Plague Ship (Oregon Files 5)

“It’s only obvious after you think of it. Kind of like finding something in the last place you look,” Linda teased, throwing Mark’s words back at him. She slowly levered herself to her feet. “Let’s go see if you’re right.”

THE QUAD BIKE WAS DESIGNED to handle rough terrain, with its extra-large shocks and springs, but Juan was pushing the four-wheeler to its very limits as he chased after the pickup. With shells impacting scant feet ahead of it, its driver was forced to keep an erratic track, and Juan made up the lost ground quickly.

“Chairman, it’s Hali. This is the forty-five-minute warning. Repeat, impact in forty-five-minutes.”

“I hear you,” Juan said. They were now cutting into their margin of safety to clear out of the strike zone. “I just wish I hadn’t. Wepps, I want you to hold fire. George, I need you to distract the guy in the back of the truck so I can get close. Buzz them.”

“Roger.”

With a knee pressing him to the pickup’s bed and the barrel of an assault rifle jammed in his neck, Max had no idea what was happening around him. The gun was suddenly pulled away, and the guard fired a short burst. Max turned his head enough to see that he was firing into the sky. The Robinson suddenly flew over the truck, so low that the guard had to duck.

Max used the distraction to ram an elbow into the guy’s groin. The blow was clumsy and awkward and didn’t seem to slow the man at all. He whipped the gun around, and Max blocked it with his arm so that, when it discharged, the bullets sailed harmlessly into the darkening sky. Eyes burning from the spent gunpowder, Max saw his opportunity and punched the guard’s exposed flank. The guard counterpunched Max in the face. The renewed agony seemed to goad Hanley and he went into a rage, swinging wildly, and slowly getting up to his knees to get more power behind his punches.

The pickup’s bed was too confined for the guard to bring his assault rifle to bear, so he used it to shove Max off of him. Hanley went down, sweeping out his leg to knock the gunman on his butt. Max stood shakily, clutching the side of the truck to keep himself steady.

Juan was not more than two feet from the pickup’s rear bumper, on an all-terrain vehicle. He was hunched low over the handlebars so the driver couldn’t see him. Max could see Juan’s lips moving, as he spoke to either George, still circling overhead, or someone on the Oregon.

Max jumped the supine guard like a professional wrestler, only the elbow he smashed into the man’s gut wasn’t for show. The guard’s eyes bulged from his head, and his cheeks expanded as every bit of air in his lungs exploded out of his body.

A few seconds later, another round from the ship’s main gun hit just in front of the pickup truck. The driver slowed and veered left, giving Juan a chance to pull up alongside the vehicle.

“Max, stop screwing around and jump!” Juan shimmied forward on his seat to give Hanley as much room as possible.

Max crawled over the rear gate to crouch on the bumper. He reached out with a leg, getting it over the saddle seat before throwing his weight. He landed solidly, clutching at Juan’s waist to keep himself firmly planted.

Nigel, the English guard driving the truck, chose that moment to look in his rearview mirror. Realizing the prisoner was escaping, he swerved toward the ATV, forcing Juan to slam on the brakes. Nigel jammed on his, and then when the ATV started to scoot away he went after it.

With two big men astride the quad bike, the vehicles were evenly matched for speed over the rough ground. Juan couldn’t pull more than a few feet ahead of the pickup, and, no matter how sharply he turned, the driver kept with him. The Responsivist had to have realized that if he stayed close to the fleeing four-wheeler, the big cannon targeting him wouldn’t fire.

“He’s toying with us,” Juan spat, glancing over his shoulder to see the truck’s flat grille less than five yards from their rear wheels. “And we don’t have time for this. By the way, it’s good to see you, and, boy, is your face a mess.”

“Good to see you, too,” Max yelled over the wind. “And it feels worse than it looks.”

“Hold on,” Juan warned, and sent the ATV over the hill that led back to the road. They roared down it at a breakneck pace, Juan turning the handlebars so that the bike skidded onto the macadam. He cranked the throttle, as the pickup fishtailed behind them.

They gained fifty feet, tempting Juan to call in a shot from the Oregon, but the pickup was much faster than the ATV on the smooth road and closed up the gap again before he could issue the order.

“Wepps, prepare to fire HE at the end of the dock.”

“Standing by.”

“What are you doing?” Max called anxiously.

“Plan C.”

They flew down the road, although not at the ATV’s top speed. Cabrillo needed to keep a little in reserve. They shot past the still-flaming ruin of the guardhouse, threading around smoldering sheets of corrugated metal. Juan hit the dock and opened the throttle as far as it would go, expertly judging speed, distance, and time.

“Fire.”

The pickup’s driver hung back, not understanding why the ATV would intentionally corner itself on the pier, but when he realized it wasn’t slowing he hit the gas to keep close.

“George,” Juan shouted into his radio. “Prepare to pick us up in the water.”

The pilot replied something that was lost to the wind.

Juan and Max rocketed down the length of the dock, coming up on fifty miles an hour.

Max finally realized what Juan was doing and shouted, “You crazy son of a biiiii . . .”