A cat, for which this place was famous, dashed out of its hiding place right in front of the car, its fur soaked to its skin, in the glow of the only functioning headlight. Juan slammed on the brakes instinctively. The feline gave him a contemptuous look and slunk off.
The world suddenly went white. It took a second for Juan’s eyes to adjust. Overhead, an unseen helicopter had thrown on its searchlight and created an oasis of daylight in the otherwise stygian cemetery. An amplified voice echoed down from above.
Cabrillo didn’t need to translate for the others. Any order from a police chopper was pretty universal.
“Linc, do something about him, will you.”
Franklin cranked down his window and thrust his machine pistol skyward. There wasn’t enough room to lever his big torso out of the car, so he opened fire without sighting in on his target.
Seeing the tongue of flame flickering from the car was enough to convince the chopper pilot to back off, much like Espinoza’s chauffeur had done. The searchlight vanished for only a moment before the helo came back again, flying aft of them and at a greater altitude.
The trail through the tombs turned sharply, but Juan managed to scrape the car through without having to stop.
If there was any coordination between the air and ground units, the pilot would be vectoring the cops from the patrol car to their position. Juan kept a sharp eye out, craning his neck left and right, as they sped past narrow passages. He saw nothing, and was moving fast enough that even had an officer been approaching from the side he would only have time for one snap shot that would surely miss.
Then they caught a break. The path branched, and they found themselves driving on the perimeter walkway that bordered the cemetery’s exterior wall. After negotiating such close quarters, it seemed as wide as a highway.
Their second break came almost immediately. As part of the cemetery’s refurbishment on the main gate, a section of wall had also been removed. A temporary barrier of plywood and wooden studs stood in the opening. The angle was all wrong to get any sort of speed, but Juan went for it anyway.
“Brace yourselves,” he warned for the second time in five minutes.
The car hit the barricade with its front fender and splintered the wood but couldn’t punch through. The wheels spun furiously on the slick cobbles, bowing the partition more and more until some critical point was met. The plucky little Mitsubishi tore through the wall and raced across a deserted sidewalk before Cabrillo could throw it into a four-wheel drift.
They had escaped the cemetery but not the chopper, which was doubtlessly radioing their position.
“Linda, get us back to the docks.”
She was hunched over the GPS with her fingers dancing across the screen. “Okay, turn left at the second cross street, then get into the right lane for another sharp turn.”
Juan did as she ordered, but, no matter what they did, they drove in a corona of hard-white light from the chopper. In his mirror, he saw two patrol cars suddenly appear. They were racing hard, their sirens rising and falling like banshee wails. There was no way on earth to outrun them.
Linc smashed out the rear window with the butt of his H&K and sprayed a fusillade of rubber bullets. The cops kept coming. Either they knew about the nonlethal ammo from previous attacks or they just didn’t care.
The lead car came up on their rear corner and tried to bump them into a skid. Juan countered the maneuver, his hands a blur on the wheel. Linc switched to his pistol and put two rounds through the patrol car’s passenger’s window. There was only the driver, and his courage failed him. He dropped back to a more respectful distance.
Cabrillo was beginning to recognize his surroundings. They were getting closer to the docks. “Mark, show Tamara how to use the pony.”
“Already on it,” Murph replied.
Juan tapped his radio. “Mike, are you in position?”
“I await your arrival,” Trono said breezily.
“We’re coming hot.”
The sub operator became more serious at hearing the Chairman’s tone. “I’m ready.”
Shots rang out from behind them—big, concussive booms from a handgun. The passenger in the second cruiser was leaning out and firing his sidearm. A lucky shot punctured the trunk and erupted through the backseat in a flurry of foam rubber. Tamara shrieked. Linc and Mark Murphy just exchanged a look, and the big former SEAL turned to fire back.
“Next right,” Linda called over the roar of wind whistling through the car. “That’s the dock.”
Juan took the turn so fast that the car slid into the guard shack hard enough to shatter the plate-glass window on the side of the building. The men inside dived for the floor, thinking they were under attack. The two cruisers were seconds behind them.
“Lower all the windows,” Juan ordered as he guided the car around rows of shipping containers.
That last impact had damaged something vital. The car rose and fell on its suspension like the swaying of a camel. The rear axle had been damaged by the collision and Cabrillo’s frantic driving, and it snapped. The two ends dug into the pavement and threw up fountains of sparks whenever they crossed sections of concrete roadway or the steel railroad tracks for the dock’s big overhead cranes. The front-wheel drive motored on gamely despite the damage.
Juan patted he dash affectionately. “I’ll never denigrate another Japanese compact again.”