Nick Carter - The Omega Terror

Gabrielle made room for me and I hopped in behind the wheel. By now several Arabs had appeared on the quiet street, talking excitedly about the gunshots. I ignored them and put the Citrõen in gear, the tires spinning and then grabbing hold as we got into motion.

The Land Rover was still in sight about three blocks away. I shifted all the way down the long street, tires squealing and rubber burning on the cobblestones. At the end of the street Zeno wheeled around a corner to the right, skidding as he went. I followed the Citrõen making the turn on two wheels.

Zeno was heading out of town on a paved road. A couple of early-morning pedestrians stopped and stared as we roared past, and I found myself hoping no local constabulary was out and around at this hour. In just a few minutes we had left the village behind us. The pavement ended, and we were on a semi-improved dirt road heading again into the desert. The rising sun was almost directly in front of us, and it glared into our eyes through the windshield.

For perhaps twenty miles we roared along. The Citrõen gained some distance but wasn’t able to overtake the other car. The road disappeared almost completely, turning into a rut-filled, sand-clogged track that made us bump our heads against the ceiling of the Citrõen as we kept pace with the Land Rover. Then, as he had that other time, Zeno left the track completely in an effort to lose us. I wheeled the Citrõen after him through scrub brush and hard clay, and now Zeno had a distinct advantage. The Land Rover was made for this kind of travel, with its sturdy frame and four-wheel drive, while the Citrõen was a highway car. In five minutes we had lost sight of Zeno, though a trail of dust allowed us to stay in the right direction.

When I was sure he would lose us completely, we moved around a kopje of jutting rock, and there was the Land Rover sitting at an awkward angle, stuck in a sand drift. Zeno’s driving apparently had not matched the ability of the vehicle. Zeno was just climbing out when we skidded to a stop, not more than twenty yards away.

“Stay in the car and keep down,” I said to Gabrielle.

“Nick, you don’t have a chance without a weapon,” she warned.

“He doesn’t know what we don’t have.”

I reached over and touched her arm. Then I got out of the Citrõen.

Zeno had ducked behind the open door of the Land Rover, holding the Luger over its edge, aimed in my direction. If he had known for sure that I was unarmed, he could have made things rough for us. He could have walked back to us with impunity and made us scramble for cover. But he did not know.

“You’re not taking me back alive!” Zeno shouted as he crouched behind the vehicle door. I didn’t need him to tell me that.

The question was how to get to him, since he had Wilhelmina. It was surprising how big and dangerous the gun looked from this end of the barrel. I glanced at the ground surrounding the vehicles. There were some rocks quite close to both cars on the right and others farther away on the left. They would afford some cover if I could get to them and would confuse Zeno if he didn’t know which ones I’d hidden behind.

Zeno provided his own distraction before I could invent one. He decided it was not safe enough behind the door of the Land Rover, so he turned and moved in a crouch toward the front of the vehicle. As soon as I saw him, I scrambled for the rocks on my right and dived behind them.

When I got up to an edge to look things over, I saw that Zeno had lost track of me and had no idea where I was. His eyes searched the Citrõen and the rocks on both sides of the cars. A hysterical look had come into his face, and I saw him take a better grip on the butt of the Luger, which was slippery with sweat.

Slowly, on my hands and knees, I crawled around the perimeter of the rocks, careful not to move any gravel under my shoes. There was no sound to cover for me. Inch by inch, foot by foot, I worked my way around the rocks to a position just above the Land Rover.

“It won’t do any good to hide, damn you!” Zeno’s loud, strained voice came over the edge of the rock. “I’m going to kill you.”

I lay soundless on the rocks above him. After a moment, I crawled slowly along the crest of the rocks, still out of sight. I was above the front of the Land Rover and about ten feet to its right. I inched up and sneaked a look. I was lucky. Zeno was watching the other side.

I found a rock about the size of my fist. Taking a good grip on it, I took another quick look at Zeno. He was still facing away from me. I hauled back and hurled the rock in a high, looping arc over his head to the other side of the Land Rover; it landed with a clatter. Zeno whirled and fired a round from the Luger at the sound and I jumped down on his back.

I did not gauge the jump well enough. I hit him on the shoulders and back, and the Luger went flying. I landed hard on my left foot and turned my ankle. We hit the ground together, grunting under the impact of the fall. We both struggled up, and I slumped to one knee. I had sprained my ankle. I glanced at the Luger; the business end of the barrel was buried in sand. It would be unusable until it was cleaned. Zeno saw this too and made no effort to go for the gun. Instead, a tight grin came onto his face when he saw my leg.

“Well, isn’t that a shame,” he hissed.

I struggled up, favoring the ankle. It sent needles of sharp pain up my leg. Along with exhaustion from the ordeal of the previous day, this made Zeno despite his age, a formidable opponent in a hand-to-hand fight.

But I had my hatred for the man; I ignored the ankle and made a headlong dive at Zeno, hitting him in the chest. We went down together again. I realized that it was to my advantage to keep him off his feet because my maneuverability was nil in an upright position. We rolled over and over on the sand as I punched my fist into his face. He grabbed at my throat wildly, clawing, trying for a hold that would strangle me. We were beside the Land Rov-er. Zeno’s hands closed on my throat. I threw another fist into his face, and bone crunched; he fell back against the vehicle.

Zeno’s face was bleeding, but he was still fighting. He was on his feet, grabbing at a shovel attached to the side of the Land Rover, one of those small, short-handled ones used for digging wheels out of sand. He had it in hand now and was raising it to bring it down on my head.

I tried to get up but was slowed by the ankle. Now I had to worry about the damn shovel. It descended savagely toward my face, the blade down. I rolled away from it in a quick movement, and it buried itself in the sand beside my head.

Zeno, dark-faced, veins standing out like ropes in his neck, pulled the blade of the shovel free for another swing. He raised the weapon above his head. I kicked out viciously with my right foot and connected with Zeno’s leg, knocking him off-balance. He fell on the sand but did not lose the shovel. I struggled awkwardly to my feet and moved toward Zeno, but he was standing up, too, and still had the shovel He swung it wildly, this time in a horizontal arc at my head. I stepped back to avoid it and felt the ankle. I moved in on Zeno awkwardly, grabbed him before he could regain balance and threw him over my hip to the ground. This time he lost both the shovel and some of his strength. That was good because I was tiring very fast, and the ankle was killing me.

He swung a fist at me and missed, and I smashed a right into his face. He went stumbling backward and slammed up hard against the Land Rover, his face twisted with pain and blood-smeared. I hobbled after him, caught him there, and jammed my hand into his belly. Zeno bent double, and I brought my knee up into the side of his head. He gave a loud grunt and fell back into the front seat of the Land Rover.