Andrew Kaplan - Scorpion Deception

“Get out!” Scorpion told her in English, and when she didn’t move, shouted “Fuera!” and pressed the Glock’s muzzle to her head.

Eyes wide, she unfastened her seat belt with trembling fingers and opened the car door. Before she could get out, he yanked her from the seat and got in. Scorpion jammed the gear stick into first and took off, turning into the street. He hit the accelerator and upshifted, the little car’s engine revving into the red-line RPMs. In the rearview mirror the running mossos were falling behind, everyone in the street staring at him, but in the distance he could hear the wee-you wee-you of a police car siren in pursuit.

A man on a motorcycle was pulling out between parked cars, and Scorpion hit the horn and the accelerator simultaneously, swerving to squeak by him. With parked cars on both sides of the narrow street, there was only a single lane. Ahead, a Renault sedan was stopped at a traffic light. Scorpion upshifted to the top gear and, horn blaring, turned and bounced up onto the sidewalk, around the Renault, and into the intersection, just missing an oncoming sedan, the driver’s eyes wide with terror. Cross traffic all around him was screeching to a halt, cars crashing into each other and horns blaring as he tore across one street and on down another, which was one-way. Ahead he could see a commercial van stopped, blocking his way.

He swerved diagonally into a no-parking zone and again up onto the sidewalk. Blasting on the horn, he downshifted and dodged to get around pedestrians who froze in place, staring. A man and a woman walking just ahead stopped when they heard the horn as he came right at them. Yanking hard on the wheel, he swerved back into the street, the little car coming up on two wheels, teetering precariously before slamming down onto the pavement. Ahead he could see trees and traffic at the Avinguda Diagonal intersection.

Making the turn into traffic on the wide avenue with its grassy divider and car and tram lanes in the center, Scorpion glimpsed Mustache boarding a red and green tram at a stop barely a hundred meters ahead. He gunned the little engine and upshifted, shooting the car diagonally across traffic. He felt a nudge as someone hit his rear fender, threatening to spin the little car completely out of control. Fighting the wheel, he compensated for the hit, fishtailing onto the grassy center divider, slaloming between trees and onto the tram tracks in the center of the avenue. Wheels skidding on the metal tracks, he followed the tram as it picked up speed. Although the little Seat’s engine was desperately underpowered, he dodged left and right between cars, trying to weave between lanes and catch up.

After whipping around two cars, he saw another tram coming straight at him. He could see the driver’s wide-eyed horror as, at the last second, he slotted in behind the red and green tram, slip-streaming behind it. The sound of sirens came blasting from behind. He spotted a police car in the rearview mirror shooting out from the street he had come from. Siren wailing, it swerved onto the outer traffic lanes of Avinguda Diagonal.

As the tram ahead began to slow for the next stop, Scorpion scanned the street. It wouldn’t take long for the police to catch his little yellow subcompact. Inside the brightly lit tram, he could see Mustache looking around before taking his seat.

Scorpion pulled around the tram, skidding on the tracks before sliding ahead of the tram car, which for an instant blocked the police car from spotting the little yellow Seat. He pulled ahead then, moving with the flow of traffic, watching the tram recede behind him as the wailing of the police siren grew closer.

The tram behind him was moving again. As he watched it grow in his rearview mirror, he heard the deafeningly loud police siren right behind him. It swerved right next to him. A helmeted mosso looking out the passenger window motioned furiously for him to pull over. Scorpion looked around.

Ahead there was a roundabout bordered by office buildings, traffic feeding from multiple side streets joining the flow, curving around trees and grass in the center of the roundabout. He hit the accelerator, shifting to the top gear and feeling it catch as the little car hurtled forward into a gap between two lanes of traffic. Cutting across the center circle, he bounced up onto the grass, barely scraping between two trees. The police car tried to follow but was too big to get between the trees. The driver, jamming his brakes on the grass, hit one of the trees, then had to back up and swerve back onto the roundabout to follow him.

The next tram stop was a block ahead. Behind Scorpion, despite the police chase, the tram was coming steadily on, as was the police car. He slammed on the brakes and braced for the impact as the car behind him plowed into the back of the little Seat, smashing it forward into another car. People were honking their horns and shouting as he unbuckled and leaped out of the car, pulling out his Glock. He ran to the tram, which had stopped, banged on the door, and showing the driver his gun, shouted, “Policia! Policia!”

The driver opened the doors and Scorpion climbed in. He shouted “Policia!” again and showed the Glock to the passengers while searching for Mustache. He was in the middle of the car, already getting up. Scorpion moved toward him, pointing the Glock. Mustache grabbed a middle-aged woman and hurled her at him as easily as tossing a Frisbee, then leaped from the train and ran toward the street corner. It took a second for Scorpion to disentangle himself from the woman, and when he got out of the tram, Mustache was already a good thirty meters ahead. He was running hard toward a lit-up Metro sign, glowing red, like a traffic light in the night.

Scorpion took off after him. Behind him, he heard shouts and a mosso screaming, “Detente! Stop! Policia!”

Over his shoulder he saw the mosso in a shooting position, a pistol aimed at him. Scorpion dodged left, then around a man with a boy so that they were between him and the mosso , who resumed chasing him. When he looked ahead, Mustache had already gone into the Metro station.

Scorpion ran to the entrance and using his free hand for leverage leaped over the turnstile. Mustache was shoving people aside on the escalator, pushing his way down to the platform. Scorpion could hear the sound of a train coming into the station. He leaped onto the incline by the escalator handrail, jumping and sliding down beside the escalator to the platform, people shouting at both Mustache and him and shaking their fists.

By then a train was waiting at the station, its doors about to close. Mustache ran to it, shoving at a door with his meaty hand so he could get through. The closing doors stopped and opened for a second, then started to close again. Scorpion leaped, just getting his hand between the two doors. It felt like the train was going to start with just his forearm inside as he strained to spread the doors open. They did open then, a few more inches, and he managed to slip in before they slammed closed and the train began to move. Behind him, he saw the mosso bursting onto the platform, and seeing the train pull out of the station, call on his cell phone.

Then Scorpion turned and scanned the car for Mustache. The car was full, about twenty or so passengers standing and swaying as the train picked up speed. There was no sign of Mustache, but at the far end of the car he saw the door to the next car open. He couldn’t see who it was, his view blocked by a group of high school or college students standing near the door, but thinking it might be Mustache, heading toward the front of the train, he followed.

Hand on the Glock in his jacket pocket, he made his way through the car as it sped through the tunnel. He knew he might come upon Mustache at any time, and the bulky Iranian had already shown how fast he could move. The floor space between cars was covered with an accordionlike material, binding the cars together. After opening the door, but before stepping into the next car, he scanned ahead, spotting Mustache standing at the far end of the car, holding onto a steel pole and staring right at him, his hand in his pocket.