by Andy McNab
I'd stayed calm so far. But I had to get out of this shit now. I was going to be killed, it was as easy as that. The engine was running, and I had about ten yards in which to do something.
Whatever I did, there would have to be a lot of speed, aggression, and surprise. And it must work the first time; if not, I was dead.
The guy who was holding me was right-handed or he wouldn't be dragging me along with his left, and therefore, if I started fucking around, he would have to drop the bag and draw his pistol. If I was wrong about that, I would soon be dying. But I was dead anyway, so fuck it why not go for it?
There were about three yards left between me and the car. By now Mr. Armani had glided to the rear door to open it and, as his eyes glanced down for the door handle, I knew it was time.
YAAAAAAHHHHHHH!
Screaming at the top of my lungs, I brought my right hand down hard, half-turned my hips, and hit his left shoulder as hard as I could.
I had surprise on my side. All three now had to take in what was going on and make an assessment. It would take them little more than a second to turn that assessment into reaction.
As I hit him, I started to push in an attempt to spin him to his left so that his right side would come toward me. We were both screaming now. He'd already made his assessment. He dropped the bag and was going for his weapon.
I knew that for him also it was happening in slow motion. I could see the saliva spray out of his mouth as he shouted a warning to the others. There was nothing to worry about with the other two at the moment; if they were quicker than me, knowing about it wouldn't make it any better.
Looking down on his belt, I could see the pistol moving slowly toward me as he spun around. Nothing else mattered. I kept my eyes on it. I heard the other two screaming. We were all at it.
The Colt .45 is a single-action weapon, which means that all the trigger does is release the hammer. To cock the hammer in the first place and chamber the first round, you must first rack back the top slide by pinching in with the fingers and thumb of the left hand against its serrations, pulling it back firmly to the rear, and releasing. The pistol can be carried "cocked and locked" hammer back and safety on, with a round in the breech. The Colt has both a manual safety and a grip safety. Even if the manual safety is off, your hand must be firm enough on the grip to keep the grip safety depressed or the weapon won't fire.
I grabbed the pistol with my left hand, I didn't care where.
At the same time I brought my right hand down, with four fingers together and my thumb stretched out to present a big re cess for the weapon. I pushed onto it with the web of my hand, taking the manual safety catch off with my thumb and using the web of my hand to release the grip safety by holding the weapon correctly. I couldn't see if the hammer was back. And I had no way of knowing if the weapon had a round in the chamber. With my left hand, I racked the top slide back to cock it. It had already been cocked. A brass round spun out of the ejection port, glinting as it tumbled in the street lights. It didn't matter losing one round; at least I wouldn't get a dead man's click.
I knew the first threat was Mr. Armani. He had a weapon in his hand.
I kept turning in the direction the shoulder hit had taken me, and as I did I came up into the aim, firing low because these fuckers wore armor. Armani went down. I didn't know if he was dead.
I kept on spinning and dropped the short guy, moved for ward, and looked at the driver. He was still in his seat, but in a crouched position, screaming and writhing.
I ran to his side of the car, pointing the pistol.
"Move over!
Move over! Move over!"
I pulled the door open and, keeping the pistol on him, kicked him with my right foot. I wasn't going to start dragging him out; it would take too long. I just wanted to get in the car and go. I shoved the muzzle into his cheek and pulled out his weapon, kept it, and threw mine out--I didn't know how many rounds were left.
The injury was to his upper right arm. There was a small entry hole in the material, but not much blood around the site.
He must have taken one of the rounds aimed at Armani as I spun around. His hand, however, was red and dripping from where blood was coursing down his arm. The .45 round is big and heavy and doesn't fuck about. The massive exit wound would have blown away most of the underside of his arm. I would be having no problems from this guy.
As I drove off I screamed at him, "Where are they going?
Where are they going?"
His answer was half a cry, half a shout.
"Fuck you! Fuck you!" His dark-gray suit was turning brown with blood.
I jabbed his leg hard with the pistol.
"Where are they going?"
We were on a narrow residential road. I tore off both side mirrors in the process of turning to question him. He told me to fuck off again, so I fired. I could feel the air pressure change as the gases left the barrel, and then the smell of cordite filled the air. There was an explosion of material and flesh as the round plowed a twelve-inch furrow along and down into his leg. He howled like a stuck pig.
I didn't know where I was heading. The driver's screams quickly subsided, but he kept thrashing about. His convulsions left him on his knees in the foot well with his head on the seat. He was starting to go into shock. He was probably wishing he did sell hot dogs in New York.
"Where are they going?" I demanded again. I didn't want him to pass out before I got the information.
"They're heading south," he moaned.
"Route ninety-five south."
We were speeding on the elevated section of the highway that led to the interstate.
I looked across.
"Who are you?"
His face screwed up in pain as he fought for breath. He didn't reply. I hit him on the temple with the pistol. He gave a low moan and moved his fingers sluggishly from his leg to his head. We passed the Pentagon, then I saw the sign for the Calypso Hotel. It seemed like a bad dream.
"Who are you? Tell me why you're after me!"
I could barely hear his reply. His mouth was dribbling blood, and he was finding it hard to breathe.
"Let me go, man. Just leave me here and I'll tell you."
No way was I falling for that one.
"You're going to die soon. Tell me and I'll help you. Why are you trying to kill us? Who are you?"
His head lolled. He didn't reply because he couldn't.
I found them just short of the Beltway, in the middle of the three lanes. It was easy to pick them out in my headlights. I could see they were still three up; one in the front, two in the back. No sign of Kelly but there was enough space between the two in the back to have another body between them. She was only a little fucker; her head wouldn't be showing.
I couldn't do anything on the freeway, so now was the time to calm down and get my head around the next plan. What was I going to do? Whatever it was, it had to be soon, because I didn't know their destination, and 1-95 goes all the way to Florida. Much nearer, however, about thirty minutes away, was Quantico, the FBI and DEA academy. It was starting to make sense. Luther and the other guy coming to the house, both knowing Kev; they were all the same group. But why would they kill Kev? And if they were the killers, what connection then did "bad DEA" have with my "friends over the water"? Was there something happening here between these two groups that Kev had discovered and got fucked over for?
I thought again of Florida and it gave me an idea. I tucked it away for later.
I looked down at the driver. He was in shitty shape, still losing blood. He was sitting in a pool of it because the rubber mat in the foot well stopped the carpet from soaking it up. I could see his face as the lights from the opposite side of the freeway hit us now and again; all the agitation had drained from it and he looked ashen, like an old fish; life was slowly going out of his eyes, which were staring into space. He was going to die soon. Tough shit.
I reached over, flipped open his jacket, and took the two magazines that were
in a holder on his shoulder holster. He was oblivious to what I was doing; he was in his own place now, perhaps reflecting on his life before he died.
I had surveillance on the target car. My wipers were on high-speed as the trucks and cars splashed more water onto the windshield than the rain itself. I put the defroster on full blast. The driver's leaking blood and my own sweating body were misting the car up big-time.
A freeway was perfect for my purposes; I could just drive along and even allow a bit of distance to develop to the point of letting another car get in between me and the target. As an exit came up I'd just get a little bit closer; if he was going to turn off, I could then fall in naturally and come up behind him.
After about another five minutes I saw a sign saying lorton 1 mile. They started to indicate that they were getting into the right lane to make the exit. They weren't going to Quantico after all. This would be the time to hit them. I glanced down, changed mags, and checked chamber. As I came across to get into the right lane, I realized for the first time that we were driving through heavily wooded terrain.
The tires throbbed rhythmically as they hit the joints in the concrete freeway.
By now the driver had slumped completely into the foot well with his back against the door. It was only the body armor under his shirt that gave him posture. He was dead.
I was now in the exit lane, just twenty yards behind them, close enough to be on top of them, but far enough away so that if they looked behind, they'd just see headlights. Nobody turned their head; they didn't seem to be aware of me. I started to take deep breaths and spark myself up.
The Lorton exit ramp went slightly uphill with a gentle curve to the right. The tall trees on each side gave the impression of a tunnel. I planned to do it at the first intersection. My brain was in overdrive, getting me into a mind-set, trying to take the fear away.
I could see traffic lights in the middle distance and put my foot on the gas to close up even more. Their brake lights came on, then their right turn signal. A truck thundered past from left to right. It looked like it was a wide major road ahead.
The car started its right turn. Pushing myself back into the seat, I put my foot down hard on the accelerator and braced my arms on the steering wheel.
I must have been doing about forty-five and still accelerating as I drew level and yanked the wheel hard to the right.
My right fender hit the front of theirs. There was a massive jolt. My air bag exploded as the car slewed around into the main drag. The other car spun sideways. I heard glass shattering and the screech of tortured rubber.
The moment the vehicle came to a halt I jabbed at the seatbelt release and opened the door. The air felt freezing. At first all I could hear was the hiss of the radiator and the ping ping ping warning that the door was open and the lights on; then came the sound of muffled shouts from inside the other vehicle.
The first priority was the driver. The car had to be immobilized.
He was still fighting his seat belt. I fired through the windshield. I didn't know where I hit him, but he was down.
As I looked into the back I could see Kelly, or at least her shape. She was low down in the foot well hands over her ears.
Luther was getting his first rounds off at me. His door was half open, and he was starting to roll out. I'd have been doing the same because a car draws fire--so you need to get out of the way. As he rolled I kept on firing, just below the level of the door. He screamed. I'd got him. I couldn't tell whether it was a direct hit or the splash of the round off the asphalt, but it didn't matter, the effect was the same.
I moved from behind the hood of my car to take on the third guy. He was out now but had had a change of heart. He put his hands up and yelled, "Don't do it, don't do it!" His eyes were like saucers. I double-tapped him in the head.
Kelly was still curled up in a ball in the foot well She wasn't going anywhere.
I searched the two bodies for wallets and magazines. I left Luther for last.
He was on the ground behind his car, hands clutched to his chest.
"Help me... help me... please..."
He'd taken a round in the armpit as he rolled on the ground, and it must have continued on into his chest cavity. I thought of Kev, Marsha, and Aida and kicked. He opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out was a gurgle. He was on his way out. Good. Let it happen slowly.
I ran back for Kelly and lifted her out other hiding place. I had to shout at her above her screams.
"It's OK, Kelly. I'm here, it's OK."
I held her tight in my arms. She was nearly deafening me.
"It's all over now! It's OK!"
It wasn't.
The police would be here soon. I looked around. The inter section was with a main road, two lanes in each direction. To my left and downhill was 1-95, crossing the road by a bridge, with a Texaco gas station about four hundred yards away on the other side of it on the right. Uphill and about the same distance away a Best Western hotel cut the skyline.
Lights were coming from the exit road toward us. Luther was lying there softly moaning to himself. He wasn't dead, but it wouldn't be long. The lights came closer.
Kelly was still hysterical. Grabbing her to conceal my pistol, I went behind the two cars. The lights were nearly level with us. I moved out and waved the vehicle down.
The good Samaritans were in a Toyota Previa, man and woman in the front, two kids in the back. I played the traumatized victim for all I was worth, shouting, "Help! Help!" as I rushed to the driver's side. The woman was at the wheel; she opened her door.
"Oh my God, oh my God!" Her husband already had his cell phone out to call for an ambulance.
I put the safety catch on and held the gun against her face.
"Everybody out now! Get out, get out now!" My other arm was windmilling like a madman's. Hopefully they'd think I was one.
"Get out! I'll fucking kill you! Get out!"
The one thing I did know about families is that no one will risk theirs. The husband started to lose it.
"Please don't, please don't!" Then he started to cry.
Kelly had quietened down, listening to my act.
It was the mother who kept her cool.
"OK, we are getting out. Dean, get the kids out. Out!"
Dean got his act together. I yelled at him, "Throw your wallet back inside!"
I pushed Kelly through the sliding door, slammed it shut, ran around to the driver's side, climbed up, and we were off.
I wanted to get away from the initial danger area, then sort myself out. The freeway was out because it would be too easy for the police to pick me up. I drove up onto the intersection and turned left under the bridge, past the garage. The road became a normal two-lane highway, and I put my foot down.
This was no time to be explaining stuff to Kelly. She was curled up in the backseat, sobbing. My adrenaline rush was slowing down, but my face was soaked with sweat and I was lathering up. I took deep breaths, trying to get more oxygen into my body and calm everything down. I felt unbelievably angry with myself for losing control back there. I should have killed Luther right off the bat, not fucked around.
I realized we were heading south, away from the airport.
I'd have to stop and get my shit together instead of just running in a blind panic. I pulled over and checked the road atlas.
Kelly didn't look good, but I didn't have too much of a clue what to say to comfort her.
"It's OK now," I tried.
"I told you I was going to look after you, didn't I?"
She looked up at me and nodded, her bottom lip quivering.
I made a decision. Fuck it, let's just go straight to the hotel, get the backup disk, and clear out. I swung the Previa around in a U-turn, heading for the freeway. We stayed on it until we hit the Beltway.
Blue lights flickered toward us. There must have been ten of them. I wasn't worried. Even if they did ID me, they'd have to get across the median.
It took us just unde
r an hour to get to the Economy Inn. We drove straight into the parking lot, and I told Kelly to wait where she was. If she did hear me, there was no reaction. I tried again and got a nod.
I went upstairs, got out my pistol, and went inside. I pulled the bureau onto its side, the TV crashing onto the floor, and ripped the disk away from the tape. If Luther and company were connected with PIRA, they must know I had a disk they had to assume it, anyway. Retrieving the black bag, I went into the bathroom and threw two hand towels into the bath and ran the water. While that was happening I got the plastic laundry bag from the drawer. I put in the wet towels and some soap. I walked out of the room, keeping the do not disturb sign on the handle.
Kelly was still curled up in the backseat. We drove straight down the road to the Marriott. I parked up alongside a line of cars and pickup trucks and grabbed the towels. The moment I opened the door, Kelly ambushed me, throwing her arms around my neck and clinging hard. Her whole body was shaking.
I lifted her head off my shoulder. Blood from the guy I'd head-jobbed had gone all over my jacket, and now some of it was on her face, too, mixing with her tears. I whispered in her ear, "It's OK now, Kelly, really it is it's all over."
She held on even harder. Her tears were warm and wet on my neck.
I said, "I've got to go and get another car, so I want you to stay here. I won't be long."
I started to lift her away from me to put her back on the seat but she resisted, burying her face into my shoulder. I could feel the heat of her breath through the material of my jacket.
I put my hand on the back of her head and rocked gently.
For a moment I didn't know who was clinging to whom. The idea of what was happening and who might be behind it scared me shitless. I had to confirm what Luther had said, and now was as bad a time as any.
"Kelly, do you know Luther?
Was it true what he said about him coming to pick up Daddy?"
