Tom Hinshelwood: The Killer

The Toyota was close enough for Victor to see inside the cab and the Russian in the passenger seat readying his submachine gun.

Reed followed the destruction. The Land Rover was only a couple of years old; perfectly maintained; and, combined with his deft driving skills, took him quickly along Tanga’s roads. He had the Glock resting in his lap, loaded, cocked, ready.

He had not spotted the Jeep, but he knew he was on the right path. He raced past damaged vehicles and those that had pulled over to avoid crashing or those already crashed. The roads were clearer for him as a result.

He was gaining with every second, and it would not be long now until Tesseract was back in his crosshairs.

The Russian passenger in the first pickup leaned out of the window and attempted to get into a firing position with his Bizon. Victor didn’t give him the chance. He pulled off the road, down a narrow street, the gap between the parked cars just wide enough for one vehicle at a time. Brightly patterned clothes and bedding hung from washing lines stretching between the buildings.

The pickup followed, swerving as it took the corner too fast, its back end losing traction. The gunman managed to pull himself back into the cab just before the Toyota scraped along a stationary car, metal screeching against metal.

Victor accelerated as he crossed an intersection, not daring to slow down and give his pursuers a chance to catch up. He lurched to the side, another car smashing into his back end from the right, spinning the Jeep around, force pinning Victor against the door until the vehicle stopped dead. The other car skidded and crashed through a storefront.

The lead pickup came out of the intersection fast but then braked hard, tires billowing smoke. The driver swerved to avoid the Jeep in the middle of the road. The second pickup was traveling even faster and followed the first, rushing past Victor. The driver stamped on the brakes, and the pickup slowed before it clipped the back of the Toyota and careered to the side, vaulting up the curb and through a row of market stalls protected from the sun by seaweed-thatched roofs. Exploded passion fruit and coconuts flew in all directions. Traders fled.

Victor put the Jeep in gear, reversed, crushing another market stall in the process, then changed to first, turned the wheel, accelerated. He saw the first pickup pull a three-point turn to chase after him. The passenger was already out of the window this time. Victor ducked in his seat as 9 mm rounds sprayed the Jeep.

He changed up again, trying to put some distance between him and the first pickup, but something was caught under the Jeep and slowing him down. He switched to reverse and accelerated, going backward down the street toward the pickups. A broken wooden crate appeared in front of him, deposited from under his vehicle.

Victor braked, changed back to first, and swerved around the remains of the crate; he then turned quickly back into the narrow street lined with cars, knowing the pickups would have a hard time maneuvering back into it.

The Jeep’s back window blew out. Glass pebbles scattered around the interior. Bulletholes cracked the windshield.

Victor emerged from the intersection, glanced both ways down the street. In one direction, vehicles blocked the road, stopped in reaction to the chase. In the other, a Land Rover was speeding toward him.

He saw the dark silhouette of the driver and knew who was coming.

There was no other way to go. Victor turned toward the oncoming Land Rover. He kept one hand on the wheel, and the other grabbed the Browning from his lap. The Land Rover raced down the opposite side of the road. Victor raised the handgun, and, when they were five yards apart, fired through the windshield. At the exact same time rounds came back at him.

For an instant Victor glimpsed the driver’s emotionless face as the vehicles passed each other. In his rearview Victor saw the Land Rover braking. He heard a horn, looked to his front to see a rust-spotted dala-dala bus turning a corner into the street. He was heading straight for it, no room to swerve around. He slammed on the brakes and pulled the hand brake. All four tires screeched and spewed out smoke. He came to a stop, close enough to see the terrified expressions of the bus passengers looking down at him.

The driver was giving him the finger as Victor put the Jeep into reverse and did a fast three-point turn. The pickups emerged from the intersection, turning his way, the Ford ramming into the side of the Land Rover as it performed a one-eighty.

Victor turned off the road at another intersection, not seeing the result of the collision. The Toyota pickup braked hard behind him, took the same corner, gaining quickly until it was almost at his bumper.

He took another turn, hard, fast, hoping to send the pickup the wrong way, but the Russian driver wasn’t so easily fooled. He followed but lost some distance. Victor joined a dusty highway. There was little traffic, and he accelerated. The Jeep shook under the strain. It was pulling slightly to the right, and Victor compensated.

The pickup followed after a second, gaining with its newer, more powerful engine. In his mirror Victor saw the passenger lean out and steady his submachine gun.

Rounds punctured the safety glass of the Jeep’s windshield, spreading cracks across Victor’s view. There were holes close to his head. Far too close. Victor hit the brakes and the speedometer needle swung counterclockwise.

The Toyota was forced to brake as well to avoid crashing into the back of him, and the Spetsnaz gunman flailed around, unable to fire.

When the needle hit forty, Victor wrenched the steering wheel left. He released his foot from the brake pedal and, at the same time, pulled the hand brake. The Jeep slid sideways and Victor took off the hand brake, turned the wheel hard, accelerated, tires were screaming and smoking, losing traction as the Jeep fishtailed, one-eighty completed.

The first pickup braked again, its wheels locked, but Victor was in the opposite lane, whooshing straight past it, his arm extended out the window, firing the Browning, two rounds at the driver. Ten left.

He kept accelerating, unsure whether he’d hit anyone, not willing to slow down to check. In the mirror he saw the pickup perform a clumsy U-turn. By the time it had completed the maneuver, Victor was half a mile away. Perfect. He performed his own U-turn, faster, going back into the other lane. He accelerated.

Two hundred yards ahead of Victor, the Toyota cut across into the same lane. Victor continued accelerating, saw the passenger lean out of the side window, Bizon raised. Muzzle flashes exploded from the barrel of the submachine gun. Both vehicles were moving too quickly for the gunman to get an accurate shot, but the distance was closing fast. The Russian ceased firing, readied his aim.

One hundred yards. Fifty.

At twenty, the shooting began again, and Victor flicked the steering wheel, swerving left into the other lane, passing the pickup on the opposite side to the gunman. This time Victor didn’t miss.

Blood splashed on the inside of the Toyota’s windshield.

The pickup lurched to the side, out of control, smashing side to side into a semitruck, crushing the Russian passenger before he could pull himself back inside.

The Toyota rebounded off the semi, swerving erratically, going onto two wheels, flipped once, twice, sliding down the highway on its roof, the flattened body of the Russian gunman hanging limply through the window.

Victor dodged around the oncoming traffic and left the pickup spinning slowly in his rearview.

He breathed deeply and concentrated on the road ahead and where it would take him. For now it was over. The road was wide, empty, heading north to Kenya, just twenty miles to the border. There was no way he could risk going back for the assassin’s target. By the time he got back to the hotel it would be swarming with the authorities as well as Russians. Plus, the guy would be long gone by now anyway. Victor would have to use what he’d found from Olympus to continue his hunt, go through the paperwork. Do it the broker’s way. He kept the needle at sixty.