The Assassin's Case (22 page)

TWENTY-FIVE

A black SUV roared toward them. Grant dove into the car and Evans jammed the accelerator. The acceleration of the Taurus’ six-cylinder engine wasn’t a match for the powerful SUV rushing toward them. Within seconds the larger vehicle caught up.

Grant reached into the pack and extracted an MP-5. No clip. He rummaged through the bag and found no ammunition. The chief took it all, even the clips. That sniveling, weaselly, spawn of a muck-sucking toad. Grant tossed the useless pack to the floorboard. The black vehicle was only inches from their bumper, the shiny chrome of its grille seemed like a grinning mouth ready to consume their much smaller sedan.

The SUV’s side windows were tinted almost black, but the windshield was slightly less shaded. He could make out the features of the driver, the older of the two soldiers he had captured. Grant ground his teeth.
I should have killed you when I had the chance.

Jaime’s gun appeared from beneath her blazer.

“Evans. I don’t have any ammo,” Grant said.

“Hold on. I’m going to try to lose them.” Evans jerked the wheel to the left and they skidded onto a cross street, momentarily leaving the less maneuverable vehicle behind. There wasn’t another car on the street, just tourists browsing and shop-keepers selling in the open air stores on the palm-lined boulevard. All eyes turned as the vehicles raced past. The brick paving thump-thumped beneath their tires. Once Evans gained a semblance of control he pulled a gun from the center console and passed it back, and pulled another from beneath his blazer, which he kept.

Grant grabbed the handgun, a Heckler and Koch USP Tactical forty-five caliber automatic. The HK pistol had a matte black finish and a load of stopping power. Grant pull-checked the slide and a hint of brass gleamed from the chamber. Just to be sure he ejected the clip. Loaded to capacity. Ten in the clip and one in the pipe.

The SUV quickly gained ground. The street angled toward the river’s mouth where an estuary melded the ocean’s salty water with the fresh waters of the river and the mangrove swamp. A left would take them west and back toward the beach, a right to the east along the edge of the swamp which served as San Blas’ northern border.

Evans chose right. They bounced onto a winding road shadowed on the left side by towering palms, mangos, and banyan trees. The right the outskirts of San Blas.

The SUV kept pace with them. But the soldiers inside hadn’t fired, nor had they attempted to ram them even though there had been ample opportunity.

An intersection forced them to turn left, then a quick right. Everyone’s attention was on the Black Tahoe behind them. Grant began to scan the area around them.
What are you guys up to?

“Hold on!” Evans said. A blur of motion to their right flashed into Grant’s field of vision. Evans pulled the wheel hard left.

A black Humvee erupted from a cross street and slammed into the rear quarter panel of the Taurus. Metal screeched and crunched. Grant was thrown sideways before his head snapped back and banged against the rear passenger window.

The impact spun the car sideways in an almost 180 degree tire-squawling turn. Now, through the front windshield, Grant saw the unharmed Humvee continue by. As soon as it was past the Tahoe shot forward and rammed the Taurus again.

Going with the impetus of the impact, Evans slammed the gearshift into reverse and jammed his foot on the accelerator. The right rear tire scraped against the fender well, but the car moved, though not very fast.

One hand on the passenger seat headrest, the other on the wheel, head turned to allow him to see front and back, Evans steered toward the trees lining the swamp. Their tires bumped over the edge of the road and something popped near the damaged rear quarter panel. As they shot through a narrow gap in the trees the Taurus’ engine roared, no longer delivering power to the wheels. The car limped to a stop.

Grant shoved the rear door open, grabbed one of the pack’s straps, and stepped out of the ruined car, gun trained over the top of the door. “Everybody out. Find some shelter.” While the rest of the group poured out, Grant covered their retreat.

Cane’s men, eight of them, two teams of four, spilled out of the two SUV’s and took up protected shooting positions behind each vehicle. The group in the Tahoe about forty yards to the left, the group from the Humvee the same distance to the right.

Grant retreated to the rear of the Taurus when the first shots slammed into it, the sound-suppressed sub-machine guns made little noise. Evans tried in vain to get the damaged trunk open as Grant joined him.

“We need the stuff in here if we’re going to survive,” Evans said.

Grant nodded. They just needed to keep the soldiers pinned down long enough to keep them from advancing en-masse. Jaime and Tedesco had taken up positions behind the trunks of nearby trees.

Evans produced another pistol, engaged the safety, and tossed it to Tedesco.

“You two hold them off,” Grant said. We need some time.”

The pair returned fire, each one taking careful, measured shots to conserve their limited ammunition. It was a bit surreal witnessing Tedesco fire the weapon with one hand while he clutched the Bible in the other.

              Grant dropped his backpack, located the Equatorion, and rammed the eight-and-a-half inch blade into the seam of the trunk near the lock. With Evans’ help and the aid of the knife, they were able to pry the trunk open. Immediately a barrage of bullets smacked into the open trunk lid.

Gunfire swarmed around them, spat-spatting into the car’s body, the trees, the dirt. Jaime and Tedesco were forced to duck behind their shelters as bullets ripped into the bark of their protective trees.

While Evans removed a duffel from the trunk Grant inspected the large knife’s blade. A little scratched but not too much worse for wear. He located its sheath and the CQ7 in the backpack, stuffing the smaller knife in his pocket, and the big knife in his waistband, finally emptying the useless guns into the trunk. He decided to keep the backpack just in case and slid it over his shoulders.

Evans removed a set of MP-5/10’s, securing one over his shoulder with a strap, and with efficient movements readied the other to fire. Grant recognized the weapon immediately. Similar to the legendary MP-5 nine-millimeter, this weapon fired a more powerful ten-millimeter round. It also featured a translucent magazine allowing its operator to see how many rounds remained in its thirty capacity clip. Evans stuffed extra clips into his pockets and, using another feature of the weapon, attached a second clip to the bottom of the first, giving him sixty un-interrupted shots.

“Have I told you lately that I love you,” Grant said.

Evans smiled. “Yeah. I get that a lot.” He shoved the duffel bag toward Grant as he extended the collapsible stock on the MP-5. Evans tucked the sub-machine gun to his shoulder and stood, firing to halt the now advancing soldiers, before ducking back down to avoid return fire.

Peeling back the sides of the bag Grant found a scoped, matte-black, bolt-action Remington 700P rifle, and two boxes of .308 Winchester shells. With this weapon he could reach out and touch someone up to about twelve-hundred yards.

Jaime and Evans pumped more shots toward their attackers. “We can’t hold them off for long,” Jaime said. The only hint of her anxiety was a slight high-pitched tremor in her voice.

Grant removed the rifle and examined its workings before thumbing in four cartridges. He jacked a shell into the chamber and inserted a fifth. Two gas cans in the trunk, one of them tipped on its side, gave Grant an idea. Evans was indeed a regular boy scout.

Evans ducked down beside him. “It’s no Cheytac, but I thought it might be of some use to you.” More shots banged into the trunk near them. “You know. Just in case.”

Though adrenaline boiled in Grant’s veins, he still smiled. “This will do nicely, my friend.” He spun and took a kneeling firing position, the Remington’s barrel along the edge of the Taurus’ rear fender, his eye locked on the scope’s crosshairs, the Humvee in his line of fire.

Two soldiers emerged from the rear bumper, sprinting toward the trees, attempting a flanking maneuver. Grant acquired the lead man in his sights. Cover fire from their comrades exploded into the car and the tree Jaime hid behind. They were trying to kill her.
No more mercy.

Stroking the trigger, Grant exhaled as he eased the slack. He was already working the bolt and lining up the next target when the bullet struck the lead man. He stumbled forward a few steps before falling to the ground. When his partner attempted to leap over him, Grant fired again, and the soldier joined his comrade on the ground. The bullet caught him low, in the hip. He could survive with medical attention, but regardless, he was out of the fight.

Grant scanned the jungle bordering the swamp and spied a game trail. He pointed to it. “Jaime. You and Jimmy head that way when I say go. We’ll cover you.” Grant replaced the two spent cartridges and turned to Evans. “You go left. I’ll go right. Take the Tahoe, I’ll take the Humvee.” Reaching into the trunk he located the gas cans. Both full. He poured the contents of one can onto the trunk floor and tossed in the empty container. He unscrewed the lid of the second canister, and set it on the trunk’s saturated carpet. The vaporous fumes assailed his nostrils, bringing tears to his eyes, and he quickly slammed the trunk closed before ducking down.

Evans nodded and they both dove away from the car, rolling behind the trunks of large trees to either side. As Grant spun into firing position he shouted. “Go!”

Through his periphery he saw Jaime and Tedesco sprint toward the trail. Evans sent a barrage into the Tahoe, pinning down the four men behind it.

Grant scoured the contours of the Humvee through his scope. A body appeared over the hood, weapon raised, and Grant fired. Too quick. He jerked the trigger a hair too hard and pulled the shot off line, but it did graze the man’s arm. It was enough to make him duck for shelter. Grant fired two more rounds, one to each tire, ruining them. He turned and sprinted toward the trail, the pack flapping against his back as he dodged underbrush and roots.

When he reached the trail’s entrance he turned, ramming more cartridges into the rifle’s chamber.

Evans caught him, turned and fired the rest of his clip in a wide arc.

“Go. I’ll catch up,” Grant said.

The former Ranger disappeared into the heavy vegetation surrounding the path and Grant waited. The remaining six soldiers followed them, entering the trees near the wrecked Taurus. Grant’s field of fire was diminished by the numerous boles of trees. He chose a spot where he believed someone would step, a narrow corridor between the trunks. A body filled the scope’s optics and he fired. His remaining five companions scattered for cover, all sheltering in close proximity to the car. Grant pulled the forty-five and blasted the area around them, attempting to buy a couple of seconds. 

Clearing all the mental detritus from his thoughts, Grant stuffed the Heckler and Koch pistol into his waistband and raised the Remington. He focused his crosshairs on a damaged portion of the Taurus’ trunk seam. He pulled the trigger, the bullet striking near the target. Although gas was highly flammable and explosive, the truth of the matter was you could drop a match in it, and the match would more than likely be snuffed out. The key was the vapors. It should take just a spark to detonate them. Grant steadied himself, hoping the fume build-up in the trunk would be sufficient. He shot again, but never saw the bullet’s impact, just the resulting explosion. The trunk detonated in a ball of flame, lifting the rear axle of the Taurus from the ground.

I hope they bought the damage waiver.

He turned and followed his companions down the trail. Well, not so much a trail, but the hint of one. As he edged his way through trees, roots, and undergrowth a second, much larger, explosion sent birds bounding into the air, their calls of alarm reverberating over the swamp. The car’s gas tank must have caused the secondary explosion.

Attempting to keep an eye on both his back trail and his footing, Grant wound along the path until he reached the edge of the swamp. The water was choked with mango trees, the leafy canopies causing a false twilight. Mosquitoes already swarmed him. Past a bend, the trail opened to a flat piece of shoreline. Murky water gently lapped onto the sand. 

Jaime crouched, now in possession of one of the MP-5/10’s, pointing it in Grant’s direction. He raised his hands. She lowered the weapon and huffed out a breath.

Evans and Tedesco checked a small flat-bottom wood skiff for leaks, standing next to it in knee-deep water. Apparently satisfied it was sea worthy they motioned Grant and Jaime to hop in.

Grant stepped into the cool water, placed one hand on the edge of the boat, and extended the other to Jaime. She took it and he helped her into the craft. There weren’t any chairs so she took a seat on the floor in the center of the boat. Grant climbed in after her and pushed a collection of rolled up nets to the side. Judging by the tight weave of the nets the skiff belonged to a local shrimp fisherman.

Evans and Tedesco pushed them into deeper water before jumping in the boat themselves. Tedesco took the front, Evans the back. They stood, using poles to propel them through the water. An MP-5/10 hung from a strap on Evans shoulder.