Warlord

TWELVE

STOKE SOMEHOW SQUIRMED HIS MASSIVE BULK out from under Harry Brock, who wasn't exactly fighting featherweight division himself, and squeezed delicately out through the shattered windshield. He turned and tried to help Brock exit the vehicle, taking both of Harry's wrists in his hands and pulling. Something was stuck. Seat belt wrapped around his leg?

"Are you hurt?" Stoke asked. Harry had a major gash above both eyes that gave him that bloody horror-movie look, only now the blood looked real.

"Naw, just a little embarrassed about that utility pole, thanks," Brock said, using both hands to scoop the fresh blood from his eye sockets.

"Yeah, I thought they taught high-speed pursuit where you went to junior college."

They both turned their heads as Armando in the white Jeep Cherokee screeched to a stop next to the Suburban currently wrapped around the utility pole. The beefy older agent popped out, fear etched on his face, a dead cigar jammed in one corner of his mouth.

"Jesus, are you guys okay?"

Stoke was already running for the idling Jeep. "Armando, help Brock climb out of that mess and tell someone I'm in pursuit of a late-model black Dodge Charger westbound over the MacArthur Causeway. They gotta be headed that way."

He didn't wait for a response and was in the Jeep pushing the sketchy 3.7 liter V-6 to its absolute limits right from the start. He felt the top-heavy vehicle tilt as he took a right turn hard. The CIA had bought the car for surveillance, not speed. Stoke felt the Cherokee shudder and tilt again as he took the turn onto the causeway, ignoring traffic signals and other vehicles just like he was racing down the final furlong at Hialeah.

Horns blared and he was aware of hostility from other drivers, but at least he was where he wanted to be.

He leaned forward and searched far ahead, hoping to catch a glimpse of the black Charger with the deadly blonde inside. Star Island whipped by on his right, then Palm Island. The bay was just another detail he had to ignore as he weaved in and out of traffic, almost clipping a lawn service truck packed most likely with illegal Guatemalans.

Laying on the horn to get people's attention, he finally started getting a clear view of the road ahead, the causeway rolling onto the little key that was home to Parrot Jungle. His heart raced as he took the long curve flat out. He saw the Charger. In addition to the blonde, there were three or four guys. They were cool, driving calmly, right at the speed limit.

Stoke gathered enough presence of mind to calm down, blend in behind them, and call in his position to Miami-Dade PD. He reached into his pocket. Empty. He patted his pants, then realized his phone was in the wreckage of the Suburban they'd wasted back at the beach.

His hand slapped his hip, and he was relieved to feel the weight of his pistol still in its holster. He tried to figure out how many rounds he had left and decided he was ready with the extra magazine he had clipped to the other side of his belt, hidden by a loose, unbuttoned Aloha shirt. The Miami Dolphins T-shirt he wore underneath was soaked through with sweat.

He waited as the black car rolled toward the mainland and the city of Miami. This was a good thing. If they got into a chase over there no one knew the streets better than he did. Not after three years of on-and-off patrols and dead-end stakeouts all over this tropical paradise.

Then things changed for the worse.

The driver of the Charger spotted him. Stoke saw the passengers inside all turn around at once, then the car swerved violently across a lane, cutting off a taxi, to take the exit onto Biscayne as the Charger rapidly picked up speed.

He yanked the steering wheel and fell in behind them as they blew through the light at the base of the ramp and swerved south on Biscayne, causing two oncoming cars to squeal to a stop, fishtailing at the green light. Stoke took advantage of the traffic stoppage and rolled through the same light, jerking to one side on Biscayne to avoid a utility worker still yelling and giving the single-finger salute to the Charger speeding south.

As the Charger fast approached a railroad crossing, the big red lights started flashing and the gates started coming down. The driver accelerated, beating the gates and getting airborne as he crossed the elevated tracks. Stoke, who could see the Atlantic Coastline freight train speeding toward him out of the corner of his eye, had no choice. He floored it, crashed through the gates, caught air, and made it across the tracks just before the roaring train could clip his rear bumper.

At Bicentennial Park, the Charger suddenly took a sharp right to head west. Stoke now knew the driver definitely wasn't local because he was headed into the hood and if you'd ever been there, you knew there weren't a lot of ways out. Plus, I-95 would keep him from going farther west. Stoke was closing the gap, the guy behind the wheel unsure of himself now.

Then the Charger clipped a parked car when it took the next corner too sharply, and the guy spun out, tires smoking, careening into the parking lot of an abandoned office complex.

Keeping his tactical sense about him, Stoke pulled across the exit to the lot, blocking it, and stopped the Cherokee. Throwing the door open, he rolled out to one side, keeping an eye on the Charger's occupants, especially the killer blonde.

The first burst of fire told him one of the others in the car had something much heavier than a MAC-10. The assault rifle rattled the tin can Jeep and forced Stoke to fall back to a delivery van parked out on the street.

The gunfire followed him and he moved farther back, sensing instantly that this was a stupid idea. Like the doggie who finally caught the car, now he'd caught it he didn't know what the hell to do with it. He was facing at least four heavily armed assailants who had a huge advantage in this confrontation. The police jargon for this kind of thing was an asymmetrical situation. Basically, it meant you were fucked. This day wasn't going at all like he'd planned.

He crouched and waited, slammed a fresh mag into the Glock, hoping to God the Miami-Dade cops would respond soon. He needed help and needed it right that second. Anybody listening out there? Or, God help me, up there? He crossed himself, using his Glock hand.

Then a shot came from the side of the parked truck on his left and he knew he'd been flanked. He whirled around to see a young, muscular man in jeans and a T-shirt point a pistol and fire another three rounds at him.

This was a tight spot and he obviously had no backup. He was dicked and re-dicked. He knew it, they knew it. Advantage, assholes. He fired two rounds back at the man, mainly to keep the guy's head down and then looked for any other position that might be safer.

The blond Amazon queen had stayed by the Charger and had a MAC-10 sighted down on him. The other two men were moving in a fast crouch to his right.

Was this how his career was going to end?

Maybe, but not without a fight.

Stokely strained to hear any hint of approaching sirens but with all the guns going off, every damn one of them pointing at him, it tended to drown out any chance he had of hearing help on the way. The only reason he was still alive today was that he was really good in situations exactly like this one. He took comfort in that, stopped feeling sorry for himself, and put his damn brain and instincts to work.

Time to man the hell up, Stoke.

He decided to make them come to him and use his handgun in the smartest way possible, up close and personal.

Then he got his wish as this muscle-bound dirtbag popped up right next to him. Where the hell had he come from?

Stoke turned, raised his pistol, and fired before it was all the way up. The first round hit the man in the knee, stunning him for a second. The next round blew out his hip, sending him sprawling onto the rough asphalt, his pistol loose at his side.

Stoke kicked the unfamiliar semiautomatic away from the wounded man, now twisting and moaning in pain on the ground. Before he could even assess the guy's injuries, more rounds bounced off the truck near his head, making him duck. He was still seriously outgunned and outnumbered.

He quick-peeked around the rear of the truck and saw the long-haired man with the heavy assault rifle start to advance on him, moving fast. Shit. Then it got weird. Without any action from Stoke, more shots rang out and suddenly the advancing ponytail dropped straight to the ground in the parking lot, his big black rifle clattering to the asphalt and blood pooling under him.

What the hell?

More shots came from a car somewhere behind and to the right of Stoke. Then this bloody-faced guy pops up, firing at the blonde with the MAC-10 as he advanced. He was good, sent her scrambling for cover. Satisfied, he dove behind the truck right next to Stoke.

Harry Brock said calmly, "You doing okay, little buddy?"

Stoke stared at him silently and nodded his head at his partner. "How the hell-?"

"I requisitioned a civilian vehicle, got your position from Miami-Dade. A brand-new Corvette convertible, actually. Scared that poor sumbitch to death when I reached in and pulled his keys. Sorry I'm late but I got stuck at that railroad crossing where you almost bought it. Longest goddamn train I've ever seen. You're lucky you made it, partner."

"Jesus, Harry."

"Stay cool, all right?"

Without another word, Brock scrambled away, reached down, grabbed the badly injured man on the ground, hoisted him onto his shoulders, and then ran flat out across the parking lot, using the man as a makeshift shield, firing steadily at the others as he crossed the lot.

Stoke naturally thought Harry was crazy because no one in his right mind would pull a stunt like that. But Harry could shoot, no one disputed that. Stoke snuck another peek and saw the bearded Charger guy aiming where Brock had already dumped the guy and disappeared behind a pimped-up Ford 150 truck with chrome dubs glinting in the sun.

The blond chick, too, was shielding her eyes, lining up on the position where Harry was crouching.

Stoke took a second to carefully line up the long shot with a handgun and fired three times at the blond woman. She dove for cover, yelled something to the remaining accomplice, and stayed low, starting to move toward the Charger. First the bearded asshole ran out to drag back his lifeless comrade.

Stoke scrambled to the other side of the truck and saw Harry Brock stand up behind the truck bed and take dead aim at the Charger as its engine roared to life. He fired twice, two long bursts, then ducked to avoid a spray from the MAC-10. Seconds later he popped up again, looked over at Stoke, smiled, shot him a thumbs-up, then ducked down again behind the 150.

The black Charger left a lot of rubber behind peeling out of the lot and screeched to a halt on the far side of the street. Stoke saw them load the other injured man into the backseat and then speed off.

Then he heard sirens.

Finally.

Just the end of another perfect day in paradise, baby.

And how was your day, darling?