A Bloody Storm

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Storm drove the SUV down the mountain at daredevil speed, dodging rocks, trees, and drop-offs that seemed to jump before the vehicle’s beams.

They had gone less than a half mile over the rocky terrain when headlights appeared behind them.

“Casper?” Showers asked, but she already knew the answer. “Hurry,” she said.

“I’m not Sunday driving,” he replied. “But if I go any faster, I’ll rip out this car’s bottom.”

The SUV’s undercarriage banged against a rock, nearly knocking both of them from their seats. Mercifully, they reached a gravel road a mile later. The SUV chasing them was close enough now that Showers could see the outline of the driver and a passenger.

“Casper must have killed one of them,” she said.

Her sentence was punctuated by a bullet sailing through the rear window of the SUV. Shards of glass flew by her face. The Russian in the SUV’s passenger seat was leaning out his window firing his machine gun at them.

Storm handed his Glock to her and she started to fire, just as Storm swerved to avoid plunging off the narrow road. Her first shot hit their own SUV’s back side window and the second the interior of its roof.

“Shoot them, not us,” Storm said. “We’re the good guys.”

“They’re less a threat than your driving,” she replied.

The gunman chasing them fired another burst of rounds, peppering the rear of the SUV.

Showers spun around in the front passenger seat, so that her back was now pressed against the dash, and lifted her left hand so she could fire through the busted rear window. She emptied the rest of the magazine, causing the attacking vehicle to pull back.

“I must’ve hit one of them,” she declared. “Give me a new clip.”

“I don’t have any. They took them? Remember? Getting frisked?”

“Time to get creative,” she said, climbing between the bucket seats into the SUV’s rear compartment.

“Anything there?” Storm asked as she rummaged through the back. “An AK-47, rocket launcher, cannon, bombs? Peanut butter sandwich?”

“Actually, there’s only this,” she said. She lifted a bag of crème cookies.

Storm glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Showers throwing them one at a time with her left hand at the approaching SUV. Several exploded onto the windshield.

“You’ve got to drive faster,” Showers yelled.

“I hate backseat drivers,” he replied.

She slipped into the front passenger’s seat and said, “Drive faster.”

“Look at this road,” he complained.

They were racing down a one-lane gravel path that had steep drop-offs on its one side. One wrong turn and they would plunge off a cliff.

“Well, he’s going faster,” she said.

“I’m still in front, aren’t I?” Storm said, checking his mirror.

“At least he’s not shooting now,” she said. “I must have wounded him.”

“With a cookie?”

“No, the Glock.”

“Maybe they’re out of bullets.”

Just then the Russian fired another round at them.

“Obviously, they brought along extra ammo,” she said.

Storm swerved, and the wheels of the SUV sent gravel flying from the roadway’s edge. Showers pressed her left hand against the Range Rover’s ceiling to brace herself as he turned quickly around another curve.

Despite Storm’s driving, the vehicle behind them was gaining ground. Within a few seconds, they were so close that Showers could see the Russian’s eyes as he aimed his machine gun at them. At this distance, he wouldn’t miss.

“This is not how I planned to die,” Showers said.

“A white picket fence,” Storm said, swerving, “a rocking chair, grandkids running around while you sipped lemonade. Was that your plan?”

“No, but it certainly wasn’t dying on a Uzbekistan mountain next to someone whose real name I don’t even know.”

“Planning your own death is overrated,” Storm said. “Trust me. I’ve done it.”

Showers braced herself for what she thought would be her last breath as Storm swerved again and waited for the inevitable.

Just as the Russian was about to fire, the SUV that he was riding in turned into a giant fireball. The explosion lifted the vehicle from the roadway and completely engulfed it in flames. It crashed down and bounced off the cliff, tumbling down the mountainside in flames.

“What was in those cookies?” Storm asked. He jammed on his brakes, causing the vehicle to spin to a stop.

“What the hell just happened?” Showers asked.

“Quiet!” Storm said. He turned off the engine.

Through the SUV’s shattered windows, they heard a whirling noise hovering above them in the darkness.

“Jedidiah Jones!” Storm said. “He sent a predator.” He glanced at Showers and started to explain, “You know, an unmanned radio controlled military drone—”

“I know what a predator is,” she snapped. “What I don’t know is how Jones knew we were being chased down the side of a Uzbekistan mountain by Russians.”

Storm lifted up his wrist so she could see his watch.

“I guess no one in the FBI has one of these,” he said proudly. “It’s a tracking device. When Dilya pulled a gun on me in the cave, I turned it on and it sent Langley a signal telling Jones that we were in trouble. This watch tells Jones exactly where I am at any time and in any place in the world.”

“Glad someone is keeping track of you,” she replied.

By the time they reached the bottom of the mountain, the morning sun was rising, and on the horizon they saw a Bell 206 helicopter flying low across the plains toward them. Storm turned off the road as the four-seat chopper landed. Within minutes, they were flying toward Kazakhstan, leaving the bullet-ridden SUV and the bodies of Casper, Oscar, Dilya, the Viper, his men, and six dead Russians behind them.

As they rode in silence in the chopper, Showers suddenly reached over with her left hand.

“Here. A present.”

Storm looked at her opened palm.

It was one of the cookies from the SUV. It had fallen into her sling when she was heaving the others through the window.