Most of the Formula 1 drivers moved over to give him a wide berth. But at a narrow point, Golov scraped the wall as he tried to get past a car. The front bumper of the heavy SUV hit the wing of the race car, spun the car around, and slammed it into the opposing wall.

It came to rest backward on the track, and one of the pursuing police cars hit the front of the car like a ramp. The police vehicle flipped into the air and finished the job of blocking the track. Golov’s pursuers could no longer continue the chase.

He braked for the hairpin, which was so tight that even the most advanced race cars in the world had to take it at thirty miles per hour. He could almost hear the squeal of the tires competing with Munier’s shrieking.

The next curve led into the track’s most unusual feature, a thousand-foot-long tunnel. The safety car, a Mercedes sports car with yellow lights flashing on its roof, paced the two leading race cars into the gloomy entrance. The driver seemed to be speeding up, trying to stay ahead of the crazy man behind him.

This was the fastest part of the racecourse, with Formula 1 cars typically reaching a top speed of one hundred and sixty miles per hour. The safety car was pushing a hundred. Despite his effort, the Tesla gained on them.

They exited the tunnel, and Golov slammed on the brakes heading into the kink in the track, called a chicane, and then onto the part of the track that abutted the harbor. Large grandstands were built along the next ninety-degree corner, and fabulous yachts were packed, gunwale to gunwale, to allow their passengers to watch the race from the comfort of their lavish surroundings.

Golov caught up to the tail end of the three-car convoy as they reached pit road. The cars ahead continued to rocket along the course, but Golov didn’t follow them. He flicked the car to the right and sped down pit road at a speed far higher than the limit for the race cars.

He took aim at one of the open garages next to the road. Pit teams scattered like minnows in front of a shark. Munier’s eyes widened in terror.

“No!” was all he could cry out before the SUV plunged into the garage at over a hundred miles an hour and struck a fuel rig. A flash of white engulfed the screen and then it went dead.

Golov switched to the live feed from the television cameras covering the race. A ball of fire erupted out of the garage. Several of the helmeted pit crew ran out of the building, the exterior of their fire-retardant suits aflame. Surely others inside hadn’t been so lucky.

The highly reactive lithium in the batteries along the SUV’s chassis would now be burning ferociously, ignited by the fuel explosion. Little would be left of Munier’s corpse except his teeth for dental identification. The plastic ties cuffing him to the wheel would be vapor, and the bodies of the two guards in the back would be charred beyond recognition. Evidence of the electronic tampering would also be destroyed.

The sedan rolled to a gentle stop at the dock where the Achilles was tied up.

“Well done, everyone,” Golov said as they got out. “The champagne tonight is on me.”

“Shall I shut down the party now, Captain?” Sirkal asked.

Golov looked up at the guests who were gathered along the railing, watching the black smoke rise from the racetrack. Many of them were taking photos or videos with their phones. Few of them had put their drinks down.

“Not just yet,” Golov said. “We don’t want to seem too eager to get them off the ship. But with the tragic events of today, I don’t think anyone will be in the mood to continue the festivities for much longer. Make the ship ready to sail in an hour. I’m sure Mr. Antonovich wouldn’t want to stay here any longer than he needs to. I want to be south of Majorca by tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, sir.” Sirkal left with O’Connor to make preparations.

Golov put his arm around Ivana’s shoulder and took in the dazzling orange flames that continued to engulf the garage. “There’s no turning back now, Ivana. We’re going to carry this through to the end, and I think we’re off to a wonderful start.” He turned to her and beamed with pride. “Excellent work, my dear.”

She smiled back at him. “Thank you, Father.”

SEVEN

ALGERIA

Hasim was shocked as Juan continued to run through what seemed like a hail of rounds that should have torn him to shreds. Instead, noise and empty ejected shell cases were the only product of his efforts. He screamed in disbelief when he realized the machine gun was loaded with blanks.

He released the trigger and reached for the assault rifle slung across his back. He brought it to bear, but not in time.

Juan had already covered the distance to the Scorpion. He grabbed one of the AK-47s and fired three shots into Hasim’s chest. The Egyptian fell back and slumped against the seat, blood streaming down his shirt.

Juan wheeled around, ready to take out the second soldier if needed, but he could see Linc hunched over the man, who was sprawled on the ground with the hilt of a combat knife jutting from his chest.

Eddie was right behind Juan and grabbed the two other AK-47s.

“It’s good Hasim didn’t use the grenade launcher. He might have taken your head off.”

Juan shrugged. “I would have come up with something. At least there are two more down. Now it’s three of them and three of us. The odds are even.”

“That’s a generous assessment,” Linc said as he approached them, wiping his knife on the headscarf he’d removed. He put it back in the scabbard and took the extra AK-47 from Eddie. “Are you forgetting that Nazari now has the only armed Scorpion?”

Juan had suspected some kind of double cross from the very beginning of the mission, which was why they’d loaded live ammo only into their Scorpion, the one marked discreetly with a “1.” Eddie had made sure to claim it first when they landed, intending to take Nazari and his men captive once they had the WMDs in hand, but his sudden departure had put a kink in that plan.

Tags: Clive Cussler Oregon Files Thriller
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