Private Monaco

Chapter 30

“There’s a farm half a mile south-west of here,” I whispered. “If you make those trees, I think you’ll have cover all the way. I want you to run as fast as you can. Don’t stop for anything.”

“No,” Justine replied. “I’m not leaving you. You have to come with me.”

I shook my head. “He’ll catch us eventually. We can’t outrun bullets. He’s going to chase you, and that might give me a chance.”

Justine wavered, but a volley of shots startled us both, hitting the scree beside us and forcing us on, over the lip of the gully.

We ran across open ground, sprinting for the treeline. When we were halfway, I slowed and stopped. Justine had tears in her eyes as she glanced back at me, but she kept running. She understood that if we both went, we’d both die. Separately, we might have a chance.

I rapidly retraced my steps the way we’d come, toward the gully, and saw the top of the shooter’s head as he clambered up the scree. I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see Justine disappear into the trees. She was safe. As long as I stopped this man, she would stay that way.

He saw me as he crested the lip of the gully and raised his gun as I sped toward him.

I fell onto my side as the first shots rang around the valley and bullets cut through the air where my head had been. Momentum carried me on. My feet hit Roman’s chest, knocking him back down the slope. The last of his shots went high and wide as his arms flailed. He tumbled to the floor of the gully, hit the rocks on the other side, and the impact knocked the wind from his lungs and the gun from his hand. It clattered away to my right, bouncing across the rocky ground. He made a dive for it, but I wasn’t going to give up my advantage. I launched myself at him with a cry of pure hatred. This was the man who’d attacked us in the street, who’d taken Justine and held her, and who was now trying to kill us. He meant me and the woman I loved the greatest possible harm. He was the embodiment of everything I stood against.

Rage filled me as we collided. I drove my fists into his gut, his chest, his face. He tried to block my blows, to fight back, but I was determined to protect Justine, to save myself, to make sure we’d be together again and he would pay.

I don’t know how he managed to stay upright. Maybe he was driven by a passion that matched my own. Whatever the reason, he didn’t go down. His eyes rolled back momentarily, but he recovered and kicked me in the shin before elbowing me in the face. I saw a flash of white and then stars and put my arms up to defend against the flurry of punches he aimed at my head. I stepped back and almost stumbled, but thankfully I fell against the steep rockface on the other side of the gully. The stones jabbing against my spine were painful but they kept me upright. I dodged and ducked, sidestepping away from his ferocious assault, and as I moved, I swung a left hook at his ear. He cried out when the blow connected, and his right hand went up instinctively, leaving his side undefended. I aimed a couple of short, sharp jabs at his ribs and then hooked in for his kidney. As he buckled and lost his protective stance, I threw a right cross at his face, catching him on the nose. He staggered back, dazed, and I pushed forward, landing punch after punch, wondering what kept him on his feet. Finally, a powerful trio of jabs and a right hook sent his eyes rolling back in his skull. He went limp and collapsed on the floor of the gully.

I stood for a moment, trying to catch my breath as I looked at my fallen opponent. I remembered the gun, but as I turned toward it, the sounds of dozens of shots filled the air and I realized I was under fire. There were two men further down the gully. One was targeting me with an assault rifle and the other was spraying the air with sub machine gunfire, taking care not to go anywhere near his prone leader.

There were other men now, coming from further along the gully, running in our direction.

I turned and scrambled up the scree slope, leaped clear of the lip, and sprinted toward the trees as though Death himself was chasing me.

I was almost at the protective cover when the air around me erupted with gunfire, and I glanced over my shoulder to see the man with the assault rifle leaning against the lip of the gully, targeting me, while his accomplices ran up the slope to either side of him. He stopped shooting as they neared the line of fire and joined them in their pursuit.

I pushed into the shadow beneath the dry Aleppo pines and quickly cleared the undergrowth to find myself in heavy woodland. I ran south, heading for the next farm down the valley, weaving between the trees, hoping to get enough cover between me and my pursuers. I could hear them barking at each other, their anger and eagerness palpable.

I caught flashes of someone in the forest ahead of me and pushed myself ever faster, until it felt as though I was flying over the twisted roots, fallen branches and bed of tinder-dry needles that covered the ground. My lungs were burning once I finally caught up to Justine, and when she looked back, her relief was clear.

We raced on and crested a rise. A short distance away the trees came to an abrupt halt. As we neared the edge of the forest, we saw a ploughed field beyond, then a fence, another field and the next farmhouse about 300 meters away. My heart sank because I didn’t see how we could cover such a distance over open ground without giving our pursuers clear targets.

“Jack!” Justine said, breathlessly, drawing my attention to a farmer who was no more than fifty meters away.

He was working on the fence that separated the two fields, clearly a boundary between the two farms. There was a pickup truck parked on a track a short distance to his left.

More gunfire behind us. I glanced back but couldn’t see the shooter, just the trunks of trees some distance behind us splintering as bullets hit them. It felt like a blind gamble designed to intimidate us.

The man working on the fence looked up at the sound of the shots, puzzled at first and then anxious when he saw us break cover and sprint toward him.

“Get in the truck,” I yelled, and Justine added in French, “Monte dans la voiture!”

He hesitated momentarily before heading toward the pickup, a red Toyota.

Justine and I sprinted across the open ground and collided with a wooden fence. I helped her over as splinters and chips burst into the air all around us. I looked back to see our pursuers at the treeline, and half climbed, half vaulted over the boundary.

The middle-aged farmworker had the sense to get the engine started. He threw open the passenger door as Justine and I raced along the track with bullets chewing the fence and ground near us.

She dived into the pickup. I followed a split second behind.

“Drive!” I shouted, slamming the door shut, and the farmworker hit the gas. The Toyota sprung forward, fishtailing wildly as it accelerated along the track, the tires fighting for purchase in the dry dirt.

A moment later, the truck got traction and sped away as a hail of bullets hit the tailgate.

Soon, we were well out of range, on the road that would take us down the mountain to safety.