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Sam glanced out the side window. Kholkov and Mustache were already on their feet and running back through the graveyard.
“About five seconds,” he said and stepped on the accelerator.
CHAPTER 27
Sam sped down the fence line, heading for the main gate. In the corner of his eye he could see Kholkov and Mustache sprinting in the same direction, dodging headstones as they went, fog swirling in their wake.
“Gonna be close,” Sam muttered.
“Where are you going?” Remi said. “You heard Umberto . . . Bianco will have the roads watched.”
“How’s your aim tonight?”
“What? Oh.” She held up Bianco’s gun as though suddenly remembering she had it. “Fine, why—”
“I’m going to make a quick pass by their SUV. See if you can get the tires. Umberto, are you sure you can handle him?”
In the backseat, Bianco was leaning in the corner wearing that same smug grin. Umberto reversed the Luger in his hand and smacked Bianco across the temple; he went limp and slid into the floor. “I am sure!”
The corner of the fence was coming up fast; thirty feet beyond that and to the right was the SUV. Kholkov had pulled ahead of Mustache and was seconds from reaching the gate.
“Get ready!” Sam called.
Remi rolled down her window, stuck the pistol out the opening, and braced her arm on the door. “You’re going too fast!”
“Have to. Just do your best. If you can’t get the tires, try for the windshield. Damn!”
Kholkov raced through the gate and skidded to a stop beside the SUV’s driver’s-side door. The interior dome light popped on.
Remi snapped off two shots. The bullets sparked on the SUV’s quarter panel, but missed the tire. “Too fast!” Remi called.
“Windshield! Empty it!”
Remi squeezed off four shots, the gun’s barrel spouting orange flame. Three spiderwebbed holes appeared in the SUV’s windshield.
“Atta girl!”
Suddenly Kholkov appeared around the front of the car, dropping into a crouch, a gun coming up in his hands. Sam spun the wheel hard left. The Lancia’s tail whipped around, the front tires spinning freely in the moist grass before finally finding purchase. Two metallic thunks echoed through the car as Kholkov’s bullets hit the car’s trunk. Sam accelerated again, straightening the car out and heading back into the meadow toward the hills.
“Everybody okay?” Sam asked.
Umberto peeked his head over the front seat, said, “Yes,” then disappeared again. Remi nodded and said, “Sorry I couldn’t get the tires. We were going too fast.”
“No worries. You got the windshield; that’ll slow them down. They’ll either have to punch it out or drive with their heads out the side windows.”
Remi turned in her seat and saw Kholkov and Mustache standing on the SUV’s hood stomping on the windshield. “Option A,” she said. The windshield collapsed inward; Kholkov and Mustache knelt down, dragged it out, and tossed it aside. Seconds later the SUV’s lights popped on and it surged forward, speeding into the meadow.
“Here they come. With that four-wheel drive they’ll—”
“I know,” Sam muttered. “Hold on!”
The Lancia lurched sideways as the front wheels slipped into the mining road’s ruts. Sam tapped the brakes, gave the wheel a jerk, felt the rear wheels follow, then punched the accelerator again. The Lancia surged up the hill. The road was narrower than he’d imagined, no wider than six feet. When they reached the crest the trees closed in around them, boughs scraping the car’s sides and blotting out the sky. Headlights washed through the back window as the SUV started up the hill.
On the downslope now, Sam started to accelerate, but immediately tapped the brakes as the road veered right and deeper into the trees. Behind them the SUV’s nose cleared the crest, went airborne, then slammed down again.
“He’s going to miss it,” Remi said.
She was right. Still bouncing from its impact, the SUV overshot the turn and skidded to a stop, its hood buried in the trees. Sam glanced in the mirror in time to see the SUV’s brake lights pop on just before the Lancia plunged down another slope. Sam caught a fleeting glimpse of washboard ruts ahead and shouted, “Hold on.” Wheels thumping and shock absorbers shrieking in protest, the Lancia bumped over the patch, then up another slope, down the other side, and onto a straightaway. Sam accelerated. Branches slapped at the windshield, pinecones bouncing over the hood and over the roof. The SUV reappeared behind them, its headlights bouncing wildly as Kholkov negotiated the washboard.
