“Hang on,” Sam said, then slewed the wheel right. Despite the Rover’s high center of gravity, the tires clung to the road, but Sam could see he’d overshot the turn. He eased the wheel left, then tapped the brakes and jerked the wheel right again. The Rover’s tail whipped around. The driver’s-side rear tire slipped off the shoulder. They felt the Rover tipping sideways. Sam resisted the impulse to correct right and instead steered into the skid, dropping the driver’s-side front tire off the shoulder. Now even with each other, the two shoulder-side tires bit down together. Sam gunned it, jerked the wheel to the right, and the Rover vaulted back onto the road.
“Sharp right!” Remi called, pointing at a gap in the foliage off the shoulder.
Sam reacted instantly, braking hard. The Rover shuddered to a stop. Sam switched into reverse, backed up ten feet, switched back to drive and turned into the gap. Shadows engulfed them. Foliage scraped the car’s sides. He eased forward a few feet until the bumper tapped a wooden cattle gate.
Remi climbed over the center console into the backseat and poked her head up so she could see out the side window.
Sam asked, “Are we off the road?”
“Barely. He should be along anytime now.” Thirty seconds later: “There he goes.” She turned around in the seat, slumped back, and exhaled. “Can we sit here for a—”
From down the main road came the shrieking of brakes, then silence.
Sam and Remi froze.
In the distance an engine revved and tires squealed.
Sam groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Buckle up, Remi.”
THE ROAD, while in fact blacktop, was narrow and winding, with no centerline and with ragged shoulders. With the Range Rover at top speed, they gained a half mile before they heard the Passat skid into the turn behind them. As they rounded the next corner a sign flashed past.
Remi caught it: “Narrow bridge ahead.”
Sam gunned the engine, eating up the straightaway before the bridge. On either side, the jungle seemed to close in around them. The green tips of branches lashed the side windows. Through the windshield, the bridge appeared.
“They call that a bridge?” Remi called.
Spanning a narrow gorge, the bridge was anchored to each bank by a pair of steel cables, but there were neither center stanchions nor support pylons. Fence-post-and-rope handrails lined each side. The bridge’s surface was little more than parallel twelve-inch planks with nothing but air and the occasional crossbeam between them.
Fifty yards from the structure, Sam slammed on the brakes. He and Remi glanced out the side windows; there was nothing. No breaks in the foliage, no turnoffs. Nowhere to hide. Beside them, a sign read, in French: SINGLE VEHICLE CROSSING ONLY. BRIDGE SPEED LIMIT—6 KPH. Essentially, a walking pace.
Sam looked at Remi, who forced a smile. “Like a Band-Aid,” she said.
“Don’t think, just do it.”
“Right.”
Sam aligned the Rover’s wheels with the bridge’s planks, then stepped on the accelerator. The Rover rolled forward.
Behind them came the sound of tires squealing. Remi turned in her seat and saw the Passat skid around the corner, fishtail slightly, then straighten out.
“Ten to one he was counting on this bridge.”
“No bet,” Sam replied, fingers white on the steering wheel.
The Rover’s front tires thumped over the bridge’s first crossbeam and onto the planks. The wood groaned and creaked. The Rover’s back tires crossed over.
“Point of no return,” Sam said. “Is he slowing down?”
Still turned in her seat, Remi said, “No . . . Okay, he is. He’s not stopping, though.”
Sam depressed the accelerator. The speedometer needle rose past twelve kph.
Remi rolled down her window, stuck her head out, and looked down.
Sam called, “Do I want to know?”
“It’s about a fifty-foot drop into a river.”
“A lazy river, right?”
“Whitewater. Class 4 at least.”
“Okay, sunshine, enough narrative.”
Remi pulled her head back inside and took another look through the rear window. “He’s almost on the bridge. Clearly, the sign doesn’t worry him.”
“Let’s hope he knows more than we do.”
They crossed the halfway point.
A moment later they felt the Range Rover dip slightly. Now double loaded, the bridge began undulating like a jump rope being flicked vertically at both ends. While the movement was but inches, the differing weights and positions of the vehicles began to feed upon each other.
“Interference wave,” Sam muttered.
“Pardon?”
“Physics. When two waves of disparate amplitude combine—”
“Bad things happen,” Remi finished. “I get it.”
The Range Rover was rising and falling erratically now, six inches in each direction, Sam estimated. Remi felt her stomach rise into her throat.
“Do we happen to have any seasickness pills?”
“Sorry, my dear. We’re almost there.”
The bridge’s opposite side loomed before the windshield. Twenty feet . . . ten. Sam set his jaw, waited for the Rover to begin its downward plunge, then goosed the accelerator. The speedometer shot past twenty-five kph. The Rover bumped over the last crossbeam and onto solid ground.
Remi glanced out the rear window. Her eyes went wide. “Sam . . .”
He turned. Without the Rover’s compensatory weight, the police Passat was absorbing all the motion. The bridge lurched upward, then dropped suddenly, leaving the car suspended for a split second. It was just enough. The Passat dropped but landed slightly off line. The driver’s-side front tire dropped into the center gap. With a gunshotlike crack, the nearest crossbeam gave way. The Passat tipped sideways onto the driver’s door and slipped farther into the rift. The forward third of the car, including the engine compartment, was now dangling in space.
Remi murmured, “Oh, God . . .”
On impulse, Sam opened his door and got out.
“Sam! What are you doing?”
“For all we know, he’s just a cop doing what he was ordered.”
“Or he’ll happily shoot you when you walk up to his car.”
Sam shrugged, then walked back and opened the Rover’s tailgate. He rummaged through his pack and found what he was looking for: a fifty-foot coil of quarter-inch utility paracord. Careful to stay on the Passat’s “up side,” he walked down the plank until he was even with the passenger-side door. Below him, the river rushed past, frothing and sending up plumes of spray. He crouched down and examined the chassis; the situation was more precarious than he’d anticipated. The only thing keeping the Passat from falling was the driver’s-side rear tire, which was wedged between a plank and a crossbeam.
Sam called, “Do you speak English?”
After a few moments’ hesitation, the cop replied in a French-Malagasy accent, “A little English.”
“I’m going to get you out—”
“Yes, thank you, please—”
“Don’t shoot me.”
“Okay.”
“Repeat what I just said.”
“You are going to help me. I will not shoot you with my gun. Here, here . . . I will drop it out the window.”
Sam walked to the rear of the car and peeked around the bumper so he could see the driver’s door. A hand holding a revolver appeared through the open window. The revolver dropped through the gap and tumbled into the mist below. Sam walked back to the passenger door.
“Okay, hang on.”
He uncoiled the paracord, doubled it up, knotted the loose ends together, then tied square knots at three-foot intervals down its length. Once done, he gave the bridge’s side railing a test tug, then tossed one end of the paracord through the passenger window.
“When I say go, I’m going to pull, and you’re going to climb. Understand?”
“I understand. I will climb.”
&n
bsp; Sam looped his end of the paracord around one of the posts, gripped it with both hands, then called, “Go!,” and started pulling. The car began rocking and groaning. Wood splintered. “Keep climbing!” Sam ordered.
A pair of black hands appeared through the passenger window, followed by a head and face.
The Passat lurched sideways and slipped a foot. Glass shattered.
“Faster!” Sam yelled. “Climb! Now!”
Sam gave the paracord one last heave, and the cop came tumbling out the window. He landed in a heap, his torso lying across the plank, his legs dangling in space. Sam leaned forward, grabbed his collar, and dragged him forward. With a series of overlapping pops and cracks, the crossbeam gave way, and the Passat slid through the gap and disappeared from view. A moment later, Sam heard a massive splash.
Panting, the man rolled onto his back and looked up at Sam. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He began coiling the paracord. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t offer you a ride.”
The cop nodded.
“Why were you following us?”
“I do not know. We were given an alert from the district commander. That is all I know.”
“How far did this alert go?”
“Antananarivo and outlying communities.”
“When did you last report in?”
“When I realized you had turned onto this road.”
“What did they say?”
“Nothing,” the cop said.
“Are there any main roads ahead that come from the north?”
The cop thought for a moment. “Asphalt roads? Yes . . . three before the main road west to Tsiafahy.”
“Do you have a cell phone?” Sam asked.
“It was in the car.”
Sam said nothing, continued to stare at the cop.
“I am telling the truth.” The cop patted his front pockets, rolled over, did the same to his back pockets. “It is gone.”
Sam nodded. He finished coiling the paracord, then turned and headed for the Range Rover.
“Thank you!” the cop called again.
“Don’t mention it,” Sam called over his shoulder. “I mean it. Don’t tell them I helped you. The people who are paying your district commander will kill you.”
CHAPTER 35
MADAGASCAR, INDIAN OCEAN
“DO YOU REALLY THINK THEY WILL?” REMI ASKED WHEN SAM climbed back into the car and recounted the conversation.
“I don’t know, but if he thinks so, he’ll be more likely to keep his mouth shut. I hope.”
Remi leaned over and kissed Sam on the cheek. “That was a good thing you did, Fargo.”
Sam smiled. “Somebody probably offered him a month’s salary to just follow a pair of tourists. Can’t blame him for that. If we’re going to get intercepted, the car will probably come from one of three blacktop roads he mentioned.”
“Agreed.” Remi unfolded the map and studied it a moment. “Tsiafahy is south of Antananarivo on Route 7. If we can get there . . .”
“How far to the Tsiafahy turnoff?”
“Sixty kilometers—about thirty-seven miles. Another twenty west to Tsiafahy.”
Sam nodded and checked his watch. “We might make it before nightfall.”
ALMOST IMMEDIATELY they realized their optimism was probably unwarranted. Past the bridge, the road continued to wind through the jungle, a mix of gentle bends and switchbacks that slowed their pace dramatically. They passed the first blacktop road intersection without incident and soon found themselves driving along a boulder-strewn river—the same one, they assumed, they’d crossed thirty minutes earlier.
“Next intersection coming up,” Remi announced. “Two miles.”
Five minutes later Sam saw the intersection. Remi pointed through the windshield. “I saw something . . . a flash of sunlight.”
“It’s a bumper,” Sam said between his teeth. “Duck. If we’re not a couple, maybe . . .”
Remi scrunched down in her seat. As they drew even with the blacktop, Sam pressed himself back into the headrest and cast a glance out Remi’s window. The vehicle, a dark blue Nissan SUV, was parked on the shoulder a few feet back from the intersection.
“What’s happening?” Remi asked.
Sam glanced in the rearview mirror. “He’s pulling out . . . He’s behind us.”
Remi sat up, grabbed the binoculars from the floor between her feet, and focused them through the back window. “A driver and a passenger. The silhouettes look male. I see a Europcar rental sticker on the bumper.”
“All bad signs. Are they speeding up?”
“No, just keeping pace. You know what they say, Sam: For every rat you see . . .”
He nodded. If, in fact, this Nissan was pursuing them, the chances were good there would be a second and perhaps a third car up ahead.
“How far to the next blacktop road?”
Remi checked the map. “Four miles.”
IT TOOK NEARLY ten minutes to cover the distance. A few hundred yards behind them, the Nissan was still matching their speed. Remi alternated between checking the map and studying their possible pursuers through the binoculars.
“What are you expecting them to do?” Sam asked with a smile.
“Either go away or raise the skull and crossbones.”
“Intersection’s coming up. Should be around this next bend.”
Remi turned to face forward.
Sam took his foot off the gas, eased the Rover into the turn, then accelerated again.
“Sam!”
Fifty yards away, sitting broadside across the road, was a red Nissan SUV.
“There’s your skull and crossbones!” Sam called.
He eased the Rover slightly left, taking the center of the road, and aimed the hood directly at the Nissan’s passenger door. He stepped on the accelerator, and the Rover’s engine roared.
“I don’t think they’re going to move,” Remi said, hands braced on the dashboard.
“We’ll see.”
Remi glanced over her shoulder. “Our tail has closed the gap.”
“How close?”
“A hundred feet and coming fast.”
“Hold on, Remi.”
With his thumb depressing the button, Sam lifted the emergency brake handle. In the space of two seconds the Rover’s speed dropped by half. The Nissan’s driver, seeing no brake lights to alert him, was slow to react. The Nissan loomed in Sam’s rearview mirror. He jerked the wheel right, tapped the brakes, and the Nissan swerved left to avoid the collision. Sam glanced in his side mirror and saw the Nissan coming up alongside. He yanked the wheel left and was rewarded with a crunch of metal on metal. The red Nissan filled the Rover’s windshield. Sam torqued the wheel hard right, swerved around the Nissan’s bumper onto the shoulder, then drove back up onto the road.
“Cut it a little close there, Fargo,” Remi said.
“Sorry about that. Do you see the blue one?”
Remi checked. “He’s still there, about two hundred yards back. The red one’s getting turned around.”
Within two minutes both Nissans were back on their tail and trying to close the gap. While the Rover’s engine probably had more horsepower, the Nissan’s lower center of gravity gave them the advantage on the corners. Slowly but steadily, the Nissans ate up the distance.
“Ideas?” Remi asked.
“I’m open-minded.”
Remi opened the map and began tracing her finger along their course while murmuring to herself. She pulled one of their guidebooks from the glove compartment, flipped pages, and continued murmuring.
She looked up suddenly. “Is there a left turn coming up?”
“We’re on it now.”
“Take it!”
Sam did as instructed, braking hard, then slewing the Rover onto the intersecting dirt road. A sign flashed past: LAC DE MANTASOA.
“Lake Mantasoa?” Sam asked. “Are we going fishing?”
“They’ve got ferries,” Remi replied. She co
nsulted her watch. “Next one leaves in four minutes.”
Sam checked the rearview mirror. The two Nissans were skidding into the turn. “Something tells me we’re not going to have time to purchase tickets.”
“I figured you could pull off something tricky.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
The road devolved into a series of descending switchbacks bordered on both sides by steep embankments. The jungle canopy closed in above them, blotting out the sun. They passed a brown-painted sign with a yellow P, a car pictograph, and “50M.”
“Almost there,” Remi said. “Let’s hope for a busy lot.”
Sam brought the Rover through the last switchback, and the road widened into a small parking lot covered with diagonal white lines. To the right was a forested embankment; to the left, beyond a strip of well-manicured grass, was a river, this one flat and calm. There were eight cars in the parking lot. At the far end, sitting before a wall of trees, was a gazebo-like ticket hut. To the right of this was what appeared to be a service road blocked by a chain draped between two fence posts.
“I don’t see the ferry,” Sam said, accelerating across the lot.
“It just left.” Remi pointed.
To the left of the ticket hut Sam saw a fan of froth on the river’s surface. He rolled down his window and they could hear the distinct overlapping chop of paddle wheels.
“They’re here,” Remi said.
Sam glanced in the rearview mirror. The blue Nissan accelerated out of the last switchback, closely followed by the red one.
“I’ve got a tricky idea,” Sam said. “Or a really dumb one.”
“Either way, it’s better than sitting here.”
Sam slammed the gas pedal to the floor, swerved around the parked cars like a slalom racer, then bumped over the curb and onto the grass before the ticket hut. The tires slipped on the damp grass; the rear end fishtailed. Sam corrected, eased right, and aimed the hood at the entrance to the utility road.
“Cross your fingers those posts aren’t buried deep,” he said. “Here we go!”
Lost Empire: A Fargo Adventure Page 25
