Mark Pryor - Cyberian Affair

Gotta be Russian .

Niko jumped into his car and sped toward the highway. In the mirror, he saw a dark BMW pull up next to the Russian man who hopped in.

As Niko approached the intersection, he glanced back. Under a streetlight, a blue BMW appeared, approaching fast. He turned right without slowing down.

The Russians followed, two cars behind.

At the next intersection, Niko turned left through the yellow light. The car behind him stopped, blocking the Russians.

A heavy truck pulled into the intersection. In the mirror, Niko saw one car, then another, go through the traffic light behind him. Neither was a BMW. He turned at the next street and pulled into the lot of a shopping mall. Racing to the side of the building on the end, he drove behind it. Niko spotted two delivery trucks parked at a dimly lit loading ramp. He backed into the shadows between them and shut off the engine and lights.

No way they’re gonna find me here.

Niko grabbed his phone, then stopped himself before making a call. Go deep . Marko had told him his cell was like a flashing beacon to electronic surveillance equipment. Its constant communication with cell towers meant spies could locate his phone. Niko powered it off and removed the battery and SIM card. He hoped he’d done it soon enough to shake this guy.

A few minutes later, the BMW appeared ahead on the right and drove slowly past the loading ramp. Niko’s heart pounded. He held his breath while the vehicle moved out of sight. Then he spotted lights—white lights.

He’s backing up !

Niko turned the ignition and waited while the starter cranked, but the engine refused to start. When it finally turned over, he punched the accelerator to the floor. His tires squealed as he raced out of the slanted loading ramp. Not letting off the gas, he rounded the building, nearly skidding into a wall as he raced toward the exit at the highway.

The BMW raced up from behind.

Niko yanked the wheel to the right, directly in front of a truck.

The truck swerved, tires squealing, as it narrowly missed a car in the passing lane.

A loud bang came from outside as cracks burst across Niko’s windshield on the passenger side, spreading out like a web from a small hole. The passenger window shattered, glass fragments flying at him.

Niko turned the wheel sharply. A second bang and a second hole.

Holy shit ! Niko jammed his foot against the gas pedal, darted into the passing lane, and picked up speed. He jerked the wheel, pulling into the right lane to swerve around the car in front of him. A moment later, he cut back to the left, only to switch and swerve around another slower car. A traffic light in the distance turned red.

No tail was visible in the rearview mirror. So far so good.

The traffic signal ahead spread its red light through the spider-webbed glass around the bullet hole in the windshield.

Niko sped toward the intersection without slowing down. He leaned on the horn and drove into the intersection to the sound of squealing brakes. Halfway through, a pickup clipped the left side of his Camaro and spun him half around. He jerked the wheel to aim the car forward, punched the accelerator, and steered into the right lane.

Shit. I can’t see the Russians. Where are they? Where the hell are the cops?

Niko punched the accelerator and took a hard turn at the next intersection. He spotted headlights behind him coming out of the turn, speeding closer. Shit !

The passing lane ended. Only one lane each way. A line of trucks appeared ahead, backing up as they approached Route 7. He drove on the shoulder to pass them, but it narrowed abruptly. Behind were the Russians’ headlights. Niko pulled back onto the road between two trucks. A blaring horn and squealing tires signaled the driver’s rage.

For a moment, no cars approached in the other lane, so he turned into it, passing two trucks. He would reach the red light in seconds.

Change. Damn you. Green. Come on.

Niko yanked his wheel hard to the right and cleared the front of a truck, sideswiping a Toyota Corolla. His car fishtailed as it merged onto Route 7. Okay, assholes, catch me if you can.

Horns and squeals filled the air as cars swerved to avoid hitting each other while Niko forced his way onto the divided highway. The Camaro shimmied. It took all his strength to hold the wheel steady.

A break in the tree line appeared on the median strip a few feet ahead. He cut his lights and turned left across three lanes, driving onto the grass beyond the trees, downshifting to reduce his speed and maintain control of the Camaro on the frozen ground. In another fifty feet, Niko circled around the trees and came to a stop facing the opposite direction. He shifted into neutral and kept his foot off the brake.

His heart raced as he twisted around to watch out his rear window, hoping to see the Russians drive by.

If they spot me, I’m dead .

A dark-colored sedan swerved along the highway, brake lights coming on briefly when it changed lanes. There they go . Didn’t see me !

When the Russians disappeared into the distance, Niko pulled forward off the grass and onto the shoulder of Route 7. Seeing an opening, he turned on his lights, pulled out, crossed to the right lane, and turned at the next intersection.

He drove into the parking lot of a shopping village, came to stop next to a Dumpster, and turned off the car.

The frantic chase and the events of the night caught up with him. Niko gripped the wheel. Life as he knew it was over.

Go Deep . Disappear. Leave the car . Never go home .

He’d done it before when he fled from the Ukraine. Marko had prepared him for this possibility. Something he never expected would happen. Goddamn Russians. Niko had to do this alone.

From the warmth of his car, with his breath fogging the cold window, he studied the signs on the shops. Clothing stores, restaurants… Starbucks . That would be a warm place to plan his next move—and to call the emergency number.

Niko checked the glove compartment to be sure nothing personal was inside. Then he grabbed his laptop case and got out, spotting a large dent on the back quarter-panel of the car. He unlocked the trunk, but it wouldn’t open. He struggled to force it, but it didn’t budge. He kicked it—once, twice. On the third kick, it moved. One more kick and it popped open.

Exhausted, Niko sat on the edge of the trunk. He removed the panel over the spare tire and retrieved a gray gym bag. Marko called it a go bag —told him to keep it ready for emergencies like this.

He unzipped it and took a quick inventory. Water bottles, energy bars, a change of clothes, and a 9 mm Glock with four clips and ammunition. But the most important items were three pre-paid throwaway phones, false ID, and a bank card. He put those items in his pocket, re-zipped the bag, grabbed his laptop case, and abandoned the car.

Niko used the bank card to make a three-hundred-dollar withdrawal from an ATM machine near Starbucks. Marko had never told him whose bank account the money came from, but he was glad to see the cash. With only forty-three dollars in his wallet, and unable to use his own cards, he would have run out of money quickly. Stuffing the bills into his pocket, he walked into the coffee shop and looked around.

The young woman at the counter smiled. “Can I help you?”

Any other day, Niko would compliment her. He loved to talk to pretty women. But tonight, he just nodded. The coffee smelled great and he needed something warm. “Anything strong and black. No special flavors.”