Sarah reached into her purse for her Beretta and laid it in her lap. “Okay, hold tight and keep fingers off triggers,” she said. “Sharp turn.”
She had been cruising the two-lane highway at about sixty, but she had backed off the gas a bit so that her speed had dropped to fifty-five. She hit the brakes suddenly and whipped the wheel to the right, then floored the car once again to take the turn into the parking lot of the abandoned building at almost 50 miles per hour. The car skidded on some loose gravel, but then the all-wheel drive dug in and shot them forward again. A service road seemed to run around the building, so she took it.
Moose, watching through the back window, called out that the Ford had spun out while trying to make the same turn. Sarah had them around the back of the building while the Ford’s driver was trying to get the car turned around in the right direction. She slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt, and Moose and Noah leaped out. As soon as they slammed their doors, she hit the gas again, drove a couple hundred feet more and then slid the car to a stop with the driver’s side facing the way they had come. Neil already had his machine pistol out the window and aimed toward where the Ford would appear, and she quickly followed suit with her own pistol.
Moose and Noah had their Glocks in hand, and when the Ford came fishtailing around the corner they both opened fire. Noah’s first shot hit the driver in his throat, while Moose took out the left front tire. The car veered left, coming straight toward them, and they had to run to get out of its way before it crashed into the steel pylons of an old water tower.
The two other men in the car were dazed by the impact, but they quickly moved to get out. Both of them came out the passenger side, and the man from the front seat—Pasquale Morabito—fell to the ground. The other stayed on his feet, pistol in hand as he tried to swing around to face Noah and Moose.
“Drop the gun and you might live through this,” Noah said, his own gun obviously aimed directly at the man’s face. The two of them froze in that position for about five seconds, and then the man carefully stooped down to lay his pistol on the ground. Noah kicked it away.
The man who had fallen was trying to get up while digging for his own gun in its holster. Moose skirted around the first man and put the barrel of his Glock against the fellow’s forehead. He had made it to his knees, and carefully raised both hands above his head. Moose took his gun from him and stepped back, motioning for him to stand.
“Where is Nicolaich Andropov?” Noah asked.
The two men glanced at each other, but then both of them shrugged. “Don’t know who you mean,” Morabito said.
“Are we gonna do this the hard way? Look, gentlemen, let me explain how this is going to work. You are working for Nicolaich Andropov. Your job at the moment, I’m sure, is to keep tabs on me and where I’m at. I want to find Mr. Andropov. You can either tell me where he is, in which case I will let you live, or I can kill one of you right now and leave the other one alive to give Nicolaich a message for me. Which way you wanna do it? Doesn’t matter to me.”
Morabito started to speak, but the other man cut him off. “Just how long do you think we’d live if we tell you anything you want to know? This Russian, he’s crazy, and he’s got a hard-on for you like nothing I ever seen. We tell you how to find him, he’ll kill us anyway.”
Morabito nodded. “He’s right, dude. Even if you managed to kill him first, he’s got people who would make sure they got us. On the other hand, you leave us alive and we’ll tell him whatever message you want. We’re only in this for the money, anyway.”
Noah looked from one man to the other for a moment. “Money is a really stupid reason to put your life on the line, don’t you think? I’ve never been able to understand the mercenary mind. What does it matter how much money you get promised if you run the risk of dying every single day you’re on the job? It’s like playing Russian roulette; sooner or later you’re bound to lose.”
“You run the risk of dying every time you cross the street,” Morabito said. “At least if you’re making big money, you can live pretty good until the odds catch up with you. Hell, you ain’t no different than we are. I know who you are, I know what you do; you get paid to kill people. Isn’t that being a mercenary?”