Private Beijing

Chapter 104

West mounted the sidewalk and accelerated. There were no pedestrians, which meant we had a clear run, but fortune can cut both ways. The cops were able to shoot freely. The van took heavy fire as we raced to the barricade. West caught the rear end of one of the vehicles, parked to block the sidewalk, and there was an almighty crash and crunch of metal as the Transporter’s weight and momentum carried it past the barricade. Bullets pierced the chassis, thudding into the side panel, and shattered the square windows at the back of the van.

West and I were unscathed but we still had a long way to go. I heard sirens, lots of them, and glanced in the wing mirror to see a swarm of police vehicles buzz into the mouth of the street.

West jumped the kerb back onto the road and we raced toward the next intersection with a growing convoy of police vehicles on our tail.

There was a dip in the road and the van took off as we went down the slope, heading for the intersection. We saw police vehicles directly ahead. West pointed to a side road where there were more liveried vehicles speeding toward us.

“They’re cutting us off,” he said.

“We need Erin Sebold’s miracle,” I replied.

“If she’s pulled it off,” he countered.

“We’ve got nothing to lose.”

He nodded and swung the wheel left. The Transporter screeched round the corner onto Saratovsky Proezd, a broad road lined with large shops.

“Damn it,” West said, and I saw the reason for his dismay.

Another roadblock, this one properly prepared. Five police vehicles were positioned to form a barrier across the street and sidewalk. They were arranged so the hood of each was behind the tail of its neighbor, making it harder to batter the rear end out of the way. The Russian cops were upping their game. Uniformed officers were positioned behind the center of each vehicle, aiming their rifles over the roofs. These men were more heavily armed than our previous opponents and unleashed a barrage of bullets as we approached.

The Transporter’s windscreen shattered, turning the world a frosty white.

“Kick it out,” West yelled.

I leant back in my seat and stamped the broken glass out of the way. It tumbled over the hood and slid onto the street. I could feel the wind on my face, and the sound of semi-automatic gunfire was even louder now we were exposed to the world.

We were about fifty feet away from the barricade and West was showing no sign of slowing. Instead, he bumped onto the sidewalk and, to my amazement, drove the van into the window of a store on the corner.

Glass shattered and sprayed everywhere, falling on my lap through the open windshield. We crashed through some kind of clothes boutique, which hadn’t opened yet, knocking down mannequin after mannequin until finally we smashed through the window on the far side of the store. Another storm of shattered glass and West swung the wheel left as we crossed the sidewalk and bounced back onto Saratovsky Proezd after the barricade, but our luck wasn’t going to hold. The cops were already in the driver’s seat, breaking up the barricade and joining the pursuit.

West pushed the van to its limit, racing up a rise to see Kuzminki Park ahead of us.

The leading police vehicles were gaining on us as we sped toward the park gates.

“If you’re going to use that thing, now’s the time,” West said, nodding at the ShAK-12.

I opened my window and leant out. West cut diagonally across the street to give me an angle and I opened fire, shooting hot lead at the tires of the pursuing vehicles. The response of automatic gunfire was deafening, and the street behind us erupted until I found my mark and took out the tires of the lead vehicles. Two vehicles veered out of control and another went into a violent spin.

I’d bought us a few vital moments’ respite while another wave of pursuers took point.

“I’m almost out of ammo,” I said. “I’m going to have to use it wisely.”

West nodded. We had a large armory but it was in the back of the van, which I couldn’t access without stopping.

We were moving fast, at least 90 m.p.h., when he steered us into the park. We smashed into the metal gates, which flew off their stone pillars.

I leant out of the window and targeted the wheels of the lead police vehicle.

More rattling and cracking of gunfire and the front tires exploded, sending it crashing into one pier and blocking the gateway.

There were people in the park but West didn’t slow. He sped along the pedestrianized driveway as they dived clear.

Behind us, I saw the massive police convoy stop and officers jump out and try to remove the smoking vehicle that was blocking the gate.

We raced along the carriageway, whizzing past specimen trees and shrubs.

“Any sign of anything?” West asked.

“I don’t know what we’re looking for,” I replied. “But I see trouble ahead.”

I pointed to more police vehicles, about a dozen of them, streaming through the gate on the far side of the park, joining the carriageway, coming toward us.

“Damn!” West said, and turned right, taking us between two venerable conifers and onto an expanse of grass. “I’m not sure we’re getting out of this.”

My heart sank. I knew what capture would mean for both of us. Valery Alekseyev was not a forgiving man.

Then I heard a low rumble, a familiar sound that made my heart soar. An Ansat light helicopter buzzed us, flying low over the van as it charted a course for the center of the lawned area.

West swerved and set the van on an intercept course.

“This is going to be close,” he said, flooring the accelerator.

The van shot forward, chewing up the ground between us and the chopper. To our left, a dozen or so police vehicles were speeding round the perimeter of the park, trying to reach us. Behind us, cops were clambering over the one that had blocked the gate and running in our direction. West was right, this would be tight.

The pilot set the helicopter down a hundred yards ahead of us, and I saw a man in a dark suit open the side door. His face was covered by a ski mask. He beckoned to us.

“Thank all that’s good and holy!” West declared.

We seemed to cover the distance in an instant. West stepped on the brakes. The van shuddered to a stop a few feet clear of the rotors. I jumped out and turned to face the oncoming cops, rifle in hand.

“Get Alekseyev,” I yelled. “I’ll cover you.”

“On it,” West shouted back as he ran to the rear doors.

I opened fire on the first police vehicles as they tried to cross the grass, slowing them down. West appeared moments later, dragging Alekseyev. I emptied my magazine, but it was no use. There were too many of them by now, a police convoy racing over the grass toward us.

I grabbed Alekseyev too and joined West in forcing the reluctant SVR director forward.

West and I hurled him into the chopper, but before I jumped aboard I asked the man in the ski mask, “Who sent you?”

I’d been stung by an impostor before.

“Erin Sebold,” he replied. “She said I should tell you the Red Man used to bake great bread.”

The roar of engines was loud now as the cops drew closer.

“All good?” West yelled above the sound of the rotors.

“All good,” I confirmed, jumping in.

He climbed aboard and the masked man gave the pilot a thumbs-up. We rose into the sky with such speed I was knocked into the seat next to Alekseyev’s.

“Enjoy your flight, Director,” I said, settling back and breathing a little more easily as a small army of angry, frustrated cops stared up at us getting away.

Alekseyev’s trademark scowl was gone. He looked smaller somehow. Broken and defeated.