The Import, page 8
part #1 of Matthew Riker Series
“Matthew!” Helen said.
“I see it.”
The SUV appeared to be in worse shape than their Cutlass, but the damage must have been superficial. The big vehicle closed the distance between them fast.
Riker’s mind raced as he tried to think through the problem. There was no room for error here. He couldn’t mess up again as he had with the tracker. If he pushed the car too fast, the tire would blow. If he pulled over, they’d be sitting ducks for however many armed men were loaded into the SUV. If he stayed the course, they’d either ram him or start shooting. There didn’t appear to be a good option.
He drew a deep breath. For the first time in years, he beckoned the voice inside his head, the one he usually fought to quiet. The voice of the warrior.
You can do this. This isn’t the first no-win scenario you’ve faced. It’s not even the worst.
As the smoke clouded his vision, his mind flashed back to another time there hadn’t appeared to be a way out. He’d been driving a damaged vehicle then too, but instead of darkness outside his windows, there’d been the blinding desert sun. Explosions had rung in the distance as he raced through the war-torn city. Everything had been falling apart. His enemies were in pursuit, and he’d known he wouldn’t be able to run forever. In the passenger seat, Chapman sat groaning, hands pressed to the wounds in his chest and stomach. From the wheezing noise when he breathed, Riker knew the man had a punctured lung. Without medical attention, Chapman wouldn’t last long.
He’d managed to keep laser-focused, guiding the Army Jeep through the narrow streets, somehow recalling the map of the city and overlaying it on the chaotic scene. He’d dodged people, vehicles, and enemy combatants as he weaved through the city. Every time a bomb went off somewhere in the distance, the panic grew and he became more aware of the ticking clock between him and safety. Yet he’d managed to keep his cool when everyone around him was losing theirs.
You made it through that day, the voice reminded him.
Yes. But Chapman didn’t. He couldn’t stomach a similar outcome here. He couldn’t allow Helen to die, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let anything happen to Li. He stifled a shout of frustration. This was a no-win situation.
Then change the situation, the voice whispered.
He gritted his teeth. The voice was right. This was no time to feel sorry for himself. That wasn’t the path to victory, not on the wrestling mat, the battlefield, or some dark highway in rural Pennsylvania. He checked the road up ahead. Not far in the distance, he saw neon lights glowing.
“Okay, I know what we need to do,” he said. “It’s not going to be easy, and I need you to follow my instructions exactly. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” Helen said.
“See that exit a half-mile up ahead?”
“We’re not taking this hunk of junk back on the interstate, are we? I can’t see where that would improve our situation.”
“No, we’re not heading for the interstate. We’re headed for the truck stop.”
“Can we make it that far?”
“Definitely.” Riker hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. He changed over to Mandarin. “Li, are you all right back there?”
The only answer was a soft whimper. It was better than no response at all, he supposed.
In the rearview, the SUV was only ten feet behind them now and closing fast.
“When we get to the parking lot, I’m going to get us as close to the door as I can. When I say the word, you grab Li and run inside. Sprint to the bathroom and lock the door. Can you do that?”
There was a long pause. “Yes. What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to do my best to keep us alive.”
They were less than a quarter-mile from the gas station now. Through the darkness, Riker could see other businesses along the road to their right. The SUV was so close now that Riker couldn’t see their headlights. Apparently the men inside had abandoned the idea of shooting at the Cutlass and were either planning to ram it or force it off the road.
“Hang on,” Riker said.
Helen tensed, grabbing the door handle and the armrest hard. Riker supposed she was learning that when he told her to hang on, he meant it.
The car lurched as the SUV kissed its bumper. Riker kept his eyes locked on the parking lot ahead. He just needed to make it through one more intersection.
“Come on,” Riker muttered.
The SUV bumped them again, and the car threatened to spin out of control. Riker kept his iron grip on the steering wheel, fighting to keep it on the road. As they passed through the intersection, Riker angled the car to the right. The tires thumped over the curb as he drove into the parking lot. His single remaining headlight illuminated the building next to the truck stop. It was an old motel with a vacancy sign blinking on and off.
He was relieved to see the SUV still on the road to his left, driving parallel to them now. The passenger window rolled down, and a man leaned out, pistol clutched in his hand.
“Head down!” Riker shouted.
Helen slid down in her seat, still gripping the door handle. Even in the dim car, Riker could see that the blood had drained from her face. Li whimpered again in the backseat.
Riker kept the car angled toward the gas station. Cutting through the parking lot gave them a direct line toward it, while the SUV would have to take a slightly longer route if they continued along the road. It would only buy them seconds, but Riker hoped it would be enough.
There was only one parking lot between them and the truck stop now. As they drove through it, he heard a loud pop. For an instant, Riker thought it was gunfire. But then he realized it was something else maybe just as bad. The car had been fighting him, trying to pull right ever since the cornfield, but now it was pulling much harder in that direction. Sparks flew up from the right front corner of the vehicle. The tire had finally blown.
“Shit!” Riker yelled as he fought to keep them headed toward the gas station. This car wasn’t going to get them much farther, but they didn’t need it to. If he could keep them going for another fifty feet, they had a chance.
Bright headlights blasted through the driver’s side window, threatening to blind him. The SUV had turned off the road and was entering the parking lot.
“You ready?” Riker asked.
“Yeah,” Helen answered, her voice anything but confident.
Riker kept his eyes locked on the entrance. He was pleased to see the lot was nearly empty. The fewer people around, the less likely it was that innocent bystanders would get hurt. The door was thirty feet away now. Twenty. Ten.
He let off the gas and stepped on the brakes, bringing them to a messy, grinding halt in front of the door. The car stopped nearly sideways, parallel to the entrance. Riker shifted into Park and threw open his door.
“Let’s go!”
Helen hopped out and pulled Li out of the backseat.
The SUV screeched to a stop, and all four doors flew open.
Riker grabbed Helen’s arm and guided her toward the truck stop, staying between her and the SUV. He saw shoes hitting blacktop as he pulled the door open and rushed inside.
“Go!” Riker shouted.
Helen ran through the truck stop, Li clutched to her chest, as Riker scanned their surroundings. The place was smaller than he would have expected from the exterior, but there were positives to the location. For one, it was all but empty. The only other people Riker saw were a burly, confused-looking bearded man standing behind the counter and two truckers sitting in a booth, a plate of food in front of each of them. There were rows and rows of items for sale, each partition standing about chest height. Plenty of places to take cover.
The burly man blinked in confusion at the sight of the woman and child rushing through the store toward the back bathroom. The door flew open again, and four men rushed in, Glocks in their hands.
“Get down!” Riker shouted at Helen. She hadn’t made it to the bathroom yet, and she dropped down behind a stand of snack cakes.
“The hell is this?” one of the truckers asked. He reached into his coat and pulled out his own pistol.
Riker looked at the men stalking toward him, pistols drawn. This was going from bad to worse very quickly.
He heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun raking. Turning, he saw the clerk behind the counter clutching a pump-action shotgun.
“Somebody better tell me what the hell’s going on, and do it fast,” the clerk said in a deep voice.
The four men didn’t reply. Instead, they raised their weapons and prepared to fire.
13
RIKER PUT his hands in the air. He wanted to be sure the civilians kept their guns pointed at the gangsters. Carefully, he tracked each weapon. Two of the men from the SUV had their guns trained on the cook holding the shotgun. The other two were aiming at the truckers. The shotgun was pointed at the center of the group of four men. The two truckers crouched in their booth, each armed with a pistol. One held his in a steady two-handed grip, but the other shook visibly. Riker could see that the thin wood of their booth wouldn’t stop a bullet.
Riker’s mind was in overdrive as he scanned the room for any advantage. The center of the room was filled with aisles of shelves. There were lots of junk food, single-serving personal items, poor quality souvenir clothes and an isle of small auto service items.
The other side of the room had the counter with the armed clerk behind it. He was a big guy, and he wore an apron that told Riker he served as cook as well as clerk. Past him was a small kitchen. Riker could see a skillet with food cooking on the gas stove. The area was packed with cooking supplies and ingredients. In the back was the shiny door of a walk-in cooler.
The four men stood just inside the truck stop entrance. One of them looked like a kid to Riker. He might have been in his early twenties, if that. Two of the guys looked hard. One had letters tattooed across his knuckles—probably prison ink. The man next to him was a tall redhead. He had a smile at the corner of his lips. The look on his face told Riker how this was going to turn out.
The last man was the oldest. Gray peppered his hair. From the way the kid kept looking at him, it was clear that he led this crew.
“This is a private matter between us and them,” the older man said, nodding toward Riker. “There is no reason anyone needs to get hurt.”
The guy behind the counter responded, “You made it my business when you busted in here with guns. Put them down and turn—”
He never finished the sentence. The redhead fired a shot into his chest. The cook was knocked back and fell to the ground without getting a shot off.
Riker sprang into motion diving behind the shelf with the auto supplies, keeping his eyes on the four men as long as he could. The kid turned his head in the direction of the cook when the gun went off. He should have taken a shot at the truckers. His head jerked back and a small red dot appeared just above his right eye. A large spray of blood came out the other side, covering the prison-inked guy in a bloody mess.
The silver-haired leader kept his cool and unloaded on the truckers. His first shot landed in one man’s chests. The other guy ducked, but the man kept firing into the booth. Prison Ink followed his lead. Wood and stuffing flew as the bullets tore the bench apart. Neither of the truckers had a chance.
The redhead moved toward Riker. He went quickly, holding his gun in both hands. His smile was wider than before. He came around the end of the aisle, ready to shoot Riker, but the aisle was empty.
When the redhead stepped into the next aisle, Riker was ready. He popped out next to the man, a can of WD-40 in his hand. He shot a thick spray of the fluid into the smiling man’s eyes. The man screamed, pressing both hands to his face. Riker shifted the target of the spray to the man’s hands and the gun he was holding.
The scream drew the other guys’ attention. Riker saw them turn, and dove over the counter to the kitchen. He landed on a tile floor covered in old grease.
The clerk sat on the floor leaning his back on a cabinet, his apron soaked with blood. One hand pushed against the wound in his chest while the other clutched the shotgun. He tried to raise the weapon, angling it toward Riker.
“I’m on your side,” Riker told him.
He nodded weakly, letting the weapon clatter back to the floor. His face was pale, and Riker could see that he wouldn’t last long without help.
The redhead was still screaming. “I can’t see shit!”
“You’ll be fine, Connor. We’ve almost got them.”
“The only thing you guys have is small dicks,” Riker yelled. “Especially you, Connor. You can't even take out an unarmed man.”
Connor pointed his gun in the direction of Riker’s voice. He squinted his burning eyes and shot one round toward the kitchen.
As the gun fired, the WD-40 soaking the gun burst into flames. His friends watched as the fire raced up his arm and to his face. Connor screamed and slapped at his face with his hands. He ran wildly, crashing into the shelves around him and knocking items to the floor. After a moment, he fell onto his stomach, screaming and thrashing. The putrid smell of burnt hair and flesh filled the air.
The leader ran over to Connor and slapped at his head and arms with his jacket. The flames lasted until there was no hair on Connor's head left to burn. He lay still on the floor, moaning. Smoke drifted from his head and clothes. The fire alarm started to sing out its high-pitched song and strobe lights flashed over the doors.
Riker grabbed a pan from one of the shelves. He dipped it into the deep fryer next to the stove. Scalding hot grease dripped off the side of the pan and onto the floor. He gripped the pan with both hands and stayed low against the back of the counter.
“Connor, are you ok?” Prison Ink shouted.
The only response was a series of groans.
“We’ll take care of him after we finish that bastard off,” the leader said. “We’ve got to do this quickly before the cops and fire department get here.”
Prison Ink fired into the counter. The bullets tore through the kitchen and ricocheted off the floor. Riker stayed low, gripping the pan. The blind shots missed their mark. The man walked towards the counter, squeezing off a round with every step. Riker watched the man’s blurry reflection in the freezer door. When he was close to the counter, Riker swung the pan hard. The pan stopped at the height of its arch, but the grease it contained sprayed out in the direction of the gunman.
Splatters of grease covered the man like water from a burst balloon. Only a few stray drops hit his face. The bulk of it splashed onto his chest. He screamed as it soaked into his shirt. The fabric held the hot liquid against his skin. Under that shirt, skin bubbled and flaked.
Riker jumped over the counter, still holding the pan. The scalded man was tougher than most; he stayed upright and kept hold of his gun. His face was scrunched up and his lips were drawn back, clearly fueled by rage.
Riker swung the pan hard. The iron cracked against the man’s hands and the weapon they were holding, resulting in the gong-like sound of metal on metal and the crunching of bone. Somehow the tattooed man held onto his gun. Riker brought the pan around for another hit. Before he swung, the flash of a muzzle came from his left. Prison Ink flew backward with a large hole in his chest.
The clerk wobbled behind the counter holding his shotgun. A small tendril of smoke drifted up from its barrel. He looked satisfied, but his moment of revenge was short-lived. The leader of the group opened fire and two bullets struck the man’s upper body. The shotgun clattered on the floor and the clerk fell forward over the counter. His upper body balanced on the counter for a moment before sliding backward, leaving a bloody smear.
Riker dove behind some shelves and the remaining opponent continued to fire. The 9mm rattled off shots. Bags of food burst open around Riker while he crouched and moved from one aisle to another. It was hard to hear over the fire alarm, but he concentrated, listening for one specific sound. Then he heard it. The release of a magazine and the sound it made falling to the ground.
The last man reached into his back pocket for a magazine, and Riker charged. With his eyes on Riker, he slammed the magazine into the Glock, but before he could pull the slide back. Riker’s shoulder crashed into his chest. The man was knocked backward, the metal shelves behind him dug into the meat of his back as bags of candy fell to the floor. Riker slammed one hand against the inside of the man's hand and the other against the barrel of the pistol. Something in the man’s wrist cracked and the gun flew out of his hand.
The two men bounced off the shelves and landed on the floor. Riker tried to stand, but lost his footing, slipping on a bag of M&Ms. The candy shot out from under his shoe, and he fell to his knees. The man stood and reached to his belt. He pulled out a black knife with a five-inch blade. Riker could see the trigger finger on his right hand was broken, a common side effect of disarming a man. It angled up in an odd direction, away from the rest of his fist. It forced him to hold the knife with an awkward grip.
Riker got to his feet and found his stance. He kept his weight on the balls of his feet, and he held his hands by the side of his face. He tensed, ready to move, and watched the man's eyes. The eyes always gave away the strike. Just before an attack, the mind wanted to see the target. Riker waited.
The gunman's eyes flashed a moment before he lunged. Riker stepped to the side and grabbed the man’s arm, twisting it and pulling down hard. At the same time, he brought his knee up, connecting with the elbow. The opposing movements caused the arm to hyperextend at the elbow. The knife clattered to the floor.
Riker didn’t let go of the arm. He continued to twist and pull it towards his back. The man dropped to his knees in pain. Riker pulled down on his arm one more time and brought his knee to the corner of the man’s jaw. When the knee connected with the jaw, Riker felt an unnatural shift. The bottom half of the man’s face moved a quarter inch, and he dropped to the ground motionless.
Riker’s heart was racing, and he could feel the tension in his muscles. He took a deep breath to calm himself. The room was complete chaos. Five men were dead and two were seriously injured. Smoke hung in the air as the emergency lights and alarms flashed.
