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“Take the one on the left,” I reply.
He races after it but it’s spotted us and tears up the asphalt.
“Step on it,” I tell Alessandro.
We race after it, taking a left, then a right, weaving through the traffic.
“Move!” I tell Alessandro, wishing I’d driven. It’s like he’s not even trying.
A bullet whizzes past us. The driver of the van is leaning out with one arm, taking potshots back at us despite the business of the city streets.
“Keep on him!” I snap as Alessandro swerves away from the firing gun.
“I’m doing the best I can,” he replies, yanking the wheel so we just miss hitting a taxi.
“Your grandma could do better. Don’t let him get away.”
He grunts, hitting the gas and gaining on the van at last. Around another bend and the van slows to avoid a bus.
“Now!” I yell.
Alessandro manages a pit maneuver on the van, catching the rear left corner, sending it spinning into a bunch of trashcans on the far side of the street.
The van goes straight through them and crumples into the wall on the other side.
I get out and run over, gun already drawn. The van driver wasn’t wearing his safety belt. He hit the windscreen. The steering column got him in the chest. He’s not got long to live. Blood’s gushing down his face.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” he says, looking shocked to see me.
“Where’s Anna?”
He looks up at me, grinning, starting to laugh. “What’s so funny?” I ask him.
“Wrong van,” he replies in a faint wheeze, coughing up a spray of blood. “She’s cartel property now, Marco. Whole gang will get to fuck her. Maybe we’ll send you the videos before we sell them. Plenty of buyers for such sweet American pussy.”
I raise my gun, pressing it to his forehead. “Where are they taking her?”
He grunts with pain as he shifts in his seat. I can hear sirens approaching. I haven’t got long if I don’t want to get tied up dealing with the cops. Turning the pistol, I smack the guy on the bridge of the nose with the handle. He shrieks in pain.
“Where is she?” I ask again, slapping him across the face.
“Fuck you,” he replies.
I lean down and press the wound in his chest. He roars in agony. “Last chance,” I tell him. “Where is she?”
“All right,” he screams as I press harder. “Factory in Tijuana. Jesus, that hurts.”
“Where?”
“By the old rendering plant. Please, my ribs are broken. Please, stop.”
Alessandro puts a hand on my arm. “What?” I snap at him.
“Cops,” he says, pointing at the flashing lights in the distance. “We need to move.”
I raise my gun to finish off the guy in the van, but his eyes are glazed over. He’s already dead.
“Let’s roll,” I tell Alessandro. “I know the location. We need to get to the airfield fast.” I pull out my phone. “Get me a flight,” I say when the line is answered.
