Ghost Sniper

72

Out of the fog appeared a flatbed tow truck with the ramp down, its yellow lights flashing atop the cab.

“This is gonna taste like shit!” Gil snarled, locking up the brakes and skidding cockeyed up the ramp, seemingly out of control. The battered black Land Rover caromed off the back of the cab and careened over the guardrail to disappear into the fog.

The exploding airbag was a problem for the first half second — the hot gas and powder stinging Gil’s eyes as he released the seat belt. But the vehicle rolled over to the right as planned, and he opened the door, allowing the centrifugal force to throw him clear. After that it was simply a matter of spreading his arms and legs, soaring away though the fog in the black wing suit.

Unable to see the surface of the river, he kept an eye on the altimeter Velcroed to his wrist, conscious of the fact he was picking up a good deal of speed as he descended. Thirty feet from the surface, the mist cleared well enough to see, and he braced himself for impact, skidding into the water at an angle of 20 degrees doing better than sixty miles per hour. The impact bloodied his nose, knocked the wind out of him, and dislocated his shoulder, but he rolled onto his back and kept himself afloat until Nahn came motoring out of the morning fog to haul him into a small boat.

They were ashore within three minutes, where Nahn reset his shoulder by sitting on the ground, putting his foot into Gil’s armpit and giving his wrist a stiff pull. The joint popped back into the socket, and Gil sat up with a groan, working the shoulder.

“How was your flight?” Nahn asked with a grin.

Gil got to his feet, unzipping the soaking wing suit. “The service was a little slow.”

They were in a van headed for Chongqing ten minutes later. Upon their arrival at a secluded airfield, the two were flown in a private plane to within a few miles of the Vietnamese border, where both men parachuted out of the aircraft at low altitude, gliding over the border to land safely in northern Vietnam, where Nahn’s nephews were waiting to take them to Hanoi.

From Hanoi, Gil was able to access his bank account in the Cayman Islands and make all the necessary arrangements for his trip to Mexico.

At the airport, Gil and Nahn shook hands.

“Thanks, old friend. I owe you more than I can repay. And don’t worry. The man who betrayed you will pay for what he did. You have my word.”

Nahn smiled, saying, “Ai làm ny chu.” Roughly translated: Whoever sows wind shall harvest storm.