Private Beijing

Chapter 103

We needed to head south-west to the airfield. The first couple miles passed without incident. West and I were silent, on edge, and alert. We had forty miles to go, and I hoped we’d be as lucky for the remainder of our journey.

We weren’t. As we turned onto Volgogradskiy Avenue, a busy dual carriageway lined with offices and shops, we saw the first roadblock.

There were long lines waiting to make their way through two checkpoints. There were another two on the opposite side of the street, and traffic was also backed up in that direction. The uniformed cops were thorough, checking identity papers and searching each vehicle. We had no doubt they were looking for us.

“Take the alleyway,” I suggested, pointing to the narrow street to our right, which cut between two office blocks. I couldn’t see where it went, but it had to be better than certain capture.

West nodded. Once he had crawled forward enough to clear the metal barriers either side of the mouth of the alleyway, he made the turn. We drove between the two office buildings and reached a T-junction. West went right, which took us toward 11-Ya Tekstilshchikov Street.

“We’ll go one block further and try to cut south from there,” West said.

He made a right turn onto 11-Ya Tekstilshchikov Street, and we immediately saw a problem ahead. Moscow Police were setting up another checkpoint at the intersection with Lyublinskaya Street. The noose was tightening.

“Bluff, fight, or run?” West said. “Those are our only three options.”

“I don’t see us bluffing our way out. Not with a bound and gagged guy in the back,” I said.

“Me neither.”

“And I don’t like the odds of fighting Moscow’s finest for forty miles.”

“Neither do I,” he responded. “So that leaves run.”

“Yeah,” I said, buckling my seat belt.

I bent into the footwell and picked up Feo’s rifle. “Maybe with a little fighting.”

“Okay then,” West replied, gripping the steering wheel tighter.

Establishing the roadblock had caused traffic to build up in both directions, which created a gap on the other carriageway as vehicles were held back while the cops got ready to start their checks.

“Hold on,” West said, as he swerved across the outside lane and cut over the median onto the empty stretch of road on the other side.

He stepped on the gas and the van roared forward. The cops at the checkpoint were startled and slow to react. They didn’t manage to get their weapons drawn before we were on them. They had to dive clear as West crashed through the gap between two of the vehicles. The Transporter hardly slowed, but the buckled cop vehicles spun wildly as we raced by.

West hopped the median and bounced onto the right side of the road, eating up a clear stretch as we gathered speed.

I heard sirens behind us and glanced in the wing mirror to see the undamaged police vehicles screech clear of the checkpoint and start to chase us.

“Forty miles, you say?” West asked as we shot straight across a roundabout, bouncing over the kerbs and chewing up grass.

“Yeah,” I replied.

He frowned. “Long way.”

He swung the wheel and took us right onto Saratovskaya Street, but to my dismay I saw this single-lane road, which cut through a popular retail district, was completely closed. Police vehicles blocked access in both directions. They were obviously trying to divert traffic to the main checkpoints.

I saw four cops draw their pistols and crouch behind the hoods. Soon we would be all over the radio and every cop in Moscow would be looking for us. It looked as though there was no escape.