Shit.
Hayes leaned out, settled the reticle on the black-clad shooter, knowing he’d rushed the shot the moment his finger touched the trigger.
He managed to fire three shots at the black-clad figure when a second shooter opened up. He ignored the bullets, steadied his aim, and dropped the man with a head shot before pivoting left, finger double-pumping the trigger as he engaged a second man.
The first shot hit the man in the chest and while the ballistic armor kept the bullet from finding flesh, the impact punched him backward into the van. Instead of adjusting his aim, Hayes thumbed the selector to full auto and held the trigger down, let the muzzle rise do the work for him.
The second shot hit an inch higher than the first, and was once again stopped by the plate carrier, but the third found flesh, blowing out the man’s throat and leaving a crimson stain on the skin of the bus.
The shooter sagged against the Land Rover, dropping his rifle, fingers clawing at his ruined throat. He held on tight, but Hayes knew from the spurts of arterial spray through his interlocked fingers that he wasn’t long for this world.
The crunch of gravel beneath boots drew his attention and he turned to find a third figure charging through the smoke. Hayes swung to engage, but the man was fast and on him and, in an instant, clubbed him in the head with the stock of the rifle. It was a staggering blow that sent him reeling, cracked the seal on his mask, and flooded his lungs with a fresh dose of gas.
Hayes tried to step back, make space, but the man was all over him, slamming the buttstock into his kidney, ripping the MP5 from his grasp, and then grabbing him by the throat.
The fight was up close and personal, all elbows and knees, close enough for Hayes to feel the man’s breath on his face. But, blind and choking on the smoke, there was little he could do but absorb the beating the man was laying on him and wait for an opening.
Finally, the man tried for the knockout blow, firing a loping fist at his head, but Hayes ducked below it, reached up, and ripped the mask from his attacker’s face.
“Fucker,” the man cursed, breaking off the attack to try and reseal his mask.
Hayes, on the other hand, had no intention of letting up and grabbed the man by the shoulders, pulled him close, and drove his forehead into the man’s nose. The cartilage exploded with the crunch of fresh wood and the hot spray of blood over his face.
He bellowed in pain and took a lurching step backward, giving Hayes the space he needed to tear the Beretta from its holster.
Hayes fired two shots into the man’s chest, the slap of the 9-millimeter to his chest plate shoving the man backward, giving Hayes the time to line up the head shot. He’d just pulled the trigger, the bullet snapping his target’s head back, when he heard the roar of an engine.
He glanced right in time to see the Excursion blast through the smoke, its grille guard big as a billboard.
Hayes threw himself clear, the rush of the passing SUV tearing at his clothes. He ducked his head and, rolling over his shoulder, came up in a crouch, the Beretta bucking in his hand.
It was an impotent gesture and he knew it. Knew that any damage the 9-millimeter did to the truck was cosmetic, but he didn’t care. Hayes was pissed. The rage that had begun as a flicker of flame had grown to a raging inferno, the heat and pressure building inside of him, leaving Hayes at critical mass.
The bullets shattered the back glass, but the driver kept the accelerator pinned to the floor and swung the Excursion into a screeching left turn, Hayes dropping the empty magazine, stripping the spare from his belt and slamming it into the pistol.
But by the time he dropped the slide and got back on target, the Excursion was racing north—well out of range of the pistol.
Hayes slammed the pistol into its holster. The silence that followed the gunfight was deafening, broken only by the ringing in his ears and the wounded cries of the innocents scattered around the street.
His heart went out to them, but the distant wail of sirens told Hayes that medical personnel were on their way—Zoe, on the other hand, was on her own.
He needed to go now, before it was too late, before the police made the scene and threw him in cuffs. But instead of heading back to the hotel, jumping into the Pathfinder, and driving like a bat out of hell to the airport, Hayes bent down, snatched the submachine gun from one of the dead, and started toward the dark-green motorcycle lying abandoned in the roadway.
What the hell are you doing? the voice demanded. This is not your fight.
“It is now.”
33
GRAND-BASSAM
Hayes slung the submachine gun and squatted beside the downed Ducati Multistrada, pressed his back against the seat, and got his feet set beneath him. He took a breath and pushed off with his legs, the skin on his forearm sizzling like bacon against the exhaust pipe as he worked to get the five-hundred-pound Ducati onto its wheels.
Of all the motorcycles in Africa, how is it I’ve got to find the heaviest son of a bitch on the road?
Finally, he got it upright, and after swinging the sub gun around to the small of his back, Hayes reached across and thumbed the starter.
It cranked right up, and Hayes hopped on, spun the bike north, and twisted hard on the throttle. The Ducati shot forward, Hayes working through the gears, hoping whoever owned the bike had full coverage, as he raced after the fleeing Excursion.
The Ducati Multistrada was designed as a dual-purpose bike, a hybrid that combined the performance of a sport bike and the long-distance capability of a touring model. Thanks to its 1200cc liquid-cooled engine, by the time Hayes hit the bridge the needle was already sweeping past sixty miles per hour.
From the peak he glimpsed the road ahead—the Excursion weaving in and out of traffic. The solid-steel brush guard, combined with the driver’s aggressive tactics, left the motorists in its path two choices—get out of the way or get run over.
Hayes had grown up riding motorcycles. He’d started with dirt bikes, 250cc Yamahas that were great for cruising the back roads of his native Tennessee, but too slow—and illegal—to ride on the street.
Hayes would have to wait until he turned sixteen and got a driver’s license before graduating to the much bigger and faster street bikes. The rush that came with being on the open road, the wind in his hair, warm sun on his face, was exhilarating.
It was also dangerous as hell, and even though he’d never been in an accident, all he could think about as he started down the hill was what his father had told him when he first got that street bike: “Son, there are two types of bikers in this world—those who have wrecked and those who will wreck.”
Hayes wasn’t sure where the memory came from, if it was a portent of his impending doom or just his subconscious screwing with him. Either way, the time for thinking had passed. He was committed, and it was either focus on the cars ahead or end up feeding the vultures perched atop the power lines.