The Exile (12 page)

The Peugeot spun out of their path. The Toyota bounced to the left, then continued traveling forward. Kealey heard the men in the backseat shouting as they jumped the near curb. The vehicle's sheer weight brought it down hard on its damaged suspension, and the vulnerable undercarriage scraped along the asphalt, throwing up a shower of orange sparks. Flores swore as he lost control, the Land Cruiser slewing hard to the right. Flores turned into the skid without touching the brake, and Kealey opened his eyes in time to see another car directly in front of them, a woman's pale, frightened face behind the wheel.

They plowed into the vehicle with another violent explosion of metal and glass, driving it sideways over the cement and into the cars parked at the curb. People were scrambling for cover, covering their heads with their arms as the Land Cruiser shuddered to a halt, the engine all but giving out. The sudden quiet made the surrounding screams seem that much louder, but not for long. The 380-horse-power V-8 engine roared back to life as Flores jammed his foot onto the accelerator, simultaneously swinging the wheel hard to the left, turning it hand over hand. They lurched forward, the truck scraping against the woman's mangled sedan with a tremendous squeal that was somehow worse than the sounds thrown up by the earlier impact. They had barely traveled another five meters when Kealey, having managed to catch his breath once again, gripped Flores's shoulder and rasped, “Stop here.”

This time the Honduran didn't bother to argue. He slammed on the brake, and the wheels locked up. They skidded to a halt a few seconds later. Kealey, having already removed his seat belt, immediately flung open the door. Clutching the FNC Para in his right hand, he stepped onto the glass-strewn pavement and shot a quick look back at the alley entrance. Over the screams, he could hear the steady whine of the approaching Land Rovers, but they had yet to hit the street. Better yet, the Peugeot they had hit at the mouth of the alley had spun into the street, effectively blocking the northbound traffic. He still had time.

Flinging a look over his shoulder, he said, “I'm leaving this door open. Drive forward another thirty feet and stop. Whatever you do, don't let that door close, and don't get out of the car. Their lives”—he jerked his thumb over his right shoulder, indicating the two African officials in the backseat—“depend on it. Understand?”

Flores nodded once, but Kealey didn't see the gesture of acknowledgment; he was already on the move. As the Honduran drove on, Kealey crossed the street to the side opposite the alley, ignoring the screams and the accusing fingers leveled in his direction. Stopping in the middle of the southbound lane, he brought the FNC to his shoulder and fired a long burst into the side of a black BMW parked next to the alley. The shots had the intended effect; everyone who had been pointing and shouting at him a second earlier started to scream and scatter, running for their lives. Ironically, the fact that he had fired his weapon had worked to draw their attention away from him. The pedestrians were now focused entirely on one thing, namely, their own survival.

Turning, he ran for the line of parked cars, all of which were pressed to the curb in the southbound lane. There was no room to run between them, so sprinting forward, he jumped and slid across the hood of a battered blue Mercedes sedan, using the chrome bumper as a springboard. The instant his feet touched the sidewalk on the other side of the car, he kept moving, jogging north at a fast, steady pace. Normally, he would have walked to avoid suspicion, but the only way to blend in here was to run, as the chaos on the street was near total. The rifle in his right hand was pressed against his outer thigh, the muzzle depressed. The weapon was as far out of sight as he could get it. Up ahead, he could see the Land Cruiser to his left. It was stopped in the northbound lane, a cloud of steam pouring out from the crumpled hood. Thanks to the expedient roadblock Flores had created by hitting the parked Peugeot, there were no cars between the entrance to the alley and the Blackwater Land Cruiser.

Kealey didn't know if the SAPS vehicles had emerged from the alley behind him, but he couldn't risk turning to look. He wanted to peel off his long-sleeved polo, as he was wearing a different colored T-shirt underneath, and it might make him harder to spot if the police officers were smart enough to keep a roving eye on the scattering pedestrians. But removing the top layer of clothing would require taking his hands off his weapon, and he couldn't risk having someone try to wrest it away from him. The chances of that happening were small, and he would easily be able to retrieve it from anyone who might try to take it, but the fight—even though it would be very short and one-sided—would draw the wrong kind of attention, which was any at all.

A better alternative presented itself a few seconds later. In their haste to flee the scene, some of the pedestrians had dropped their shopping bags, purses, and other assorted items. Kealey, scanning the debris at his feet, caught sight of a crumpled blue baseball cap. Without breaking stride, he leaned down, scooped it up, and put it on, pulling the brim low over his eyes.

The squeal of tires to his rear announced the arrival of the SAPS Land Rovers. Kealey lowered his head and tilted his chin to the right as the vehicles sped past on the left, screeching to a halt just 15 feet behind the Blackwater SUV. They didn't seem to have noticed him, and he instantly quickened his pace, hoping to lessen the gap before they could act. He was 20 feet from the Land Rover bringing up the rear when the doors on both vehicles swung open, revealing the four police officers.

Once again, the drivers stayed in the trucks as the rest of the men clambered out to the pavement. Without a moment's hesitation, they brought their weapons up and began unleashing a tremendous volume of fire on the rear windshield of the Toyota. Kealey, even though he was behind them, saw the exact moment they realized that the passenger-side door was hanging open. One man, presumably the leader, frantically waved a hand up and down in a chopping motion, the universal symbol for cease-fire. The automatic fire stopped a few seconds later, the sound echoing off the surrounding buildings, and the screams of panicked civilians once again dominated the chaotic scene.

Kealey was still running forward. His eyes were fixed on the men, all of whom were now looking to their left, searching for the man who had apparently fled the vehicle. As Kealey watched for a gap in the parked cars, a young woman ran toward him, screaming, clutching an infant child to her chest. Without really seeing her, he switched the rifle to his left hand and grabbed her arm with his right, swinging her around. Confused, the woman didn't even try to resist as he propelled her a few steps forward, then shoved her in through the open door of a sidewalk café. As he turned away, Kealey thought he saw a group of hands pull the woman into the safety of the building, but he couldn't be sure; he was already turning to reacquire his targets.

The four police officers were still searching the parked cars on the other side of the street. Clearly, they had decided that whoever had left the Blackwater vehicle had sought out the closest position of cover. It was the natural assumption to make, and Kealey had been counting on them to do just that. Now he approached unseen from the rear, but just as he was about to engage his first target, his earpiece came to life, jarring him out of the moment.

“Kealey, where the fuck are you?” It was Flores, and he was clearly panicked, the words coming out in an incomprehensible jumble of English and Spanish. “They're right on top of us, and they're armed to the fucking teeth. Estoy saliendo de aquí! Do you hear me? Si no puedo manejar en otra parte, yo saldré de este camión y—”

“Don't move,” Kealey hissed. He was beside himself with rage, furious that the man had picked that crucial moment to distract him. “There's nowhere to drive to, Flores, because the truck is blocked in, and if you get out of that vehicle right now, you're a dead man. Do you understand me? They will kill you before your feet touch the ground, so
don't fucking move.
”

He didn't hear the Honduran's response, but he didn't need to; it was just another barrage of scared threats and angry demands. Still, it was a distraction, and he yanked the Motorola receiver/transmitter out of his right ear. Lifting the rifle to his shoulder, he dismissed the idea of moving closer, deciding it would be better to use the parked cars as cover. Besides, he didn't have time; the officers were already losing interest in the search, and one had stopped looking entirely. That particular officer was moving carefully toward the rear door on the driver's side of the Land Cruiser. His weapon was at the ready, his body crouched below the bottom edge of the windows. He was doing his best to approach the Toyota unseen, and it seemed to be working; Kealey didn't think that Flores had seen the man in his side mirror.

Kealey was just moving past a silver Ford Ikon, a delicatessen off to his right. Clearing the Ford's front windshield, he stopped, straightened, and found his first target. The FNC wasn't fitted with a telescopic sight, but at a distance of 20 feet, the iron sights were all he needed. The SAPS officer closest to the Land Cruiser was just putting his hand on the door handle when Kealey fired a three-round burst into the back of his head. As the man started to fall, Kealey swung the barrel smoothly to the left, picking out a second target. At the same time, he switched the FNC's fire selector to single and squeezed the trigger.

Two rounds to the chest dropped the second police officer, who had just finished turning toward Kealey's position. The third officer almost had time to get his weapon to his shoulder before Kealey's first round entered the base of his throat, puncturing his trachea. He jerked the trigger of his R5 involuntarily, a dozen rounds tearing a jagged line in the concrete as he stumbled away. His left hand whipped up to the tiny hole in his throat, and as he backed into a Mercedes coupe, Kealey's second round pierced his upper lip and blew out the back of his skull, showering the roof of the car with blood, fragments of bone, and brain tissue. The man spiraled to the ground. On the way down, his limp body tore the side mirror off the Mercedes. He landed on top of it, twitched once, and stopped moving.

Kealey was already moving for cover. The fourth police officer in the open had managed to dive over the trunk of a parked car and was now crouched behind the vehicle, firing in Kealey's direction. It was panic fire, though, and it was aimed too high. With his back to the Ikon, Kealey could see the officer's rounds punching into the front of the delicatessen, chipping the brick façade above the plate-glass windows. The angle, as well as the indiscriminate grouping of the shots, told Kealey that the man was probably firing over the hood of the car, which meant he had no idea where his rounds were going.

Taking the chance, Kealey spun to the right and stood, exposing his upper body. He snapped the FNC up to his shoulder, but it was just as he'd suspected. The fourth officer wasn't visible, though his hands were. He was holding his R5 assault rifle over the hood of a red Fiesta, firing blindly across the street. Moving left, Kealey shifted his focus to the SAPS vehicles and saw that both drivers were still behind their respective wheels. Propping his elbows on the hood of an M-Class Mercedes, he sighted in on the driver of the lead SUV and prepared to fire.

Just as he acquired his target, the man flung open his door and started to climb out of the Land Rover. Since the steering wheel was on the right side, the officer was perfectly framed against his vehicle, and Kealey squeezed the trigger twice, both rounds striking the man in the center of his chest. A look of shock came over the driver's face. He reached out to grab for the door, but his legs were already giving way. The police officer dropped to his knees, then fell face-first to the cement, his handgun clattering a few feet from his body. He did not move again.

The second Land Rover was already reversing, the light bar flashing blue on top of the vehicle. Kealey ignored the vehicle, though he caught a glimpse of the driver's terrified face as the SUV hurtled past his position. Instead, he kept his sights fixed on the Ford Fiesta, which was parked 18 feet northwest of his position. The police officer crouched behind the vehicle had brought his weapon down, and Kealey could only assume he was reloading. Kealey had kept careful track of his own spent brass, and he knew that he had fired 23 of the 30 rounds in the FNC's magazine, including the long burst he had fired to scatter the pedestrians. That left him with more than enough ammunition to finish the work he had started, as long as he used it carefully.

He was still waiting for the police officer behind the Fiesta to show himself when he spotted movement to his right. He turned to appraise the new threat and saw the driver's side door on the Land Cruiser swing open. He swore under his breath as Flores climbed out of the vehicle, a Glock 19 in his right hand. The Honduran turned right and began edging carefully along the side of the truck, the Glock extended at arm's length. His swarthy face was fixed in a strange expression, a combination of restrained fear and intense concentration.

Kealey watched the ex-Honduran soldier move with mounting rage and disbelief. He was tempted to shout out an order, to tell the man to get back into the vehicle, but some inner sense of self-preservation stopped him from doing so. He shot a glance at the Fiesta, but the police officer was still hidden from view. To Kealey's left, the second Land Rover was still reversing at a high rate of speed, and he turned in time to see the driver attempt a desperate, near impossible turn. He was clearly trying to swing the SUV back into the alley, but he cut it far too short, and there was a loud bang as the rear end of the vehicle smashed into the corner of the residential building, tearing away part of the redbrick wall. The truck died instantly, and even at a distance Kealey could see the police officer struggling in vain to restart the engine.

It was an incredibly easy shot, more akin to murder than a fair exchange of gunfire, but Kealey hadn't started this fight, and he wasn't about to hesitate now. Standing up, he moved to the back of the Mercedes SUV and leaned around the corner. Bending his knees slightly, he braced his right shoulder against the Mercedes and fired a three-round burst into the front windshield of the incapacitated Land Rover. He saw the driver jerk in his seat, then slump to the right. It was clear that his rounds had hit their target, but he fired another short burst, anyway, just to be sure. As the echo died away, he heard Flores calling his name. He did not respond, not wanting to give away his position, although he realized his last shots had probably done just that. Instead, he continued moving around the back of the M-Class Mercedes, the retractable stock of his FNC tucked in tight to his right shoulder.