Марк Грини - One Minute Out

While this is going on I know the men closer to me—the three still alive—are all pulling their guns, so I spin around to the window of the café and dive through. Glass shatters and I crash to the ground inside, roll behind the wall, and reload my weapon.

Fresh incoming fire breaks out the rest of the glass in my window as well as other windows to my right, and from the sounds I can tell there are four or five guns targeting my position now. All I can do is hunker down and try to ride this out.

After ten seconds the gunfire stops. I chance a look out the lower corner of the window, and I see two men dragging Talyssa towards the Ploce Gate on the eastern side of the Old Town. But when I lean out with my weapon to aim at them, I immediately catch fire from two or three positions.

I fall flat to the floor underneath the window as dust, bits of stone, and shards of glass fall over me.

I’m pinned down here so I can’t go forward, but I sure as shit can run out the back of this café, and from there I can head to the west. That will, eventually, get me out through the western Pile Gate of the Old Town, near where my car is parked.

It means losing sight of Talyssa, but at this point, that’s going to happen anyway.

I climb to my feet and run through the restaurant and, as I do, I shout over a barrage of gunfire from out in the square, hoping she can still hear me in her earpiece. “I’m going for the car. You need to find a way to tell me about the vehicle they put you in. Be clever, Talyssa, or else they’ll figure out you’re tipping someone off.”

I hear her speak a single word in a tearful voice—“Please”—but I don’t know if that was for me or for them. I feel helpless right now as I run in the opposite direction, but I tell myself I’m going to get this shit back under control on the road.

TWENTY-ONE

I’m still a minute away from my car, my right knee and right elbow are throbbing for some reason, and my lungs are screaming from the all-out exertion of my sprint, when I hear the side door of a van slide open through my commo link. Breathlessly I say, “It’s a van. I hear that. I just need to know the color. Then I need to know which direction you’re traveling. Do it carefully.”

I hear no reply, only the sounds of Talyssa being placed in the vehicle roughly, men all around her speaking in a foreign language, and then the sound of the van door sliding shut. The engine was already running, obviously, because screeching tires come next.

I’m climbing into the Vauxhall when I finally hear Talyssa’s voice. “I . . . who are you people? I see your black hair, your black beards. Are you Turkish? Moroccan?”

A black van. I nod and softly say, “Black van, got it. Good job. Now, be subtle . . . tell me the direction.”

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“Be quiet!” a man shouts in English.

“To the Hilton? I see the Hilton. Are we going to the—”

“Be quiet!”

I look down at my phone’s GPS, move the map around, and find the Hilton hotel just west of Old Town.

This is good news, as I am to the west of her, or at least I was when her van began moving. They could be right on top of me by now, since a minute or two has passed since then.

I launch the four-door out of the parking lot, jack the wheel hard to the left, and drive off, slowing only as I pass oncoming police vehicles responding to the sound of gunfire in the Old Town. They pay no attention to me, and soon I’m flooring it again, scanning each intersection to my left and right, desperately trying to find a black van.

And it doesn’t take long. Other than the oncoming first responders there is little traffic out this time of night, so when I turn onto Anice Boskovic I see headlights behind me, approaching fast. I slow to match the speed limit, and soon a black van rushes by me on my left, then makes a left turn at an intersection. I continue straight, not wanting to get too close behind it, and then I one-hand my steering wheel while I hold the phone up to check the GPS, unsure how to link back up with my target vehicle. All the while I keep speaking softly into Talyssa’s ear. “I see you. I’m right here with you. Don’t worry.”

There’s a lot to worry about—I’m worried as shit, as a matter of fact—but keeping her as calm as possible seems like a good idea to me right now.

I see the van a minute later, one block south of me and still heading to the west, along the Adriatic coast and farther from the Old Town. It is speeding, almost recklessly, which tells me that long gone are the Albanians’ mission discipline and the swagger I saw in their demeanor when they approached Talyssa’s building.

The fact that several of their number are now lying dead on the cobblestones a couple of kilometers behind us has caused them to doubt themselves, so while shooting those guys thinned out the herd and was the right call for me to make, the assholes remaining are only going to be more dangerous to the woman from Europol.

I’m still forming a plan as I turn to head towards the road they’re on, and still working on it when I fall in to follow them, a couple hundred yards behind. Traffic is light at two something in the morning, and I realize I may have a tough time remaining covert if they start driving around on random streets, trying to see if they’ve picked up a tail.

I also realize I may not get a better opportunity than I have now.

By my count there were eight men involved with Talyssa’s capture. At least three are dead or wounded, and I don’t think the two who engaged me from the east-west street would have had time to make it to the van before it drove off, so they are somewhere behind us, probably securing transportation for themselves. Assuming the snatch team left a driver in the van, which would have been the prudent move, then there are probably four men around Talyssa now up ahead of me.

That’s bad, but it could be worse. And it will probably get worse, because, wherever the hell they are going, one thing’s for sure.

There won’t be fewer than four around her when they get there.

Plus, now I have them close together. They are close to Talyssa, as well, which is suboptimal, but I’m a guy who takes the best shot possible and doesn’t wait for the perfect shot.

I floor the Vauxhall as soon as I decide on a plan. I’m going to take this van down and all the opposition in it.

Now, before they get to their destination.

It takes me a full minute to arrive to within two car lengths behind them, and now we are on a winding road heading northwest, with the moonlit sea off to our left. I cinch my seat belt tighter, put my hand on the gun on my hip for reassurance, and then speak to Talyssa.

“I’m right behind you. I need you to hold on to something, anything . I’m going to wreck the vehicle you’re in, and it’s going to be bad, but I have to do it.”

She immediately replies to me, right in front of the Albanians, with utter dread in her voice. “ What? No . . . no . . . please , no.”

“Stop talking!” a man shouts, and then she screams in surprise and pain as if she’s just been struck.

I say, “It’s your best chance, Talyssa. You have to trust me. When the vehicle loses control, I want you to put your head in your lap and keep holding on till it comes to a stop. When it does, lie perfectly still, covering your head as best you can. I’ll get you out of the van, don’t worry. Just ride out the crash and this will all be over.”

“Oh, God, no. Please ,” she says, and I imagine the Albanians are starting to wonder who the hell she’s talking to.

Flooring it now, I say, “C’mon, Gentry. You got this.”