Drake Alexander and his comrade, Dakin Rush, are being followed in another vehicle by the shadiest of characters. Why?
An excerpt.
Chapter 14 September 29 5:36pm Dhaka
Drake
spots the parking garage at the rear of the office building as Dakin bullies
his way through the traffic, cutting several vehicles off as he swerves into
the parking lot entrance. He says, “There’s a garage in back off to our right,
head to the top floor. I’ll watch to see if they follow.”
“Okay,”
Daiken says as reaches down to his ankle, removing Rae’s gun from its
holster. He places the Sig on the center console, close to his right hand. He notices
the garage is emptying, probably people leaving work. There are no cars going
in so he speeds along. Stopping for a ticket at the automated entryway, he removes
the slip of paper and the gate slowly lifts. The Land Ranger penetrates the
gloomy entrance, many lights are burnt out. The up ramp is to their immediate
right and hugs the outer wall; cars are parked inward on the opposite side, at
an angle. The outer walls are open, with huge concrete columns every twelve
feet, giving some light to the dark interior. Steel rails line the ramp on its
climb to keep cars from going over; many are rusted.
Drake
is looking back as they enter and spies the Isuzu coming around the corner of
the building towards the garage.
“Here
they come. When you get to the top floor, use the truck to block off their path
so they’ll have to come in on foot. We’ll take cover on each side of the top
area if we can. Let’s try to take them alive, Dakin.”
There’s nothing else to say. His concentration is intense, he is going into
battle. Catecholamines are hormones that are released by nerve impulses; their
receptors are all over his body. His heart rate, pulse, blood pressure, all
goes up. His face flushes and invisible caterpillars crawl over his skin.
The
Toyota reaches the top floor, which is open to the sky. A waist-high patterned
concrete wall surrounds the roof. The exit ramp is directly across from them as
they clear the entrance ramp. The building is about twenty five meters wide and
thirty meters long, there is a twelve meter drop to the ground. There are about
a dozen cars sprinkled about. The center parking lanes have cars nose-to-nose.
The center and outside lanes are separated by a six- meter-wide right of way
that circles the top floor. Stunted shadows creep along the roof as the sun lowers
its arc to the west.
Dakin
swings the big truck around so that the passenger side faces the entrance ramp.
The bulk of the Land Cruiser blocks the ingress to the top floor. He turns off
the ignition and pockets the keys. Swinging open the door, he grabs his gun jumping
from the cab to take cover behind the farthest vehicles to the left. There is an
old Mazda quarter-ton truck backed into a slot about eighteen meters away. On
the near side of it is a shiny new Smart car, mostly window. It would be poor
cover, but still a distraction. He crouches down in the truck bed, which is empty
except for a spare tire.
Standing the tire up, he uses it for a shield. He can glance
through its center while keeping his head covered. He holds his gun steady with
his right hand; the left has been dressed and lightly bandaged by the hotel
doctor. On it, he wears a paintballer’s glove with the finger tips missing. He wriggles
the fingers, feeling lucky they all work.
He
pulls out his gun, switching off the safety. He is using .45APC hollowpoint
cartridges. Used in the M1911 with a 5 inch barrel, the shells are man stoppers.
With nearly 500 foot/pounds of bullet energy and large diameter, it will leave
a deep and lasting wound channel, lowering his targets blood pressure quickly.
It is especially effective on humans.
Drake
crawls over the console and gets out Dakin’s door right behind him, running to
the right toward a 1969 Chevy Impala parked nose out seven lanes back. It’s
black, festooned with several shades of primer where its owner has obviously
made repairs, auto body camouflage. It’s parked near a bantam Japanese import,
which is crowded in on the other side by a light grey, not so new Beemer,
facing in.
He
crouches down at the rear of the Impala, behind the back tire. It is semi-cloaked
in the early evening shadows. Behind a black car in a dark spot and in his
black clothes he’ll be hard to see. He checks the door of the car. It’s
unlocked. He closes it gently until he hears it click. He, Dakin and their
vehicle form a V at the top floor, leaving anyone coming around the truck an
open target.

Both
men are crouched behind cover. They can hear the Isuzu as it approaches. The
groan of the oncoming engine falters as it nears the obstruction at the
entrance to the top floor becoming a purr as it idles. Drake and Dakin can hear
a discussion behind their vehicle but it is not loud enough to discern what’s
being said, it was likely their pursuers debating as to their approach. The
defenders align the sights of their weapons on the openings near the Toyota and
wait.
Bunker
has impatiently grabbed a parking stub from the machine as the Land Cruiser they
are pursuing spirals towards the second floor just above them. He eases the SUV
through the gate, pausing inside the wide doorway. Bunker looks over at Saul,
who sits fuming in the passenger seat and says,
“We
do this my way Morgan.”
“Who
made you the boss”? He asks. “Rizzato wanted me and Hajani to take out Bashara,
find out if he spoke to anyone about him. I should be telling you what to do.”
“So,
where’s Hajani now? Where’s Bashara?” The sarcasm shuts Morgan up.
Bunker
reaches into the back seat and grabs a hard body case. More to appease him than
to protect him, the big Serb thrusts the case toward Morgan saying, “Put that
pistol away and take this.”
Saul
opens the case to find a FAMAS bullpup, a French assault rifle. The weapon has
the action and magazine behind the trigger, built more into the stock of the
gun closer to the shooter’s face. It’s a shorter, lighter assault weapon
maintaining a long barrel. Unfortunately the shorter stock makes it more
difficult to avoid barrel spray, making it a poor choice for long distance.
Today, however, it will be deadly in a confined space.
Morgan’s
attitude changes as he clutches the rifle. Admiring its stubby design, he says,
“I’ve never fired one like this. I’m more familiar with an M16, but I think
I’ll catch on quick enough. Ah, here’s the safety.” He flips the safety back
and forth, puts the gun to his shoulder, aiming out the window. He adjusts his
shoulder, his grip for a few seconds, leaving the safety on full auto.
Sitting
taller in the seat, he places the butt of the gun between his thighs, holding
the two grips at ready. He stares at the dimly lit entryway, grits his teeth
and said, “Let’s do it.”
Bunker
proceeds with caution, expecting an ambush at each level. Some patrons are leaving
on the lower levels down the opposite ramp; there is no one behind them. They are
approaching the top level when Bunker sees the Land Ranger blocking their path.
He stops his vehicle and muses aloud to his partner. His first thought is that the
people they are pursuing might be below, waiting for them to retreat or planning
to attack them from the rear. The Ranger is about 40 feet away. He shoves the
brakes tightly to the floor while depressing the accelerator also. The rear
wheels are screaming, bleeding blue smoke. The ass of the SUV starts to swerve
when the speedometer hits 40. He yells for Morgan to
brace himself then releases
the brakes. The vehicle shoots forward and is going 60 when it hits the Land
Ranger. The four-wheel drive Sportivo sports an all terrain push bar mounted on
the front bumper. It catches the Land Ranger at the bottom of the passenger
door, the towing hooks digging into the rocker panel. It lifts the passenger-side
wheels several inches off the floor. It’s like a furious elk digging pronged
horns into its opponent’s flank.

The
door of the Land Ranger buckles like tissue. The tires on the driver’s side
bubble with the weight and screech as they slide along the concrete until they catch
in an expansion joint. The Toyota pitches
onto its side, crushing metal and glass, making a horrific noise. The stench of
burnt rubber gives the sound more weight. Bunker is relentless and floors the
Isuzu, its own tires proclaiming insanity. He bulldozes the whole mess for
another twenty feet until the roof of the Toyota smashes into the Chevy Drake is
crouching behind. The Chevy caroms into the import, the import into the BMW
then everything stops as the rear of the 252i hits the back wall.
In
the mere seconds before the Ranger hit the Chevy, Drake has scrambled to get
away from crashing cars. When he saw they were still coming, he dived under the
import and crabbed his way toward the Beamer. The import struck just as Drake
was half way through. As he was crawling, splayed out, the car started moving, centimeters
over his head. The noise was deafening as metal strained and complained and
tires howled. The rear crunched into the side wall, with the front starting to cave
in. The front tire of the beamer cut off Drake’s escape route, but he managed
to get out from under the car just as everything stopped. He rolls into a
kneeling position, hidden behind the rear fender. He listens to the sudden
stillness until he hears their voices. One he recognizes.
For
a few seconds the only noise is glass still shattering and the hissing of steam
being released from the Land Ranger’s busted radiator. Morgan had braced his
feet on the dash after laying the bullpup across his lap. He had been holding
the overhead handle with one hand. He relaxes and sits forward, grasping the
gun and resting his arms on his knees. Staring at the crashed cars he looked
over at Bunker for a second.
“Fucking
‘A’, Bunk!”
Emotionless,
Bunker demands, “Get out and get down, quickly.”
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