Page 59 of Omega
As I made the tree line, I heard a car door close somewhere behind me.
Shit. Of course.
It was a big black SUV, parked directly behind mine. Five men were moving toward me, and each one was blatantly carrying a machine gun. They strode toward me calmly, unhurried, making directly for my position.
Now what the actual fuck? I’d been watching behind me every step of the way, and I would have sworn on a stack of bibles that I hadn’t been followed. Yet here they were, coming right for me.
“Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!” I shouted it the last time, and one of the men laughed.
It wasn’t a pleasant sound.
I ducked behind a tree, unfolded my knife, and dialed Harris.
He answered before it had rung twice. “Layla?”
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m where you told me to go, in the trees on the median. They’re right behind me, Harris, they’re coming for me. Five of them, and they have big fuck-off machine guns. How did they find me, Harris? What do I do?”
“I’m almost there. Run south, okay? Stay just inside the trees, but run south, closer to the southbound lanes. You’ll know what to do when the time comes.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” I sounded shrill, but I had reason, I’d say.
“Trust me, babe. Run south. Watch for me.”
Click.
Super.
I twisted and glanced around the trunk of the tree. They were approaching the trees, now. Shitshitshit. I took off running south, bouncing off tree trunks and ducking branches.
Crack! Crackcrackcrackcrack!Bark exploded to my left, spraying my face with splinters. I ducked and cut right, then left, not daring to look behind me. The machine gun cracked again, and then another one, off to my left. They weren’t playing around, obviously. No more orders to bring me back alive, clearly.
Kill the bitch, I was sure they’d been told.
I poured on speed, running as fast as I could, as hard as I could, arms in front of my face to knock aside branches. I felt something cut my right arm, followed a split second later by a snapping sound, and then the report of the machine gun. An angry buzz sounded on my left. I wasn’t sure quite why, but thesnapscared me more than the buzz.
To my right, off in the distance, an engine roared; I glanced that way and saw a green SUV with a white roof bouncing at full speed across the grass. It’s strange the details you notice in high-adrenaline situations: I couldn’t have told you what kind of car the SUV I’d stolen was, nor the model of the jalopy I’d stolen in São Paulo. But somehow, in a split-second glance from over a hundred yards away, I knew the vehicle Harris was driving was a Land Rover Defender, the older kind you see used for African safaris in documentaries narrated by the late, great Richard Attenborough.
I left the cover of the trees, machine guns still barking behind me and to my left. I ran out in the open now, risking glances every couple seconds at Harris. He didn’t slow down, and as he approached behind me, I saw that his window was open and he was driving with one hand, a small black pistol in the other. I heard the bark of his pistol, saw the muzzle flash—silver dents appeared in the rear driver’s side door, two, three, four, evidence that they were shooting back. Harris jerked the huge SUV to cut behind me and braked to a sudden halt, the rear end of the truck sliding and ripping up chunks of grass and spraying mud. He leaned over and threw open the door, and I leaped into the opening, landing hard on the bench. Harris didn’t wait for me to get the door closed, just gunned the engine, slewing around in an arc, his right hand jerking the manual gear shifter down into second as his feet moved like lightning, popping the clutch and flooring the gas. The door swung open, bounced at the apex of its hinge-range, and then swayed toward me as the truck darted forward, hitting a hillock in the grass and going airborne. I got a handhold on the seatback and leaned out, hooked the door handle with three fingers, and jerked the door closed with a slam.
Somehow, Harris was driving with one hand, firing his pistol out the window with the other, and still finding time to shove the shifter through third and into fourth as we picked up speed, still jouncing violently across the grass heading south.
“I’m going to swing us around,” Harris said, without looking at me. “I want you to get down under the window as we pass them.” He accompanied his words with actions, downshifting to second and slamming on the brakes, hauling the wheel around so the truck juddered around in an arc, swaying and tipping precariously.
All five of the bad guys were lined up abreast, guns lifted to shoulders, pointing at us.
“Layla, getdown!” Harris snapped.
Gunfire erupted from all five of them, and I heard several metallicthunksas rounds hit the body of the Range Rover.
“Fuck you,” I growled. “Give me that.”
I snatched the pistol from him, held it in both hands and pointed the barrel at one of the bad guys. I squeezed the trigger, expecting the roar and the kick but still shocked by it. We passed by them so fast I wasn’t sure if I’d hit anything, but it was the thought that counted.
“You know how to shoot?” Harris seemed surprised.
“I used to hook up with a guy who was a manager at a firing range. He showed me how.”
“Well it was a good shot,” he said. “I think you winged one of ’em.” He grabbed the gun back as we bounced along parallel to the northbound traffic.