He stopped the bike and said, “Let’s get off here.”
She jumped off and he climbed off too, and they pushed the bike in among the trees. Once it was far enough from the road to be invisible, they edged back toward the tree line. The car was approaching at speed from the road that curved round to the distant village, a trail of white dust rising up behind it.
He pointed and Inger looked puzzled and said, “Is it a different car? It’s coming from the wrong direction.”
“No, the woods are an irregular shape. He knows the road through the woods is blocked by his friend’s car, my SUV, so he’s had to come all the way around. He’s in a hurry too. People make mistakes when they’re in a rush.”
He took his gun from the rucksack, and she took out her gun too, though he hoped she wouldn’t have to use it. He heard the car slow a little as it took the bend, then speed up again. It was already faintly visible now, a darkness rippling through the trees to their left.
He hit the brakes again as he reached their hiding place. There was no ditch between the road and the open field, but the ground was uneven enough that he needed to take it easy going around the fallen biker.
Dan ran a couple of paces into the open. The driver hit the brakes harder at the sight of him, the car swerving slightly. Dan aimed directly at the driver’s chest through the windshield and fired, three bullets in quick succession. He had to jump back then, the car veering wildly and plowing into the fallen bike.
With an odd sense of dislocation, Dan recognized the guy in the passenger seat, a Ukrainian he’d met a couple of times but whose name he didn’t remember. The guy had his gun in his hand, trying to work against the chaotic momentum of the car to lower the window, take a shot.
The window was only a little way down, when it shattered with an explosive burst of noise—Inger, who’d emerged from the trees next to him and taken a shot at the passenger. He was hit, but still lifted his gun arm and pointed it, even as the car ran off the road into the open field, denying the guy a firing angle.
Dan ran after the car, the noise of Inger’s shot still raw in his ears. It came to a halt after twenty yards and the passenger door flew open, the guy falling out of the car like a stuntman. His face was covered in blood, but he was still trying to get a shot off—Dan had to admire him for that.
Dan fired once, hitting him in the top of the head with a force that jerked his neck back before his face crashed into the dirt. Dan readied himself to fire again, but there was no need.
Quickly, he checked the driver—he knew him too, again by sight rather than by name, a Bulgarian, a sniper with a reputation, which explained a lot. He jogged back to Inger, slapping the side of his head at the same time.
When he reached her, he said, “Do you have a birthday coming up?”
She looked baffled and said, “Why?”
“I’ll buy you a silencer.” She laughed and he said, “Come on, joking aside, that shot would have been heard all over. We’ll get the bike and get out of here.”
“Did you know them?”
“Yeah, I recognized them. One was a Ukrainian, one Bulgarian. I didn’t know them really, just to look at.”
“Hopefully they’re the last.”
“I doubt it, and Brabham hasn’t even—”
“No, I mean, once we get the disk to Patrick.”
“Oh, I see.”
And yet even now, he wasn’t convinced that it would ever be that easy.
The disk would give Patrick White and the ODNI the ability to bring Bill Brabham to heel, possibly even wind up his entire operation, but Dan was fully aware that his own long-term safety wouldn’t necessarily be a part of that. He hoped it would, but hope on its own was worth nothing to him.
Chapter Thirty-four
They rode the bike to Auxerre and left it on a side street before walking towards the station. Once they got there and checked on the trains, Dan put in a call to Patrick White.
When Patrick answered, something about the quality of his voice made Dan say, “It’s Dan. Where are you?”
“I’m in DC.”
“Did I wake you?”
Patrick sounded bemused as he said, “I wish it were so. I’m in the back of a car on the way to a breakfast meeting. If I sound groggy, blame the report I’m reading. But anyway, good to hear your voice, Dan.”
“Yeah, well, there are seven dead guys and counting who tried to stop me making this call, but here we are, and we need you in Paris.”
“Bill’s guys, or freelancers?”
“Freelancers. Eastern European, I think.”
He didn’t respond, but Dan knew he’d be relieved to hear that.