Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(78)
“And they caught you.”
“After a fashion.”
“After a fashion?”
She smirked. “I got inside, didn’t I?”
But at what cost? Bourne wondered, but said nothing, letting a brief pause mark the end of any further discussion of Mala’s presence.
“What do you know about this third partner, Dima Orlov?”
“Not much. He’s a shadowy figure flitting about the Moscow underworld. I never met him; no one I know has. He’s like a ghost.” She screwed up her face. “I heard once that he and General Karpov were childhood friends, they had a falling out as adolescents, but you know how deep the bonds run between childhood friends in Russia. The story goes they patched things up in adulthood.”
Bourne wracked his memory, trying to recall if Boris had ever mentioned Dima Orlov. But his memory was unreliable, and for the ten-thousandth time he cursed it. His eyes were closing; the motion of the truck, the low rumble of its engine, was making him drowsy. All the adrenaline had drained out of him. He was almost as depleted as Mala looked. It felt so good to see the open road ahead of them, the trees a blur of green, to hear the whistle of the wind through the open windows, feel the air on his skin. Just, for once, to relax.
But in Bourne’s world that was a kind of joke. For someone who slept with one eye open, the concept of relaxation scarcely existed, and when, like now, that rare sensation crept over him, it usually had the life span of a mayfly. And, sure enough, this moment would be no exception.
The roaring of big honking motorcycles coming up behind them dissolved the instant’s peace like a pin in a balloon. There were four of them—German-style spiked helmets, grinning skulls emblazoned on the backs of scarred black leather vests, fringes and long, stringy hair fluttering like wounded birds. They rode new Harley V-Rod Muscle bikes, the most powerful in the line.
They came up two on each side, muscled arms shining, as well oiled as their machines. They moved in and out, coming just close enough to rattle Arthur Lee. Lee, who had seen just about every atrocity man could perpetrate on another, didn’t seem to be the type to rattle easily. But these big guys were armed with handguns. Two had sawed-off shotguns slung diagonally across their backs. One, on the passenger’s side, had his pistol cradled in his lap.
One of the four horsemen of the new apocalypse veered toward Arthur Lee. Before Arthur had a chance to zip up his window, the biker brandished a hunting knife with a thick serrated blade.
“Hey, you!” he shouted. “You, boy!” He swung the blade in a shallow arc. It whistled through the air over the moaning of the wind and came within inches of Lee’s cheek. “Hey, boy, I have some boots for you to shine! I have some grits to push into your pussy face!” He swung again, Lee cringed away, and the truck careened out of its lane.
The leader laughed. “Careful, boy! Didn’t your master teach you how to drive?” Holding his knife high, he swung in again, this time with the blade pointed directly at Lee’s carotid artery. Lee turned the wheel over hard, toward the two bikers on the other side.
Bourne had had enough. He was prepared for Lee’s sharp swerve to the right. Swinging his door open, he leapt at the biker brandishing the handgun, knocking him clean off the saddle. The biker hit the ground hard, shoulder first, then his head. His helmet flew off and, as he rolled, the side of his head struck a stone outcropping.
Grabbing control of the Harley, Bourne made a screaming U-turn, came at the second biker on his side. He was aiming his big Colt .45 at the spot right between Bourne’s eyes. An instant before he squeezed the trigger, Bourne dropped down below the level of the handlebars. The bullet whanged over his head, and he kicked out with his left boot, delivering a hard enough blow to the V-Rod to send it veering off the road. He followed it as the biker struggled to regain control. To do that he had to holster his Colt. Bourne, executing another 180, rushed at the Harley from behind. He struck the biker in the kidney, and the biker winced; Bourne snatched the .45 out of its holster and shot the biker in the back, shattering his spine. The out of control V-Rod roared to a spectacular crash against the guardrail, its gas tank splitting open. Flames sprang up, engulfing the leather saddle and the man sitting astride it, followed by a blinding flash and a red ball of confusion.
Bourne revved the Harley, taking off after the truck and the remaining two bikers. Some distance behind him, a cloud of dust was rising rapidly, and he wondered whether guards from Crowcroft had finally gotten their act together and come after them.
Even so, first things first.
One of the remaining bikers had slipped his sawed-off out of his quiverlike sheath, was aiming it into the truck’s interior while the leader came roaring back down the road directly at Bourne. A pair of legs shot out of the truck’s open window, scissored around the biker’s arm. The shotgun went off, tearing a hole in the truck’s fender right above the gas tank. Some of the buckshot must have penetrated the tank because the truck began to leak gas like a sieve. Meanwhile, The Angelmaker, having consolidated her grip on the biker, drew him off his saddle with the astonishing strength of her thighs. As she brought his face close to her, she slammed her knuckles into his windpipe, crushing the vital cricoid cartilage. She released her viselike grip and the biker slammed against the curve of the truck’s fender on his hard tumble to the tarmac.
That left the leader. Instead of aiming his shotgun at Bourne, he swung it behind him. He was staring at Bourne, a big, fat grin on his bearded face as he squeezed off a shot right into the heart of the truck’s gas tank. Sparks flew, what was left of the ruined cap blew off, and flames shot from the open mouth. It was only a matter of time before the fire spread to the cabin, or worse, the truck exploded.