Several bullets struck the engine cowling above him, pinging madly. The shooting had been going on for an eternity, though it was probably no more than a minute. Already he was growing accustomed to the gunfire. It was easy to forget how loud and frightening an automatic weapon could be.
On the landing strip, one of Borodin’s men dashed to his side. The two made an easy target, but suddenly the gunfire had stopped. The air was still. Ren craned his neck but could no longer see his men. Were they dead? All of them?
A tall thin man appeared in the doorway of the jet, then ran down the stairs and hurried to Borodin.
Ren looked on, seized by a spasm of injustice. No, he protested impotently. He can’t get away. He can’t.
He remembered the time he’d spent in Siberia, the countless humiliations, the endless discomfort, the constant beatings, the unimaginable filth, the cold, oh yes, the cold. And, of course, the loss of his money, stolen by the government. Stolen by Borodin. The loss of precious years of his life. Stolen by Borodin.
His eye fell to his forearm and the daggers tattooed there. He’d killed three men in prison. And now? Who was he? A businessman? A yachtsman? A husband? The words sickened him. He’d allowed time and money and the easy life to soften him. To shelter him from his true self.
Enough.
Ren raised his submachine gun to his shoulder and charged. “Borodin!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, running toward the jet.
One of Borodin’s men lifted his rifle and fired.
Ren thrust out his arm and fired back, one-handed.
The man threw up his arms and fell.
“Borodin!” Ren shouted again, still running. He could see the weasel now, his face turned toward him, whiter than white, a death mask.
Here I am, he said to himself. You put me through hell and now I’m returning the favor.
Ren raised the weapon, the barrel pointing at the man he despised more than any other. Twenty meters separated them. He squeezed the trigger joyously, wildly happy. He had him!
A blow struck his chest. His breath left him, and he stopped at once, wondering who had shot him. Borodin was fleeing, climbing the stairs to the plane. His men were closing ranks behind him. Who?
Ren collapsed onto the tarmac. He could not move. His hands refused his commands, as did his feet. He wanted to blink but he could not even manage that. He felt the life running out of him as water spirals down a drain, circling ever faster. He saw Borodin’s pale face leering at him. Not for a moment did he regret his actions. He only wished that he’d fired more quickly. He’d wanted very badly to stand over his foe and spit in his face.
Ren stared into the sky. The light was fading so quickly. Impossible. The sun had only just gone down. He saw no stars. Only darkness as death wrapped him in its cold grip and carried him away.
He’ll never do it.
Simon gunned the Dino down the center of the landing strip, the painted white stripes disappearing beneath the hood as one long blur. He had the accelerator to the floor. He kept extra weight upon it, in case it might go a little bit further. The needle on the speedometer edged close to its limit. The Dino, though it looked like a million bucks, wasn’t built to run at high speed. Everything in the car rattled and jumped as if the screws were loose. He had the absurd and fleeting thought that the owner needed to bring it into his shop for a once-over.
He kept his eyes on the asphalt rushing toward him. Somewhere out there, barreling at him, was a ten-ton fist of reinforced, impregnable steel. He didn’t see the vehicle. He saw only the man inside. And that man was weak.
Playing chicken was not Simon’s first idea. He had the AK-47 in the back seat and three clips of ammunition. He’d considered trying to stop Coluzzi with concentrated bursts of fire. The problem was that it wouldn’t work. The truck’s engine was protected by a steel cowling. The windows were bulletproof. And the tires were run flat. Armored cars were designed to withstand precisely that kind of attack. The machine gun was out.
A second option was to follow Coluzzi from the airport to his destination. Sooner or later he would have to stop, and when he did, Simon would be there. If he wanted to use the machine gun at that point, he could have at it. Unlike the armored car, Coluzzi was not designed to withstand concentrated bursts of automatic weapons fire. This option was more feasible but equally unsatisfactory. Too much could happen once they left the aerodrome. A look at the fuel gauge put an end to the discussion. Simon was running on fumes.
Or he could simply let Coluzzi go and track him down another day. That was the simplest option and the safest for all concerned. If Simon could find him once, he could find him again. But in that time Coluzzi would have taken the money—however many million euros Borodin had paid him—and socked it away somewhere safe. The idea alone rankled him. Besides, who knew where he might get to?
This last option, he decided, was the dumbest of all. Not because it had the best chance of success—because it did—but because the mere thought of it made him ill. The bad guys did not get away with it. Not even for a day. And certainly not if their name was Coluzzi. Full stop.
Which brought Simon back to the present and the mass of gray steel filling up more and more of his windshield.
This was happening here. And it was happening now.
Simon’s fingers tightened on the wheel. He noted that his palms were as dry as dirt. By all rights his heart should be jumping out of his chest. Instead, it was beating quickly but rhythmically and, he was certain, half as fast as Tino Coluzzi’s was at this instant.
Simon lifted his eyes from the asphalt to the armored truck driving straight for him. If either of them was going to swerve, this was the moment. Twenty meters separated them. His arms tightened, his wrist locked into position. Somewhere he heard a horn blaring, growing louder, louder even than the bloody thoughts that had knocked all the others from his mind. The halogens flashed repeatedly.
Simon raised his gaze to Coluzzi, and for a moment the two looked at each other. In the eye. Man to man.
The next, Coluzzi threw the wheel to one side and steered the truck off the landing strip and into the grassy median.
The truck bounced over the tall grass, drifted into a shallow dip, then bounded up the other side, listing dangerously to one side. The wheels lifted off the ground, and for a few seconds the truck continued on two wheels, balancing precariously as if on a high wire. Then gravity asserted its domain and the armored truck fell onto its side and skidded to a long, slow halt.
Simon saw none of this.
The moment Coluzzi had veered off the runway, something else had demanded his attention. Not a truck, but a plane. His eyes were focused once again directly in front of him, where Vassily Borodin’s jet was advancing toward him like an arrow to its target. Simon braked and made a controlled one hundred eighty degree turn, leaving half his tires on the road. As he came to a halt, he felt the jet pass overhead, its weight pressing down upon him, its shadow blocking out the setting sun. He looked up. The plane was so close he could see the tires spinning, the grease slathered on the metal struts holding the landing gear, so close he could lift his hand and scratch the underbelly.
And then, as the sun came back into view and the plane rose into the air and he finally saw the truck lying on its side, Simon knew that he was going to die.