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Zhang Daiyu cursed again and took the wheel, but shecouldn’t see very well as the remnants of the shattered windscreen blocked her view.
I slid off my jacket, wrapped it around my arm and punched and swept away the cracked white glass, creating a hole through which we could both see the road ahead.
“Turn off here,” I said, gesturing to an exit ramp to our right.
I turned my head and saw the bike directly behind us.
She stamped on the brakes. As she followed up and spun the wheel, the rear window erupted under a burst of machine gunfire.
There was a cacophony of horn blasts and the screech of tires as we cut across another lane of traffic. Craning my neck around, I saw the bike follow. The pillion rider was reloading.
We shot onto Changcui Road, a broad street that cut through the surrounding residential area. We went east, passing beneath the highway, racing by low-rise apartment blocks and houses to either side of the street. There were vehicles parked the whole way along, and a few shops and restaurants at the base of the buildings flanking us, which drew crowds of diners. This was no place for a chase; too many lives would be put at risk.
“Stay close to the side of the street,” I said, signaling left. “And get ready to stop.”
I glanced back to see the man on the pillion raise his gun.
“Emergency stop … now!” I yelled, and Zhang Daiyu stepped on the brakes again.
The tires screamed as they bit into the road, and the motorcyclist had no choice but to swing right to try and avoid us. As the bike came past, I flung open my door and the bike tore itoff. The collision had the desired effect, though, and the door became tangled beneath the bike’s wheels and frame and took it down. The CFMoto 650GT and its riders skidded along the road for thirty feet before hitting a parked truck.
I leapt out and started running to the machine gun that had been dropped halfway between us and the crashed bike. The dazed driver and pillion man struggled to get to their feet as they came to their senses. Then the gunman started sprinting toward the fallen weapon.
I had to beat him to it, I had to, or Zhang Daiyu and I were both dead.
CHAPTER 17
I DROVE MY legs as fast as they would go, glancing back momentarily to see a dazed Zhang Daiyu still sitting in the driver’s seat of her H6, struggling to come round. She wasn’t in any state to help me so I sprinted on, my feet pounding against the concrete road surface, chest heaving, arms pumping through the air, but it wasn’t enough. The gunman was closer to the weapon and his gloved fingers coiled around the grip, which he swung up to level the muzzle at me.
I stopped dead.
I couldn’t see his face, just my own reflected in his opaque visor.
So this was how I was to die. Killed by a stranger for reasons unknown. Gunned down in a foreign land.
I was three feet away from the muzzle. I was as good as dead.No one could dodge a bullet at this range, and the moment I moved, the gunman would fire.
I saw the motorcyclist get to his feet and stagger away. Only then did I become aware of the groups of onlookers gathered on the sidewalks and others at their windows. My death would have an audience. I might not have had any chance of beating these odds, but I was damned if I was going to go down without a fight.
The gunman held his aim for what felt like an age.
I tensed my body, ready to make my move.
Then the gunman surprised me by shifting his aim toward Zhang Daiyu.
“No!” I yelled. I barreled forward and drove my shoulder into his midriff as he pulled the trigger.
The shots flew high and wide, clattering into the awning over a storefront. I pushed on and the gunman and I went down. I rolled clear, got to my feet and kicked the man in the ribs. He caught my foot and swept his round to kick my supporting leg out from under me. I fell heavily, knocking the wind from my lungs as I landed on my back.
I rolled and got to my feet. The gunman was already up and had Zhang Daiyu in his sights again. She’d staggered out of the van and was coming toward us. Why was he trying to kill her and not me? He’d had a direct shot and had spared my life.
I didn’t have time to answer the question. I rushed him as he opened fire and knocked the gun off target. Bullets sprayed the adjacent building, thudding into the concrete and shattering windows. I unclipped the gunman’s helmet strap and pulledit off as he hit me with the butt of the machine gun. As I fell back I took the helmet with me and saw the face of the man I’d pulled it from—young, scarred, with jet-black hair that had been shaved close to his scalp. He came at me again, but I held the helmet by the strap and swung it at him. The hard plastic shell caught him on the side of the head, and he dropped the gun and staggered back, dazed. As he clutched at his head, I saw a tattoo on his wrist: twin dragons coiled around a larger one. I heard the roar of an engine and glanced over his shoulder to see a black Mercedes E-Class racing up the street. An older man, mid-forties, also heavily scarred, leant out of the passenger window and yelled something, and the gunman turned and ran toward the speeding vehicle.
I stooped and grabbed the submachine gun, but there was no way I could take the shot. There were too many innocent bystanders in the line of fire, and besides, I didn’t have the same legal argument of self-defense if he was running away—if Chinese law even allowed for self-defense with a lethal weapon.
I dropped the gun and produced my phone to take pictures of the gunman as he jumped into the vehicle. I then concentrated on getting images of the license plate as the Mercedes sped away.
There was a great deal of commotion around us now and people had their phones out and were filming. I could hear the wail of approaching sirens and hurried over to Zhang Daiyu.
