Poseidon's Arrow

17

THE CHARGER’S ROOF-MOUNTED LIGHT BAR BATHED the parched hillsides in alternating rays of blue and red. A short distance ahead, the pickup truck’s driver clenched the steering wheel when he saw the lights behind him.

“Pablo! It’s the police. They were waiting at the last bend.”

Sitting in the truck’s rear seat, Pablo glanced over his shoulder at the lights, then looked at the speedometer.

“You were not speeding?”

“No more than a kilometer or two over the limit, I swear.”

Pablo showed no signs of concern on his bullish face. “Lose them before we get close to the airport,” he said without emotion. “If necessary, we’ll ditch our weapons. And the girl.”

Ann tensed, wondering if they would kill her first. Sitting between Pablo and the bearded man named Juan, she didn’t know which man to fear more. Shrinking from Pablo, she turned toward her other guard. With a black eye and dried blood on his cheek, Juan sat with a pistol against her ribs and a snarl etched on his face.

Ann’s hands had been bound and a gun held on her after Pablo discovered her on the boat. Fear had gripped her since, but now a glimmer of hope surfaced in the form of the Mexican police. Perhaps Pitt had somehow informed them. She silently prayed that she wouldn’t get caught in the cross fire of a shoot-out.

The driver accelerated sharply, which caused the four-door pickup to sway and bounce over the rough road. It zipped through several switchbacks before cresting a high coastal ridge. Once over the summit, the road wound down the opposite flank, dropping into the broad valley that housed the border town of Tijuana.

A million lights twinkled through the hazy smog suspended over the city. That view soon vanished as the pickup raced down the slope and entered the city’s outskirts. Looking back, the driver saw he had distanced himself from the police car’s flashing lights.

The truck approached a busy four-lane freeway that looped around the southern end of Tijuana. Pablo noticed the driver begin to turn onto the highway. “No, stay off the highway! Go through the city, it will be easier to lose them.”

The driver nodded and headed into the congested confines of Tijuana. He glanced into his mirror once more. Another vehicle was preventing the police car from closing pursuit.

The intervening vehicle was the utility van. Pitt was doing everything he could to keep within reach of the pickup, despite the police car on his tail. He had nearly melted the van’s small engine, whipping it up the hill at high revolutions to keep pace. The more powerful police Charger easily caught up to the van, then rode its rear bumper with authority.

Pitt created a slight advantage for himself on the downhill run, driving the van on the very edge. Gravel flew as he rocketed through the turns, more focused on staying with the pickup than eluding the police car. The Charger’s driver was more cautious, allowing Pitt to create some separation as they barreled toward the city.

“We’re going to have to do something about our companion,” Pitt said, as they entered the city of nearly two million people.

Giordino glanced at the back of the van, which was stockpiled with tools and electrical supplies that had been clanging back and forth.

“I’ll see if there’s a Federales removal device in back.” He carefully climbed out of his seat as they swayed down the road.

The van’s walls were lined with spools of wire and bins full of electrical connectors, plus an assortment of tools. Hardly an arsenal of defense, Giordino thought. Then he spotted a short rack of conduit pipe. Used to protect exposed wiring, the thin four-foot sections of galvanized steel were threaded at each end. Giordino’s brow arched as he found a binful of couplings. He called up to Pitt. “I think I’ve got something.”

A minute later, the van sped past the freeway on-ramp and continued into the city. The pickup turned right at a stoplight two blocks ahead, and Pitt called out to Giordino, “Coming up!”

He eased off the accelerator, ensuring that the police car hung close behind. When they got within a few car lengths of the stoplight, Pitt yelled, “Now!”

Giordino kicked open the rear doors and slid out an eight-foot section of conduit he had coupled together. He wedged one end against a chunk of wood braced by the rear wheel wells and secured its lateral movement with pieces of wire he wrapped around the door hinges. Pitt gave him a second to scramble out of the way and then slammed on the brakes.

The police officer had already slowed when he spotted the pipe slide out like some kind of medieval jousting lance and braked heavily when the van’s rear lights lit up. Pitt had the advantage with a lighter vehicle and he pressed his case by slamming the van into reverse the instant it lost forward momentum.

The police car rammed into the van’s rear bumper moments after being impaled by Giordino’s makeshift weapon. The conduit pipe rammed through the Charger’s grille and radiator before striking the engine block and crumpling like an accordion. A cloud of steam burst from the engine bay, unseen by the policemen inside whose vision was blocked by exploding air bags.

Pitt threw the van into first gear and stepped on the gas. A grinding sound erupted from the rear as the van struggled to move forward. The bumper finally broke free from the Charger, and the van lurched ahead. Giordino looked back to see the pipe jutting from the grille of the police car like the beak of a hummingbird, steam billowing behind it.

Giordino made his way back to the front seat. “Now you’re really going to cost those utility boys.”

“Just proves those two gringos really were crazy.”

Pitt tightened his grip on the wheel and scoured the road ahead with renewed urgency. Every cop in Tijuana would soon be searching for the battered utility van. Wheeling around the corner, he pressed the accelerator to the floor. They’d have to make a play for Ann—and quickly.