Heavy footsteps and a flash of blond hair, then Iceman punched the guy in the kidneys, and he let go of Striker with a bellow. Air flowed and Striker shoved the man back, coughing as the assassin whirled and swiped at Iceman with the wicked blade. Iceman jumped back in time.
“Get Alek out of here to the rendezvous. Now!”
The assassin had recovered, and he lunged at Striker, just barely missing his gut with the tip of the blade. Iceman, looking torn, hesitated.
“Go!” Striker ordered, and he turned and ran from the room.
The assassin rushed him, and he jumped back from another swipe of the blade, looking for his opening.
From the open door, Preacher came in with a handgun. Before he could pull off a shot, the assassin threw the blade, and Preach made a grunting noise as it sank into his shoulder. The handgun discharged and the bullet hit the assassin, knocking him off his feet. He fell to the floor as blood pooled beneath him.
Striker loomed over him. The assassin grinned and said, “You’ll never get out of here alive. They know where you are—all of you.”
Striker strode over to Preacher, who was on his knees, the blade now out of his shoulder as he worked to stem the blood. Striker snatched up the handgun and walked to the prone assassin and put a bullet in the man’s head.
He ran back over to Preacher. “We need to get out of here.” Striker bent down and lifted him to his feet, and they exited the hotel room just as the stomping of heavy boots sounded in the hall behind them.
They hit the stairwell at a run, Preacher sweating and grunting now. There was no time to deal with his wound. Striker pulled out his phone and speed-dialed 2-Stroke, but there was no answer. “Dammit,” he growled.
They heard a shout, and the door at the top of the stairwell crashed open. Halfway down, the two of them paused, Preacher breathing hard. The metallic ringing of a dozen boots sounded from below, moving up. They were trapped between them.
“What a goatfuck,” Preacher said.
“Make for the van!” 2-Stroke yelled, shielding Chry. Aella had already pulled out her sidearm and was returning fire while bullets peppered them. They made it to the van and ducked inside as Aella cried out and went down.
Saint yelled her name and chucked his gear in through the open door, then ran for her. She was already struggling to her feet. He grabbed her and hustled her to the open door, pushing her inside.
Chry crawled to the passenger side of the van, and 2-Stroke shouted, “Keep your head down!” He got into the driver’s seat as Saint jumped in after Aella and slammed the side door closed. 2-Stroke turned the key in the ignition and the van roared to life. Behind them, the revving of motorcycles filled the evening air.
He buckled his seat belt, put the van into gear, and stomped on the gas pedal. The van shot off into the night. In the rearview he saw bike after bike gather from the main street, side streets…everywhere.
The Bears were in pursuit.
“Are you all right?” Saint asked, pulling Aella’s bloody jacket off and checking the extent of the injury to her arm. “Flesh wound.”
“Hurts like hell,” she said.
He nodded, did a quick patch and she pulled her jacket back on.
Three armored jeeps from the north, east, and west pulled in behind the bikers.
2-Stroke saw Darko and Zasha’s faces as one of the jeeps passed under a streetlight.
He had memorized the map, and he sped south toward the road out of Banja Luka, hoping they wouldn’t cut him off before he could get there.
Traffic was nonexistent, but he was forced to slow down to navigate a particularly steep turn. As soon as he could, he accelerated on to the straighter part of the two-lane road.
“Saint do something about our unwanted tail,” 2-Stroke yelled. At the sound of breaking glass, 2-Stroke saw in the rearview that Saint had broken out the back window of the van and he and Aella were laying down fire. Several bikes swerved, some bikers went down, but others kept coming.
Striker turned to look at Preacher. “We go out fighting,” Preach said.
“Damn straight.”
They started back down the stairs as Darko’s men started firing at them, pinning them down. Then bam, bam, bam came from the lower level and the shooting stopped.
“Boss?” Iceman called.
Striker and Preach exchanged another completely different look and started down the stairs just ahead of the group of Darko’s men pursuing them from the upper floor.
As soon as Iceman saw his teammates, he grinned. “Come on, you slowpokes.”
“I thought I told you—”
“Oh, is that what you said? I could have sworn I heard you say to grab a vehicle and save your asses.”
“You defiant son of a bitch,” Striker said.
Then all of them laughed as Preacher, holding onto Striker, shuffled quickly to a car waiting at the back door. Alek was in the back seat keeping low. When they opened the door, his fear-filled eyes were as wide as saucers.
“It’s all right, kid,” Striker said as he loaded Preacher into the car. Just then the men broke from the building and opened fire. Iceman unloaded on them as Striker jumped into the driver’s seat and closed the door.
“Get in!” he yelled to Iceman, who peppered the remaining men with cover fire. He jumped in and they took off.
As Striker left the hotel, he yelled, “There’s no way we’re going to cause a distraction now, and 2-Stroke is already compromised. Let’s hope my little brother got away. We’re heading for the chopper, and instead of blowing it up, we’re going to steal it. You down with that?”
Iceman was busy patching Preacher up, but the look in Preach’s eyes told Striker, wound or not, he was ready to do his part. So far, there was no pursuit that he could see. He drove straight to the airfield where they had reconned the chopper, hoping like hell it was still on the ground. When he approached the facility, guards tried to stop him, but he drove right through while Iceman took care of the guards.
He rammed through the fence and drove onto the tarmac, sighing in relief. The chopper was still there, but it looked like it was being loaded up for flight.
He barreled toward several men who started firing on them and mowed some down while Iceman and Preacher cleared out the rest of them.
He jumped out of the car as Iceman helped Preacher. “Alek, get in the chopper!” The boy sprinted out of the car and climbed inside.
Iceman helped Preacher inside. “Alek press your hand here and keep it tight,” Iceman said. Alek scooted closer and did as he was instructed. Iceman ruffled his hair. “It’s going to be okay.”
“How is he?” Striker asked.
“He needs medical attention ASAP,” Iceman said in a low tone, his mouth twisting into a grim line.
“Word is that you can fly this thing.”
“Like a boss, boss.”
Iceman got into the pilot’s seat and soon lifted off. Striker loved the .50 cal mounted to the side of the helo. Looked like it could do some damage.
As they sped past a long stretch of forest that ended with a grouping of homes across the river, 2-Stroke looked back to see two motorcycles move up on either side of the van.
“Saint!” 2-Stroke yelled.
“On it!” Saint yelled back and broke out a side window. In the rearview 2-Stroke saw the passenger on the bike aim for the tire, but before he could get off a shot, Saint took him out. The motorcycle twisted as the rider and passenger veered off and crashed along the side of the road in a tangle of body and metal.