Lethal Agent (Mitch Rapp #18)(98)
“We’ve still got the two we saw earlier,” Coleman said. “Fast food and pipes.”
Rapp nodded. “How’s our fuel, Fred?”
“We’ve got another forty minutes in the air. Thirty if you count the time it’ll take to get to our closest fuel stash.”
The semi with POLLO FELIZ painted on the trailer reached the bottom of the hill and immediately started losing speed. “That’s the one. Scott, what’s Attia’s ETA?”
“Call it just under five minutes.”
“And we’re still out of sight?”
“Yeah,” Mason said. “As long as we stay low, he won’t be able to see us until he crests that last rise.”
“Okay, then let’s do it.”
Mason dove toward the truck, coming to a stable hover about five feet off the ground and thirty feet in front of it. The driver reacted immediately, slamming on his brakes and sounding the horn. The steep grade combined with the weight of his trailer allowed him to bring the vehicle to a full stop in seconds.
Mason dropped the chopper to within a couple feet of the asphalt and Rapp jumped out. The driver watched what was happening through his dusty windshield, not even bothering to lock himself inside the cab as Rapp ran toward it. He undoubtedly assumed this was a cartel operation and figured that complete cooperation was his only hope for survival. No point in dying over a bunch of frozen chicken.
Rapp yanked the door open and dragged the man out before taking his place behind the wheel. He’d never driven a truck exactly like it, but had extensive experience piloting similar rigs in Iraq and Afghanistan. Finding first gear wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped, but once he did he was able to start the slow process of getting the loaded semi back up to speed. Mason climbed again and the truck’s driver retreated to the side of the road with his cell phone already against his ear. Not that it mattered. One way or another, this thing was going public.
In his side-view mirror, Rapp saw an off-road pickup rolling up fast behind him. It moved into the left lane and slowed, coming alongside. Bruno McGraw leaned over the empty passenger seat and shouted through his open window. “You okay, boss?”
“Yeah. Go forward. Find me a place to turn around.”
McGraw sped off as Rapp continued to push the semi’s motor to its limit. He was almost to fifteen miles an hour when he saw Attia barreling toward the base of the hill. He hit the slope at almost ninety miles an hour, but the effect of gravity became immediately evident. His speed began to plummet as he closed the distance to the trailer Rapp was towing. When there was about a hundred yards between them Attia pulled into the left lane to pass, probably still traveling ten miles an hour faster than Rapp. By the time he’d made it to within twenty yards, that speed differential was almost cut in half.
Rapp kept his eyes glued to his side mirror, waiting for Attia to close to with ten feet before swerving in front of him and hitting the brakes.
Contact was almost instantaneous. Rapp was thrown back in his seat but managed to keep his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the mirror. Attia, now aware of what was happening, tried to swerve back into the right lane, but Rapp followed the move, gearing down and feathering the brakes.
They swerved along the road for another ten seconds, slowing to four miles an hour before the pressure on the back of Rapp’s truck disappeared. Attia had applied his own brakes and disconnected from him.
An assault rifle appeared through the terrorist’s open window and Rapp’s side-view mirror exploded, spraying him with shattered glass. Attia continued to fire short bursts as he drifted left, managing to get a few rounds into Rapp’s cab and punch holes in the windshield.
Rapp had had about enough of their slow-motion car chase, so he twisted the wheel, bringing his truck to a halt across the road. Attia was forced to stop but now had a better angle. He took full advantage, forcing the CIA man to the floorboards as he emptied his magazine into the driver’s-side door. Somewhere beneath the roar of the assault rifle, though, a deep thump became audible.
The sound of gunfire continued, but the ring of rounds hitting metal stopped. Rapp rose from the floorboard and spotted Coleman hanging out of the side of the chopper squeezing off careful individual shots in Attia’s direction. The terrorist reloaded and trained his fire on the former SEAL. A moment later a smoke plume sprouted from the back of the aircraft. Mason lost control and the helicopter started to spin, slipping away from the truck.
Rapp escaped through the passenger door and landed shoulder-first on the running board before dragging himself behind the truck’s front wheel. He barely made cover before Attia began spraying the cab again.
Rapp hadn’t had time to take the truck out of gear and it idled slowly toward the steep slope on the west side of the road. He pulled his Glock and paced the front wheel, dropping to the ground when the cab started to go over the edge. Dust kicked into the air as the trailer was jacked upward and dragged down the precipice. Attia lost sight of his target and stopped shooting. Rapp took his time, bracing the pistol with both hands from his location on the ground.
When the trailer finally cleared his position and began tumbling down the slope, he spotted the side of Attia’s face around the front bumper of his vehicle. It was all Rapp needed.
A gentle squeeze of the trigger jerked the terrorist’s head back and dropped him to the asphalt. He still had hold of the assault rifle and Rapp sprinted toward him, getting a foot on the weapon before he could lift it again. The bullet had grazed his cheekbone, leaving a deep wound that was bleeding profusely but not serious enough to rob him of consciousness. A sound that came out somewhere between a shout and a scream erupted from his throat when he recognized Rapp.