The Lost Testament

98

Bronson braked heavily, still continuing his erratic evasive action. As he did so, there was a loud bang. The car shuddered as the bullet from the sniper’s rifle ripped into the thin metal of the bonnet and ploughed its way out through the right front wing.

Angela squealed in fear and clutched at Bronson’s right arm as she saw the metal tear open just inches in front of the windscreen.

‘Are you OK?’ Bronson asked anxiously, glancing at her as he again started to weave and accelerate.

‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine. God, he’s going to get us!’

Bronson checked the instruments, in case the bullet had ruptured a hydraulic line or torn apart a section of the electrical system, but saw no abnormal readings.

He braked firmly, then accelerated again, keeping his foot hard down on the pedal, and swung the car over to the left, almost into the southbound, left-hand lane of the road and drove straight towards the oncoming traffic.

‘What are you doing now?’ Angela demanded, stifling a gasp, her eyes wide and staring as a maroon-coloured saloon car swept past them in the opposite direction, the driver’s hand pressed firmly on the horn.

‘Trying to save our lives,’ Bronson said. ‘Hang on.’

He braked hard again, twitched the steering wheel to the right, and then accelerated as hard as he could.

Miguel knew that his last shot had hit the car, but he didn’t know where. He’d been expecting to see the side window shatter, but that hadn’t happened. It was possible the bullet had dropped further than he’d expected, but the car was continuing with undiminished speed, so presumably the round hadn’t hit the engine or any other vital component. He still had to stop it, somehow.

Miguel shook another four rounds out of the box of ammunition on the ground beside him, fed all of them into the magazine as quickly as he could, loaded the first cartridge and immediately brought the rifle back to the aim. In under half a second, the now familiar shape of the Renault saloon filled his telescopic sight and again he concentrated on nothing but the sight picture.

And now, it looked as if the driver was trying to rely just on speed to get away from the ambush, because the car seemed to be accelerating steadily, no sign of braking or even weaving.

Miguel smiled slightly. That, he knew, was definitely a big mistake. He didn’t care how fast the car was travelling: there was no way it could outrun a bullet from his rifle. He allowed a little more lead to account for the increased speed of the target, took a breath, released about half of it to still his breathing, checked the sight picture once more, and squeezed the trigger.

Then the nose of the Renault dipped again under braking, but Miguel knew the driver had reacted too late.