Worthy could see a glinting pair of red taillights ahead, but just barely. He eased off the accelerator, letting the vehicle coast the remaining distance until he was thirty meters off the rear bumper.
Cancer looked from the windshield to his phone, then said, “Looking good so far. Just creep up slow—we need to be within five meters.”
Worthy eased forward, holding steady at the appointed range.
Cancer transmitted, “We’re inside the bubble of an old Range Rover. This has got to be Usman, request positive identification.”
“Stand by,” David replied.
Worthy said, “She better confirm fast so we can back off. Otherwise we’re going to spook him.”
But David’s next transmission was, “Negative on the match—it’s not him.”
“It has to be,” Cancer objected. “We’re right on top of his signal.”
David replied, “We’re seeing a longer transmitting delay than the Agency is. Just pass him and keep going.”
Worthy accelerated toward the truck’s bumper, then pulled into the left lane to pass.
Then something strange happened—the Range Rover pulled left, blocking Worthy’s advance. He braked and swung back into the right lane, trying to get around the vehicle, and the process repeated.
Cancer readied his rifle and said, “It’s either a dickhead civilian or part of Usman’s convoy. Either way, PIT his ass off the road.”
Worthy began doing just that, accelerating toward the rear quarter panel of the Range Rover. This time, the SUV didn’t try to block his path; instead, the passenger side windows rolled down in unison and a rifle barrel emerged.
The muzzle flashed as Worthy braked hard, narrowly avoiding a close-range burst of automatic gunfire.
Cancer brought the stock of his suppressed HK417 rifle over his shoulder, then drove the barrel forward and fired three rounds.
The trio of bullets ejected a cloud of glass dust inside the vehicle and blasted a hole through the windshield. Cancer punched his suppressor through the opening, using his next six rounds to blast at the rear window in the hopes of killing the driver.
Worthy transmitted, “Shots fired; the truck is engaging us.”
David replied, “Can you take them?”
“Cancer’s trying to figure that out right now, boss.”
As he fired his next volley of rounds at the swerving Range Rover, Cancer’s chest was flung forward against the seatbelt. Worthy was braking to avoid a collision—the enemy vehicle was cutting left and right across both lanes, preventing them from passing while simultaneously providing firing angles for the men now aiming out windows on both sides.
Cancer kept his feet pinned against the floorboard, using his legs to brace himself against the seat back as he fired controlled pairs at anything he could—enemy fighters when they were visible and, barring that, in the direction of the driver. His accuracy was complicated by Worthy careening the 4Runner to counter the Range Rover’s curving turns, trying to remain behind the rear bumper to prevent them from scoring a direct hit.
The enemy’s return fire consisted of wild automatic bursts whenever they caught sight of the 4Runner, and Cancer heard the ominous thunk of sporadic rounds punching through the vehicle skin. He continued engaging the best he could, conducting a reload before firing again.
With two car lengths between the vehicles, Cancer could tell this was a losing proposition. If he hadn’t scored a shot against the driver with his first 20-round magazine, he likely never would. He called out to Worthy in a strained voice, “Get in the right lane and slow down—see if they keep rolling.”
Worthy complied, but as he began braking, so too did the Range Rover, which continued its curving path across both lanes as shooters on either side of the vehicle fired backward.
Cancer heard an audible popping sound that preceded Worthy swerving in the road, and he checked the instrument cluster before announcing, “They hit a tire.”
“Run flats should hold for a few dozen miles,” Cancer shouted back, firing a three-round volley as wind whistled through the broken glass.
But the 4Runner struggled to maintain speed, becoming less maneuverable as the Range Rover slowed for another firing run. Cancer knew what he had to do; still, even under the present circumstances, he felt a tinge of resentment as he keyed his mic and transmitted.
“We’re decisively engaged. Need backup.”
“Copy,” David replied without hesitation. “We’re on the way.”
Reilly sped out of his hiding place among the trees, swinging left onto the highway and gunning the engine to full speed.
From the backseat, Ian said, “If we move to support, Usman will get away.”
David answered, “Remember the last time Cancer asked for backup?”
“No.”
“Yeah, me neither. If he’s calling for us, then things have really gone to shit. Ian, try to get some vehicle makes and models from the westbound lane—one of them is Usman.”
“What?” he shot back, incredulous. “All I can see are headlights, same as you.”
“Well, you’re the intelligence guy, not me. Figure something out.” The vehicle’s speed turned the oncoming headlights into shooting stars in the darkness by the time David transmitted, “Racegun, can you get them to slow down?”
Worthy’s response was strained with the effort of steering while under fire. “Yeah, if we slow down, they do too—they’re running a blocking maneuver on top of a spray-and-pray.”
“Perfect,” David continued. “Once we have visual I want you to cease fire and slow down as much as possible. Then we’re going to give them the surprise of a lifetime—same plan as before, but we’ll swap tasks for each vehicle.”
Reilly muttered, “It’s not really a PIT maneuver, though, if we’re approaching from the front—”
“You want to ram the truck or not?” David testily replied, then transmitted to the other team truck. “After we hit them from the side, box them in and dismount. Duchess says Usman isn’t in that truck, but we’re not taking any chances. Total annihilation, no survivors, full site exploitation.”
Then and only then did he transmit to Duchess, a conversation that Reilly could only hear one side of.
“Raptor Nine One, Suicide Actual,” David began. “Be advised, our trail element out of Bauchi is decisively engaged by what I assess to be a rear security element of Usman’s convoy. My truck is moving to their location on an urgent call for backup, over.”
Duchess’s response was a mystery to everyone in the vehicle but David, and a few seconds later, he transmitted, “I’m not hanging two of my men out to dry over a chance to get Usman. We were supposed to let them pass if they had too much security; well, I’m telling you they do have too much security, and your PID criteria forced us to find out the hard way. Going off comms until the situation is resolved, over.”
Swerving ahead of a Mercedes sedan, Reilly commented, “She’s not going to like that, bro.”
David backhanded him across the arm.