Adrian Magson - Red Station

‘It’s too tight,’ said Clare, her voice cracking above the din. She was blipping the throttle, handbrake off and ready to go. ‘If I mistime it, we’ll get crushed.’

‘You’ll do it.’ Harry kept his voice calm and checked his wing mirror. The biggest gaps were between the fuel and ammo trucks; nobody wanted to be close to them if they blew. The end of the convoy was in sight, with another half-dozen vehicles to go. If they missed their chance, they were on their own.

Exposed.

Suddenly Clare floored the pedal. The Toyota’s engine howled as she spun the wheel and pulled on to the road right on the tail of a water tanker spraying a fine mist in the air from a bad seal. Seconds later their rear-view mirror was filled with the radiator of the truck behind, bouncing wildly over the surface of the road as it bore down on them with its lights full on. In spite of the proximity, the driver leaned on his horn at the uninvited intrusion and kept coming.

‘Bastard! Back off!’ muttered Clare, fighting to control the wheel. She flicked on the wipers to counter the water spraying across the windscreen. With no view to speak of around the tanker’s fat, swaying rear end, and not enough room to go round it, she was having to drive blind and trust the convoy didn’t stop without warning.

‘Ease back gradually,’ advised Harry. ‘He won’t argue.’

She did so, gradually fighting to regain some space between them and the tanker. It was a risky undertaking but Harry was gambling on the driver behind not wanting to cause a pile-up. The manoeuvre worked; the driver suddenly gave up and dropped back, giving them room.

Clare dropped her window and gave a friendly wave. The other driver didn’t respond at first, then he grinned and waved back.

Ten minutes later the convoy came to a fork in the road. The trucks in front were all bearing right, heading towards high ground.

The hills.

‘Which way?’ said Clare. ‘Left? It must be left.’

Harry checked the map. Damn. She was right. If they stayed with the cover of the convoy, they would end up in the hills, miles from the airport and with no obvious way back other than down this same road. If there were other routes, this map didn’t include them.

The road to the left looked very empty.

‘Left or right — come on!’

‘Left,’ he confirmed, and held on as she swung the wheel and shot out from the line of trucks. She let the Toyota run on for a hundred yards to make sure they were clear, then halted at the side of the road. The rest of the convoy roared on by, horns tooting and men weaving at this minor break in their day, leaving behind a heavy cloud of dust settling on the damp windscreen.

At Harry’s insistence, they checked their weapons and took a drink. He estimated from the map that they had just over ten miles to go before they reached the main airport road. From that point, the perimeter fence would be in sight, as would the army patrolling its length.

But that ten miles consisted mostly of deserted countryside through low hills and wooded areas. Ripe terrain for an ambush.

‘Let’s go,’ he said, and wound down the window, signalling for the others to do the same. Closed windows gave a false sense of invulnerability and flying splinters from a gunshot would only add to their problems.

The first three miles took them along a looping, dusty switchback, mostly single-track with poor verges and a scattering of straggly bushes on either side. Nowhere looked good for an ambush. An occasional farm showed far back in the fields, but they saw nobody, passed no other vehicles. It was like being on the moon.

‘Shit!’ They were rounding a gradual curve with a dip in the road when Clare swore and stamped hard on the brakes, the rear of the car fishtailing wildly.

A white horse was lying in the road, the broken arms of a hay cart half under its body. Nearby lay the crumpled form of an elderly man, eyes turned sightlessly at the sky.

‘Keep going!’ Harry shouted, hand braced against the dashboard. There was a widening pool of blood beneath the man’s head and the horse had a bright a smear of red down its muzzle.

‘But he might be alive!’ Clare protested. She lifted her foot off the pedal and the car began to slow.

As it did so, the first bullet struck.

The shot tore through the windscreen, leaving a ragged hole, and blew out Clare’s head-rest in an explosion of foam and fabric. She cried shrilly with shock but retained her grip on the wheel.

Latham.

‘Go, go!’ Harry tried to see where the shot had come from. There were two clumps of trees in front of them, and an outcropping of rocks. Both had been hidden by the bend in the road. Latham was clever; any of them would have been good firing points, invisible until it was too late to turn back. Shooting the horse and farmer merely helped finalize the set-up. But Latham would have gone for the best cover available; cover to allow him to blend in so he could wait patiently until he took his shot; surroundings that would also allow a safe evacuation afterwards. Rocks were good, but too consistent in shape and colour. They didn’t provide a camouflaged background the way trees did.

A loud clang and another bullet struck, this time ripping a hole in the bonnet and kicking off flecks of paint and a chunk of bodywork.

The clump of trees to their right was high, and well away from the road. But there didn’t appear to be any direct access that Harry could see. He dismissed it; the position was too high. From up there, the shot would have hit the seat at a sharper angle and would have killed Clare instead.

Latham was playing with them.

A loud bang followed by an explosion of glass, this time through the upper corner of the windscreen close to Harry’s head. He ducked instinctively and felt ridiculous. Too bloody late for that!

Another bullet buried itself directly into the radiator, and this time they felt the impact go all the way through the vehicle.

The engine stuttered; kicked in again as Clare stamped on the accelerator; ran for a few seconds, then died. Steam began billowing out from under the bonnet, cloaking the windscreen and clouding their view.

‘Out!’ Harry shouted, and reached for the door catch as Clare braked hard. He hit the ground running and aimed two fast shots at the clump of trees, then rolled into a depression at the side of the road. He landed in a heap, half-winded, and looked up at the sky, regaining his breath. Then he rolled over and faced forward.

The tops of the trees where the shooter was firing from were just visible, the thinner branches waving in the breeze. Unless the man was a monkey and wanted to risk climbing to the top, they were protected. But for how long?

‘Clare? Rik? You OK?’ He kept his voice low.

Two responses, both lively, and accompanied by oaths. A good sign.

He checked his gun and considered what to do. Their options didn’t look good. Either Latham would come looking to finish them off before anyone else happened along, or he’d play safe after last night’s exchange of gunfire and wait for them to show their heads.

And take them out one by one.

A shot hit the road surface ten feet to Harry’s right, kicking up chunks of gravel and tarmac. It ricocheted off into the distance like an angry hornet, mashed out of shape by the impact.

A warning shot.

Harry checked his watch. Time was running out. If they managed to slip away but missed the French flight, they might be lucky enough to get another. But Latham would be right behind them.

And right now, their only means of transport was sitting uselessly in the road, leaking fluids.

Footsteps.

Harry froze. He was coming for them.

He peered out over the rise in the ground in front of him. A tall, thin figure was walking casually along the road towards them. He wore a dark combat jacket and blue jeans, and carried an assault rifle in one hand, the barrel pointing forward. For a man who knew they were armed, he seemed absurdly relaxed and unconcerned about any possible retaliation.