Andrew Britton - The Exile

“Flores, hit that car. Hit it just forward of the wheel, then turn hard to the left. Stop once you’re past the alley, but make sure these guys”-he gestured over his shoulder to the following vehicles-“don’t have a visual on us. I’m getting out.”

“ What? You must be out of your-”

“Flores, just hit the fucking car,” Kealey shouted. “Do it!”

The Honduran swore viciously, and when the Peugeot was less than twenty meters away, he jerked the wheel hard to the right, aiming for the sedan’s front fender. The SUV’s heavy front grille was dead center with the front wheel on the Peugeot’s passenger side when they hit the stationary vehicle at forty miles per hour. Kealey flinched, closed his eyes, and braced himself at the moment of impact. He was thrown forward in his seat, but he traveled only eight inches before his body came to a sudden, jarring halt. The four-point seat belt snapped over his already bruised chest, driving the air from his lungs. The sound followed instantly; for some reason, the high-pitched explosion of glass seemed to drown out the earsplitting crump of the larger impact.

The Peugeot spun out of their path. The Toyota bounced to the left, then continued traveling forward. Kealey heard the men in the backseat shouting as they jumped the near curb. The vehicle’s sheer weight brought it down hard on its damaged suspension, and the vulnerable undercarriage scraped along the asphalt, throwing up a shower of orange sparks. Flores swore as he lost control, the Land Cruiser slewing hard to the right. Flores turned into the skid without touching the brake, and Kealey opened his eyes in time to see another car directly in front of them, a woman’s pale, frightened face behind the wheel.

They plowed into the vehicle with another violent explosion of metal and glass, driving it sideways over the cement and into the cars parked at the curb. People were scrambling for cover, covering their heads with their arms as the Land Cruiser shuddered to a halt, the engine all but giving out. The sudden quiet made the surrounding screams seem that much louder, but not for long. The 380-horse-power V-8 engine roared back to life as Flores jammed his foot onto the accelerator, simultaneously swinging the wheel hard to the left, turning it hand over hand. They lurched forward, the truck scraping against the woman’s mangled sedan with a tremendous squeal that was somehow worse than the sounds thrown up by the earlier impact. They had barely traveled another five meters when Kealey, having managed to catch his breath once again, gripped Flores’s shoulder and rasped, “Stop here.”

This time the Honduran didn’t bother to argue. He slammed on the brake, and the wheels locked up. They skidded to a halt a few seconds later. Kealey, having already removed his seat belt, immediately flung open the door. Clutching the FNC Para in his right hand, he stepped onto the glass-strewn pavement and shot a quick look back at the alley entrance. Over the screams, he could hear the steady whine of the approaching Land Rovers, but they had yet to hit the street. Better yet, the Peugeot they had hit at the mouth of the alley had spun into the street, effectively blocking the northbound traffic. He still had time.

Flinging a look over his shoulder, he said, “I’m leaving this door open. Drive forward another thirty feet and stop. Whatever you do, don’t let that door close, and don’t get out of the car. Their lives”-he jerked his thumb over his right shoulder, indicating the two African officials in the backseat-“depend on it. Understand?”

Flores nodded once, but Kealey didn’t see the gesture of acknowledgment; he was already on the move. As the Honduran drove on, Kealey crossed the street to the side opposite the alley, ignoring the screams and the accusing fingers leveled in his direction. Stopping in the middle of the southbound lane, he brought the FNC to his shoulder and fired a long burst into the side of a black BMW parked next to the alley. The shots had the intended effect; everyone who had been pointing and shouting at him a second earlier started to scream and scatter, running for their lives. Ironically, the fact that he had fired his weapon had worked to draw their attention away from him. The pedestrians were now focused entirely on one thing, namely, their own survival.

Turning, he ran for the line of parked cars, all of which were pressed to the curb in the southbound lane. There was no room to run between them, so sprinting forward, he jumped and slid across the hood of a battered blue Mercedes sedan, using the chrome bumper as a springboard. The instant his feet touched the sidewalk on the other side of the car, he kept moving, jogging north at a fast, steady pace. Normally, he would have walked to avoid suspicion, but the only way to blend in here was to run, as the chaos on the street was near total. The rifle in his right hand was pressed against his outer thigh, the muzzle depressed. The weapon was as far out of sight as he could get it. Up ahead, he could see the Land Cruiser to his left. It was stopped in the northbound lane, a cloud of steam pouring out from the crumpled hood. Thanks to the expedient roadblock Flores had created by hitting the parked Peugeot, there were no cars between the entrance to the alley and the Blackwater Land Cruiser.

Kealey didn’t know if the SAPS vehicles had emerged from the alley behind him, but he couldn’t risk turning to look. He wanted to peel off his long-sleeved polo, as he was wearing a different colored T-shirt underneath, and it might make him harder to spot if the police officers were smart enough to keep a roving eye on the scattering pedestrians. But removing the top layer of clothing would require taking his hands off his weapon, and he couldn’t risk having someone try to wrest it away from him. The chances of that happening were small, and he would easily be able to retrieve it from anyone who might try to take it, but the fight-even though it would be very short and one-sided-would draw the wrong kind of attention, which was any at all.

A better alternative presented itself a few seconds later. In their haste to flee the scene, some of the pedestrians had dropped their shopping bags, purses, and other assorted items. Kealey, scanning the debris at his feet, caught sight of a crumpled blue baseball cap. Without breaking stride, he leaned down, scooped it up, and put it on, pulling the brim low over his eyes.

The squeal of tires to his rear announced the arrival of the SAPS Land Rovers. Kealey lowered his head and tilted his chin to the right as the vehicles sped past on the left, screeching to a halt just 15 feet behind the Blackwater SUV. They didn’t seem to have noticed him, and he instantly quickened his pace, hoping to lessen the gap before they could act. He was 20 feet from the Land Rover bringing up the rear when the doors on both vehicles swung open, revealing the four police officers.

Once again, the drivers stayed in the trucks as the rest of the men clambered out to the pavement. Without a moment’s hesitation, they brought their weapons up and began unleashing a tremendous volume of fire on the rear windshield of the Toyota. Kealey, even though he was behind them, saw the exact moment they realized that the passenger-side door was hanging open. One man, presumably the leader, frantically waved a hand up and down in a chopping motion, the universal symbol for cease-fire. The automatic fire stopped a few seconds later, the sound echoing off the surrounding buildings, and the screams of panicked civilians once again dominated the chaotic scene.

Kealey was still running forward. His eyes were fixed on the men, all of whom were now looking to their left, searching for the man who had apparently fled the vehicle. As Kealey watched for a gap in the parked cars, a young woman ran toward him, screaming, clutching an infant child to her chest. Without really seeing her, he switched the rifle to his left hand and grabbed her arm with his right, swinging her around. Confused, the woman didn’t even try to resist as he propelled her a few steps forward, then shoved her in through the open door of a sidewalk cafe. As he turned away, Kealey thought he saw a group of hands pull the woman into the safety of the building, but he couldn’t be sure; he was already turning to reacquire his targets.