The Hunted

72

“I’m hit,” Daniels struggled to say as he pressed his right hand against a bleeding chest wound. Scarponi cursed, then swerved to the right and left, driving erratically to prevent the agents in the helicopter from getting off any more lucky potshots at them.

“How long?” he shouted at McCabe.

“Ready — open it up! All I need is one look.” He tilted the smoothbore tube of the rocket launcher toward the ceiling, and Scarponi pressed the button that retracted the moon roof. Just as it began sliding open, a loud thump caught their attention. They all looked up simultaneously. Something — someone — was on top of the vehicle.

Payne was lying face down on the Navigator, his fingers sliding along the cold, slick metal top, reaching for the rail of the luggage rack. His legs were spread against the aluminum bars, steadying his lower body.

He lifted his head into the wind and saw — inches from his face — a stitch of light growing wider as the moon roof slid open.

“Aw, shit,” he said into the wind as he struggled to hold on with his left hand and both feet while he reached into his leather jacket for the Glock. A large tube was emerging from the opening, pointed skyward. Jesus Christ, the launcher.

Payne yanked his handgun and took out the slack in the tensioned trigger. He shoved the weapon through the moon roof, alongside the bazooka, down into the passenger compartment. And began firing randomly.

The car swerved violently to the left, then to the right, clearly in response to his efforts. Although wedging his legs against the top rails prevented him from flying laterally off the roof, he was so intently focused on maintaining his position that several rounds had exploded from his gun before he realized the tube of the launcher had disappeared from the opening.

Payne suddenly became aware of the proximity of the Black Hawk above him. But more weapons fire popped in the wind — coming from the SUV’s rear window — and the helicopter once again retreated up into the darkness… but not before turning on its brilliant spotlight, adding an eerie illumination to the Navigator, which now seemed to be traveling at greater than ninety miles an hour.

“Stay with them,” Knox shouted. “Keep back a hundred feet and watch out for that fucking rocket launcher.”

“Looks like an M20,” DeSantos said. “We definitely want to avoid that thing.”

Knox rubbed his temples and began tapping his foot, the insatiable desire to pace forcing him to find some other form of stimulation. He slipped on his infrared goggles, zeroed in on Payne, and gasped. “Holy mother of Mary. He’s going to get himself killed. What the hell is he doing?”

DeSantos was busy with the controls, maintaining the desired distance while flying an unconventional, erratic pattern. “With all due respect, chief, we’ve become Captain Ahab. And the whale is doing his best to get away.”

“The hunter and the hunted?”

DeSantos nodded.

“Then let’s act like a hunter. Take us in.”

His fingers were painfully numb. Payne’s arm and shoulder muscles burned as he strained to maintain his grip on the rails. At the moment, he had many enemies: the driving wind, the light yet slippery rain, the shifting movements of the SUV… and his chief foe, Anthony Scarponi, who was attempting to shake him loose.

But when the bullets started popping through the Navigator’s roof to either side of him, his comfort level plunged significantly — not that it was high to begin with. It was stupid for him to have jumped from the chopper, but he was not about to let Scarponi get away. For his future with Lauren to amount to something more than just a life on the run, he needed to stop Scarponi.

Here, and now.

Payne grabbed the edge of the moon roof with his left hand and returned fire. The SUV swerved abruptly and tossed Payne to the right, his hand catching the luggage rack as his legs slid over the passenger side of the vehicle. Dangling in front of the window and dangerously close to the roadway.

He reached down with his Glock and fired blindly into the Navigator, the tempered glass shattering and crumbling to pieces. With nothing left to do but attack, he swung his legs into the front seat.

And let go of his grip on the roof.