A Hostile State Adrian Magson (reading e books txt) 📖

It was a reasonable conclusion to draw, but I was guessing they hadn’t had time to get their apples in order. I had no idea where this latest crew had come from, but it was probably Paris. The Russians have people all over, small teams of men and women in place and waiting for orders. If they needed specialist work they would fly in a unit from Moscow or one of their special ops bases.

‘It’s a matter of logistics,’ I said. ‘We’re mobile, they have to play catch-up.’

The whole thing about following a target constantly on the move is that the pursuer is always on the back foot. Responding to a new location or turn in the route is inevitably after the event, thus rapidly becomes old news. Whatever local resources these people had on the ground to provide intel would call it in, but the reaction team would be constantly running to make up lost ground, relying on their latest information still being relevant by the time they got geared up and arrived in place.

The Evoque dropped back again as we barrelled over a narrow, cratered stretch of road like a switchback. The centre line had a curved surface and the edges were crumpled where I guessed a succession of heavy farm vehicles over the years had chewed away at the tarmac. I didn’t think the Evoque would hold off for much longer; up ahead the trees were getting closer, throwing a dark shadow across our horizon. It was an illusory suggestion of safety that could switch in a heartbeat to one of disaster if the men in the car behind saw their chance and decided to take it.

When we hit the treeline it was like entering a dark horizon, an impression of gloom suddenly closing around us as the light was filtered out by the foliage overhead and the thick growth of trees on each side. I put on speed and hoped there were no happy campers out on a field walk to get in the way. The Evoque did the same, only faster, and I gave it about ten seconds before they got close enough to open fire again. They needed this to be over and to be gone before the cops responded. Quiet as the road was right now, someone would have heard the burst of machine pistol fire and called it in, and the area couldn’t stay that way for long.

Isobel, I reflected, would have reacted well to this. Maybe not accurately, but well. Just because I don’t, doesn’t mean I can’t.

Then Lindsay surprised me. She lifted the Beretta, flicked off the seat belt and, twisting round, squirmed like an eel through the gap between the seats into the rear of the car.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked, although it was pretty obvious the moment I said it.

‘They just scared the living crap out of me,’ she said shortly. ‘I want them to know how it feels.’

At least I think that’s what she said. The wind was howling around the broken rear window and drowning out some of her words, but I got the gist. She was good and mad.

‘Great. Remember to keep your mouth open when you—’

But she lifted the Beretta before I could finish and fired off three rounds at the Evoque’s grill, which was now barely thirty yards away. The gunshots were very loud and bounced around the inside of the car. In spite of the noise being dampened by the absence of glass at the rear it was still painful on the ears.

In the mirror I saw the rim of one of the Evoque’s headlights separate and fly off. Another round punched out part of the upper grille before carving its way up the hood. It made a spider’s web of the windscreen, which held for a second or two before caving inwards under the air pressure and vibration through the suspension.

The driver nearly lost it, the wheels wobbling sharply, and they almost came off the road before falling sharply back, the screen now completely gone. I didn’t see where the third shot went but slammed my foot down and opened up the gap between us as quickly as the engine would allow me.

I needed a turning, somewhere to fight back. But where? We were in what resembled a corridor of trees with nowhere to turn. Then I saw a gap coming up on the right. It looked like a fire-break road if they had them here, narrow and unmade and unlikely to be a through-route, so we’d have no way of getting off it without turning back.

We really didn’t have much choice; they would soon overhaul us if we stayed on this road, and I figured they were mad enough now that Lindsay had bruised them to want to take the first chance they got to end this. They also had the firepower to make it happen.

‘Hold on tight,’ I shouted, and stamped on the brakes. I hauled on the wheel, taking a sideways drift into a ninety-degree turn. The rental protested, a vicious banging sound coming from underneath as the wheels bounced, but it held firm and didn’t give out on us.

By now we were on a single-track route leading away through the trees with vegetation close in on both sides and a hammering of twigs and stones beneath the chassis. A couple of pull-ins flashed by, but they were only big enough for a couple of cars at most and proved to be dead ends, great for dog walkers and hikers but not for defending yourself against armed assault from a bunch of assassins.

I checked the rear-view mirror. For a moment after the sudden turn the Evoque was gone from my sight. It was all the opportunity I was going to get. I hit the brakes again, this time much harder and bringing us to a stop. Lindsay yelped in surprise as she was thrown against the back of my seat. I grabbed the Sig and