David Morrell - The Fifth Profession

“Yes, I've been in southern France before,” Savage said. “I'm sure I can find the way to your boss.”

The farther he drove from the airport at Nice, the more traffic dwindled, most of it having turned onto a superhighway to the north. That superhighway ran parallel to this road and would have taken Savage to Cannes sooner, but he didn't intend to enter the city. His instructions to Joyce Stone had been to have a powerboat waiting at a beach along this road a half-kilometer before he reached the city. The powerboat would take them to a yacht, which in turn would take them to Joyce Stone's island-an efficient, surreptitious way to deliver Rachel to her sister.

“I hate to tell you this,” Akira said. “I think we've got company.”

Savage glanced toward his rearview mirror. “The van?”

“It's been following us since we left the airport.”

“Maybe it's headed toward one of the resorts along this road.”

“But it keeps passing cars to stay behind us. If it's in a hurry, it ought to pass us as well.”

“Let's find out.”

Savage slowed. The van reduced speed.

A Porsche veered around both of them.

Savage sped up. So did the van.

Savage glared toward the burly man beside him. “Is it too much to hope you brought handguns?”

“It didn't seem necessary.”

“If we survive this, I'm going to beat the shit out of you.”

Rachel looked terrified. “How did they find us?”

“Your husband must have guessed your sister arranged for the rescue.”

“But he thinks we drove into Yugoslavia.”

“Right. Most of his men are searching there,” Savage said, increasing speed. “But he must have kept a team in southern France in case we managed to get this far. The airport was being watched.”

“I didn't notice surveillance,” Akira said.

“Not in the airport. Outside. And when this idiot showed up in the Rolls-”

“Hey, watch who you're calling an idiot,” the burly man said.

“-they activated the trap. They won't be alone. Somewhere ahead, there'll be another vehicle in radio contact with them. And” – Savage glared at the burly man – “if you don't shut your mouth, I'll tell Akira to strangle you.”

Savage swerved past a slowly moving truck filled with chickens. The van did the same.

To the left, down a slope, Savage saw Antibes stretched along the sea. The resort had extensive flower gardens, an impressive Romanesque cathedral, and ancient narrow streets. To the right, picturesque villas dotted a hillside.

Savage reached a curve and halfway around it pressed the accelerator. The transmission changed gears sluggishly, finally responding.

“An automatic,” Savage said. “I can't believe this.” Again he glared at the burly man. “Don't you know a standard's more efficient if you're being chased?”

“Yeah, but an automatic's smoother in stop-and-go traffic, and the streets in these towns are an obstacle course. With a standard, it's a pain to keep using the gearshift.”

Savage cursed and rounded another curve. Now opposite the rising slope of villas, a descending slope was cluttered with hotels that almost obscured the sea.

The pursuing van sped closer.

“There might be another explanation,” Akira said.

“For their spotting us?” Savage urged the Rolls from the curve.

“Your phone call. Before we left Corfu. The incompetent man beside you admitted that your employer talked openly about the rescue.”

“Hey, what do you mean ‘incompetent’?”

“If you persist in speaking,” Akira told the man, “perhaps I will indeed strangle you.”

Savage frowned at another curve.

“I suspect your employer's phones have been tapped,” Akira said. “And I also suspect there are spies in the household.”

“I warned her,” Savage said. “Before I went in, I told her Rachel's safety depended on absolute secrecy.”

“Before you went. Afterward, she felt free to reveal her concerns.”

Savage scowled toward the rearview mirror. The van was closer. “I think you're right. Someone on Joyce Stone's staff is a spy for Papadropolis. That's why his team was ready.”

“So what are we going to do?” the burly man asked.

“What I'd like to do,” Savage said, “is throw you out.”

“Ahead,” Akira barked.

Savage's chest constricted as a van appeared.

The interceptor skidded, turning, blocking the narrow road.

“Rachel, make sure your seat belt's tight.”

The pursuing van loomed closer.

Savage eased his left foot onto the brake, kept his other foot on the accelerator, and spun the steering wheel. The maneuver was difficult. If he pressed too hard on the brake, he'd lock the rear wheels. He had to balance the pressure between braking and accelerating so the car's rear wheels spun while skidding. The consequent tension of forces gave the car torque. As Savage twisted the steering wheel, the car snapped around. The 180-degree pivot made the tires squeal, rubber smoking. Savage's seat belt gripped him.

The van that blocked the road was now behind him, the pursuing van ahead. Savage jerked his foot off the brake and stomped the accelerator. The Rolls surged toward the approaching van. Its driver veered. Savage rocketed past. In his rearview mirror, he saw the van skid to a stop. Farther back, the van that had blocked the road was in motion again, passing the van that had stopped, resuming the chase.

“At least they're both behind us,” Savage said. “If we can get back to- into -Antibes, we might be able to lose them.”

His stomach turned cold when a third van emerged from a curve ahead.

“Jesus,” the burly man said. “The team had backup.”

The van turned sideways, blocking the road. In his rearview mirror, Savage saw one of the other vans block the road behind him while the remaining van sped toward him.

“We're boxed,” Savage said.

The road was too narrow for Savage to veer around the obstructing vehicle. Now the steep upward slope was on his left, the steeper downward slope on his right.

He tensely reached toward the buttons on the console. “These weapons better work.”

The system had been invented by drug lords in South America. He pressed a button. A section of metal rose from above each headlight. He pressed another button and felt the Roils tremble from the concussion of shotguns firing. Mounted beneath each fender, the guns sprayed double-ought buckshot through a vent above each headlight.

Ahead, the van that blocked the road jolted from the fusillade's repeated impacts. As the shotguns kept firing, the van's windows imploded. Pellets punched metal, causing clusters of holes, three-foot circular patterns that narrowed as the Rolls sped nearer. The continuous shotgun blasts chewed the van to pieces.

Savage released the button and stomped on the brake. The Rolls fishtailed, skidding, barely stopping in time to avoid smashing against the wrecked vehicle.

He swung to stare behind him. While one of the remaining vans continued to block the road, the other rushed nearer and braked. Men scrambled out, weapons drawn.

“Rachel, close your eyes. Cover your ears.”

Savage pressed two more buttons on the console and instantly obeyed his own directive, scrunching his eyes shut, squeezing his palms against his ears. Despite these precautions, he winced. Chaos assaulted him.

The buttons he'd pressed had caused flash-bang devices to catapult from each side of the Rolls and detonate when they hit the ground. The devices were deceptively named. “Flash-bang” suggested a firecracker. But the blaze and the blast produced by these matchbox-shaped metal objects were extreme enough to temporarily blind and deafen. Even one could be powerfully disorienting. Several dozen had awesome results.