Red Station

FIFTY-SIX

‘ Harry.’ Clare had seen them, too.

‘What’s up?’ Rik twisted in his seat and looked back. ‘Who is that?’

‘Could be anybody,’ said Harry calmly. But his heart was thumping. He took out his gun and checked the clip.

Clare increased speed, the engine howling in competition with the furious drumming of the tyres over the roughened surface and the machine-gun clatter of stones hitting the underneath of the chassis.

Harry checked the petrol gauge. They had plenty of fuel as long as they weren’t forced to abandon the airport idea and drive for miles through the night. At this demanding rate, that could become a problem and he suspected petrol stations were few and far between… and not all likely to be operating.

‘Slow down,’ he suggested to Clare. ‘Fake a burst tyre. See what they do.’

‘OK. Hold tight.’ Clare took her foot off the accelerator, allowing their speed to drop sharply as if they were experiencing problems. She dabbed the brakes a few times, the red glow flashing in the dark behind them, and hauled on the steering wheel causing the car to fishtail across the road.

Harry looked back. The other car hadn’t slowed. In fact it was approaching way too fast to be anything but a threat. Any normal driver on seeing their brake lights would have backed off immediately. But the lights were growing at a frightening rate, and when the other driver flicked on his full beams, Harry knew they were in trouble.

‘Go!’ he shouted. But Clare had already floored the pedal, the Land Cruiser’s engine roaring in response.

He glanced at Rik, who was sitting upright in his seat, holding his gun in his lap. The younger man was staring through the side window with no expression, but he seemed calm enough.

‘You OK?’ said Harry, and received a terse nod in return.

‘We should take him,’ Clare said. ‘There’s nothing ahead; we’re in the open.’

Harry considered it. Their options were limited. If the car behind them contained Latham and his team, stopping to argue in this relative wilderness would be a short form of suicide. The Hit would be trained for this kind of terrain and this scenario, and spoiling for a fight. The odds of three comparative amateurs gaining superiority over them was therefore minimal. But staying on the road at this rate was merely prolonging the inevitable. And if Clare lost control of the car because of a burst tyre or a mechanical fault, the end would come just as quickly and with less chance of fighting back.

He signalled ahead. He would have to trust Clare to know what she was doing. ‘Choose your spot.’

‘What are we doing?’ Rik leaned forward between the seats to make himself heard over the noise.

‘Get ready to bale out,’ Harry warned him. ‘The moment we stop, go left and find cover off the road. Don’t stay with the car.’

Rik nodded and sat back, swallowing hard.

Moments later, Clare shouted, ‘Now!’ Then she stamped hard on the brakes, bracing herself on the wheel.

For a moment nothing happened. Not even the engine noise diminished. The car’s velocity continued unabated, the tyres drumming on the gravelled road and dust billowing around their tail, glowing red in the aura of the brake lights. Then the tyre treads began to grip and they were thrown forward against their seat belts. Another release as the vehicle skidded and lost traction, but Clare adjusted smoothly with a spin of the wheel and pointed the nose of the car at the side of the road. They thumped against the grass verge and over, taking them in a crazy slide, the headlights throwing up a whirlwind kaleidoscope of bushes, saplings and rocks, and a family of skinny goats leaping out of their way.

Harry thumbed his seat belt release and leapt out of the car as it came to a stop, vaguely aware of Clare doing the same. He stumbled as his shoes skidded on damp grass, then pitched forward, his momentum overtaking him. He rolled instinctively, one shoulder crunching against a series of small stones and one hand scraping across the rough ground. His head brushed a large, solid object and he closed his eyes, tucking himself into a tight ball.

He came up the right way and threw himself to one side, away, he hoped, from the car and the glare of lights. If he stayed too close, he would be backlit for anyone to take a shot at him. He hoped Clare and Rik had done the same.

The Toyota’s lights went out.

He turned away and stared into the night, eyes still holding the echo of the glare. Loss of night vision was the last thing he needed.

There was no sign of the other vehicle.

‘Clare?’ He peered towards the Toyota. She was either close enough to it to have leaned in and doused the lights, or was now keeping very still nearby.

He heard a scrape from further along the gully they had just come down. He froze. He felt vulnerable not knowing what his cover was like, and braced himself. For all he knew, he could be lying out in the open; and if Latham and his men had night-vision equipment, they were done for. Yet instinct told him that the Hit had been expecting to take them in town, where the need for specialist tools wouldn’t be needed. He hoped he was right.

A rock rolled against his leg, and he spun round, finger on the trigger.

‘Harry — it’s me!’ Clare’s whisper was close by, and it took a deliberate effort of will to stop himself pulling the trigger. He relaxed his finger, breathing out in a long, slow sigh.

‘Did you see where they went?’ he whispered.

‘No.’ She moved, her foot brushing against his. He could tell by the scuff of cloth that she was moving, twisting her body and scanning the area immediately around them. ‘They stopped about a hundred yards back.’

Too close. If the opposition had decamped from their vehicle, they could already be moving in for the kill. He wondered how many were in the team. Not that it mattered; more than two of Latham’s kind and they were well and truly stuffed.

Then he recalled something Mace had said about Kostova. ‘He likes to keep close tabs on everyone who drops by his little bailiwick. He doesn’t miss a trick.’

And Kostova had said that a man had arrived. One man.

‘A fellow countryman of yours… a man named Phillips.’

Harry hadn’t given it much thought at the time, his mind too focussed on Latham. The precise size and make-up of his team hadn’t been a burning issue.

Had Kostova missed other arrivals, slipping in under separate cover? Or did it mean there was no team at all?

He thought it over, his brain in a spin. The idea of efficient, fast-moving four-man teams was long built into military thinking, his own included. That number had filtered automatically through to many quasi-military operations. Four worked well, and had become an acceptable fact. But did it have to be true? And why would assassins need to travel in teams of four?

Assassins.

‘See if you can locate Rik,’ he said softly, and slid away before Clare could argue. The sound of voices out here would travel too easily, and he didn’t want to run the risk of Latham zeroing in on them. He made his way off to the side, probing the dark, stopping every few feet to listen. He heard only the drumming of his heart and the sigh of the wind fanning the bushes and the grass. Then a goat bleated softly, and he hugged the ground tight.

Was it reacting to his presence… or someone else?

Then he was blinded as the world was lit up by a twin array of headlights and two huge spotlights not fifty yards away. It was the other car, and he’d wandered right in front of it!

He cursed and rolled away, sucking himself closer to the earth and rocks. A volley of shots rang out from behind the lights, three double-taps in quick succession. The sounds were flat and soon lost over the open countryside, and he caught a glimpse of the red-hot muzzle flash from near the car. He winced as something tugged at his sleeve and he felt the brush of heat against his skin. He continued rolling, desperately trying to keep his legs from windmilling and giving away his position. He bumped over a series of rocks, feeling jabs of pain in his ribs and hips, and wondered where he would end up.

Then the ground disappeared beneath him and he dropped into a void.