Justin was not going to wait until he saw one.

  He cursed the stuck SUV, inserted the magazine into the pistol, and holstered the Sig. Then he slipped into the back seat. Justin slid half his body through the window, and grabbed one of the vertical bars along the truck’s body. He pulled himself up, put his feet on the SUV’s window frame, then climbed over the Mercedes’s roof.

  The SUV just broke away from the truck.

  Justin threw himself against the garbage truck body. His hands gripped the metal bar, as he dangled in the air. His body slammed against the truck, as he struggled to find a footing along the truck’s slippery body.

  The gunman’s head appeared again at the truck’s window. He glanced at the SUV rolling into oncoming traffic and into the path of a city bus. Then he noticed Justin clinging onto the side of the truck and pointed a pistol at him.

  Justin pulled himself up the bar, while the violent crash sent the SUV back toward the truck. He swung his body over the truck’s roof as bullets whizzed around him. Then the SUV struck the side of the truck, where Justin had been but a moment earlier.

  He drew in a deep breath and flattened himself against the truck’s roof. His hands clasped two metal bars, and he hung there as the truck swerved around a turn. His body swung to the left, then to the right, as the truck zigzagged.

  The driver was trying to throw Justin off, but he fought tooth and nail to hang on to the roof. Then the truck crashed into another vehicle and debris came flying upwards and toward Justin. He was almost thrown off the roof, his body rolling around, but he clung onto the bars.

  As the truck slowed down, a hand appeared at the right side of the truck, near the cabin. Then another hand holding a pistol.

  Justin was expecting someone to climb up and try to stop him. So Justin reached for his pistol and fired a couple of rounds. One of them missed, but the other struck the weapon-holding hand. The pistol fell off to the side, and the man’s hand disappeared. But his other hand still gripped the metal bar along the edge of the truck.

  Justin aimed and fired again. The bullet pierced the man’s hand, and he fell off the truck with a loud scream. Justin slid to the side and saw the man rolling on the asphalt. He was still alive and climbed to his knees. It seemed he was going to get up and start running after the truck. But a Jeep rolled from the left and crashed into him.

  Justin turned his attention t
o the truck driver, who was still barreling through the street, crashing into whatever stood in the way. The truck had slowed down, but not much. Justin crawled to the right side, then stole a peek at the cabin. He was not sure if there was one man or two inside. But he was prepared to take them all down.

  He hung on to the metal bars, then slipped along the side of the truck. He rested his foot on the small ledge behind the cabin, then noticed his mistake. The man in the passenger seat had followed Justin’s move in the side mirror.

  Justin flattened himself against the truck’s side as the man produced an assault rifle. He turned it and aimed it in Justin’s direction. But the Kalashnikov rifle was large and unwieldy, difficult to use in this situation. Justin raised his pistol and shot the rifle out of the man’s hand.

  The man screamed and cursed at Justin, who fired a few rounds at the cabin’s door and the rear wall. Bullets pierced through, but he could not be certain the man was wounded or dead.

  Justin reholstered his pistol and jumped onto the cabin’s door. A fist swung out of the window. He lowered his body, and the fist missed his head. Justin wrapped his fingers tight against the mirror bracket, then went for his pistol.

  Before he was able to pull it out, a round cut through the door.

  Justin rocked his body away from the door, toward the nose of the truck.

  Another bullet tore a hole even closer to Justin’s side.

  His hand drew the pistol. He fired a three-round burst, then swung toward the back and reached for the door’s handle. Justin pulled it, and the door swung open. The shooter’s dead body rolled out of the cabin.

  A volley poured through the door, but Justin had already dropped to the side and away from the line of fire. He squeezed off a couple of rounds through the back of the cabin, trying to remember how many bullets were left in the magazine.

  The truck swerved to the right and then to the left.

  He almost lost his grasp on the metal bar. His body was thrown against the open door, and the pistol slipped through his fingers. A couple of rounds whizzed just over his head, then the volley stopped.