Tracer, page 29
Tossing the tongs, Korso launched himself out of the cabin and sprinted for the brothers. The best defence was an effective offence, especially when the enemy was otherwise occupied. As he ran, he noticed flashes of movement to his right, but ignored them, trusting Natasha to take care of her own problems. The sound of a shotgun blast behind him reverberated through the boneyard, but he ignored that too.
He went for Miguel. He was the immediate danger. Still aiming the revolver at the ground, Miguel fired off a shot, stinging the dirt. The snake was already slithering away at speed toward a nearby patch of grass. Spotting Korso coming straight for him, he turned in his direction. But before he could complete the movement, Korso barrelled into him, his left shoulder connecting with Miguel’s right hip.
They both went down in a messy heap, landing a few inches from each other.
Miguel recovered fast, still gripping the gun as he got his legs under him, while Korso rolled away to his right, spotting the Remington the other one had dropped lying just a few feet away. He dived toward it, grabbed it by the barrel and leapt to his feet in one continuous, fluid motion. He was about to turn back to Miguel when a gunshot rang out, and a puff of dirt erupted where Korso’s hand had just been. Korso jerked his body away, upending the Remington until his hand clasped the grip, his finger resting on the trigger.
Alvaro was still screaming, ‘It got me it got me it got me,’ over and over.
Another shot rang out behind Korso. He swivelled round, squeezing the Remington’s trigger at the same time, not caring if he hit anything. The blast echoed throughout the area. The unharmed Miguel dived to the ground near his brother, who was rocking back and forth, clearly in agony.
Korso saw Miguel already moving the gun again in his direction, and turned and ran for the plane he’d just vacated, making for the rear stabilisers, waiting for the bullet in the back that would end it all. Another gunshot erupted from behind, but nothing made contact. He reached the tail cone a second later, diving to the ground just as another shot rang out. A large chunk of the left stabiliser disappeared. Korso clambered his way around the tail until the aircraft was between him and Miguel. And anyone else who was still breathing.
He racked the shotgun, the spent shell flying out of the port and a fresh one taking its place. He didn’t know how many shells he had left, but he couldn’t afford to waste any. He checked behind him and saw the bare remains of the grey chopper lying on its side. Useless. No cover at all. Just past it was the wingless business jet. Not much better. But through the small gap between them, he was able to make out the large turboprop and the Learjet in two sections that he’d been inspecting before Natasha had called him over.
With nothing but flat open ground between here and there.
Korso thought fast, weighing the pros and cons in the blink of an eye. If Jonas had brought his rifle, Korso wouldn’t dream of making a run for it. But handguns were far from reliable at a distance. Shotguns even less so. He needed to vacate this immediate area fast, before Jonas and one of the others caught him in a pincer attack. It also occurred to him that he hadn’t heard any more gunshots in the last few seconds. Although he could still hear Alvaro screaming. Someone else swore loudly. It sounded like Jonas’s voice. He wondered whether Natasha was the cause, whether she was still alive.
Decision made, Korso got to his feet and advanced in a crouch, listening for anything that sounded like breathing, until he reached the gap.
Then he spotted Natasha.
She was already a hundred feet away, her legs pumping hard as she sprinted at those same two wrecks. Nobody was shooting at her.
Korso pushed off, and ran like hell in the same direction.
Fifty
47 minutes and counting…
Korso had only covered thirty feet when he heard the first shot. Nothing hit him, but he instinctively darted to the right, then almost immediately began swerving to the left again. Handgun or not, he wasn’t about to make it easy for them. He saw Natasha had already reached the large turboprop plane. She crouched down a few feet away from its nose, under the shadows of the two small crabwood trees.
Korso increased his pace as he veered back, controlling his breathing, taking every yard as it came. He saw Natasha was now aiming something in his direction. Part of him was surprised she still had any ammo left. There was still another hundred feet to go when he heard a third gunshot from behind him. He saw a tiny puff of dirt a few feet to his left as he sprinted by. He swerved in that direction, since it was the less obvious choice, then quickly zagged right again. Straightening up, he saw Natasha had already lowered her gun and was just watching him as he closed the distance.
Eighty feet became fifty. Then twenty.
Seconds later, he collapsed to the ground next to her, breathing heavily.
‘I thought you were dead,’ she said.
‘I was, until you barged into my life.’
He rose to his knees and got his bearings. Directly to his left was the large turboprop, its open nose just a few feet from his position. To his right lay the two halves of the small Learjet. Looking back at the ATP, he saw two men moving around over there. One was Jonas. He was staring into the cargo hold as he held his left arm. The other man was leaning over Alvaro, still on the ground. That had to be Miguel.
‘The man lying on the ground,’ she said. ‘The snake bit him, yes?’
‘And more than once. If it was one of those labarias, he won’t last much longer. So that’s one down.’
‘Unfortunately, I only grazed Jonas’s arm,’ she said. ‘He moved too fast for me.’
‘And the other one? Hazor?’
‘I missed him entirely.’
Moments later, Korso spotted the one called Hazor as he emerged from the cargo hold, holding the machete Korso had dropped. He appeared unharmed.
Korso said, ‘So you still have a round left, or did you use them all up?’
‘One bullet left. And you?’
‘Let’s see.’ With the Remington’s safety on, Korso pumped the forestock and ejected the remaining shells. All three of them. ‘Not so good.’
‘But better than we started with,’ she said. ‘As are the odds. When they come for us, we’ll have to be ready.’
He looked at her as he reloaded the shotgun. ‘Why would they come for us? Jonas isn’t stupid. He’ll use that little Geiger counter of yours to find your tin, then grab it and fly out of here.’
Natasha reached into her pants pocket and showed him what it contained. ‘You mean this little Geiger counter?’
Korso snorted. ‘Okay, I didn’t expect that. How did you get it back?’
‘Jonas dropped it after I shot him. I managed to grab it before I ran.’
‘So we’re at stalemate. Jonas still needs the Geiger counter in order to identify the right tin. Meaning he can’t just leave us out here on our own. On the downside, he’s at the plane with the crates and we’re not. And with more ammo and guns. He and the other two could wait us out until darkness, which is something we can’t afford.’
‘Although he doesn’t know that.’
‘Let’s keep it that way. What’s the time now?’
She pulled her original phone from her pocket and checked the display. ‘Eighteen minutes past five.’
Forty-two minutes left. He looked to the west and saw the sun rapidly making its way toward the horizon. The golden hour. The air was already cooling a little, the shadows growing steadily longer.
‘What time does the sun set here?’ she asked.
‘This close to the equator? Around six, pretty much all year round.’
‘So what’s your plan?’
‘Wait. And see what happens in the next few minutes.’
They waited. Korso kept his eyes on the three men at the ATP. Miguel had dragged his dying brother back so he could rest against the plane’s hull. Hazor was currently out of eyesight. Jonas was constantly moving about over there, sometimes disappearing briefly when he entered the plane. No doubt he was thinking through his few remaining options. He’d come to the same conclusions as Korso soon enough, if he hadn’t already.
Finally, Natasha said, ‘You and I want the same thing.’
‘I know,’ Korso said, watching the ATP.
‘So we are still working together on this?’
‘What other choice do we have?’
Korso watched as the three survivors at the ATP conferred heatedly, with plenty of gesticulating on Jonas’s part.
‘Who is this Jonas, anyway?’ he said, as the man in question reached down and picked up Hazor’s shotgun from the ground.
‘He’s an ex-DEA agent turned freelance mercenary, someone unafraid to get his hands dirty. I used him as go-between and bagman on several previous assignments for Mr Nikolic. I knew he had a devious mind, which was essential on this operation since he would have to act as my proxy. Unfortunately, this time he was a little too devious for his own good.’
‘Or yours.’
‘Mostly mine, as it turns out.’
Korso nodded to himself. All the pieces were starting to fit together. Still one more obstacle left to cross, though. And it was a big one.
‘They’re coming,’ he said.
Natasha turned to look. Jonas, Miguel and Hazor were now leaving the ATP and walking their way. Miguel was reloading his .357, while Jonas was carrying the shotgun in his left hand. That arm seemed to be in good working order again. Hazor carried a machete and the other handgun.
He and Natasha both watched the approaching men in silence. When they’d almost halved the distance, she said, ‘I cannot believe they’d approach us directly like this.’
‘They won’t,’ Korso said, remembering the bandolier around Jonas’s waist.
The trio halted at the same time, still about a hundred feet away. Jonas raised his right hand to his mouth and pulled something from it with his teeth. Then he swept his arm back and flung the object he’d been holding their way.
‘Flashbang,’ Korso said, watching the tiny canister fly through the air.
It landed in a patch of grass ten feet in front of the turboprop. He and Natasha immediately turned their faces away, eyes clamped shut, both hands clasped over their ears.
Seconds passed. There was no flash. No bang. Just a faint hissing sound.
Korso turned back and saw dark grey smoke spewing from both ends of the canister, rapidly rising into the still air in huge, thick, billowing plumes. Within seconds a dense smokescreen completely obliterated their view, and then it quickly began moving in their direction. Already, the ATP and the other aircraft were completely lost from sight.
So were the three men.
Fifty-One
27 minutes and counting…
Knowing they had seconds to act, Korso turned to Natasha. ‘This wreck to our left. You cover the tail, I’ll stick here.’
She stood up, the incoming smoke already starting to engulf her. ‘Countersign?’
‘George, and Romero.’
That half-smile again. ‘Watch your back.’ Then she vanished into the smoke.
Korso stood and ran toward the nose of the turboprop, or at least where he knew it would be. When his hand touched metal, he leaned his shoulder against the front of the plane while gripping the Remington in both hands, finger resting on the trigger. The fumes were getting much thicker and denser now. Jonas must have lobbed another for good measure.
He wanted to cough, but restrained himself. The last thing he needed was to give himself away. The duration of a smoker was somewhere between sixty and ninety seconds, and Jonas still had an extra on his belt, along with three flashbangs. But he was unlikely to use those without running the risk of blinding Miguel at the same time.
Korso watched, listened. All he saw was smoke. He heard nothing other than the usual bird calls in the distance. Turning his head constantly, he watched for anything solid to emerge from the smog. He glanced right, at the Learjet remains, seeing nothing but more swirling smoke, then peered round the nose at the direction of the ATP. Still nothing.
How long had it been since they’d split up? Twenty seconds? Twenty-five? And still no gunshots.
To his left, the smoke seemed to thin for a brief second. A shape appeared. Indistinct. Possibly human, before melting away again into the fog. Korso raised the shotgun, aiming at the exact spot he’d seen the shape.
‘George,’ he said, in a clear voice. No response.
Korso squeezed the trigger. The shotgun bucked and there was a scream of pain. Or maybe that’s just what he was supposed to think.
Korso racked the pump, then edged his body around the nose of the plane, still keeping low. The smoke wasn’t quite so dense down there. He’d progressed a few feet when he thought he saw something on the ground, before it too disappeared.
A gunshot from his right. Korso fell prone to the ground, waiting for the pain to come. None did. He hadn’t been hit. He turned in that direction, peering through the smoke, and thought he could make out the trunks of the two crabwood trees separating the planes. Rising to a crouch he ran toward them, one hand out in front of him, keeping as low as possible.
He felt the bark of a tree and stopped, pressing himself against it, looking around in all directions. The gunshot had come from over here. He was sure of it.
Korso noticed sudden movement to his right.
Just as he was turning, something dark hurtled out of the smog and connected with his right ear. He fell back, his head hitting the ground, his ear ringing, his grip on the shotgun gone. He heard it skitter along the ground to his right. Then something heavy landed on his stomach, and a pair of hands immediately appeared in front of his face, and a second later they were clasped around his neck.
Miguel’s face emerged out of the smoke. His eyes were wide, his expression crazed, murderous. His hands squeezed even tighter around Korso’s neck, cutting off all circulation.
‘Kill you for what you did,’ he hissed, his face inches away from Korso’s. ‘Kill you. Kill you.’
Korso choked, unable to breathe. Miguel had the grip of the possessed. He could already feel his head getting lighter through lack of oxygen. A few more seconds of this and he’d be too weak to do anything.
Reaching up with both hands, he pushed Miguel’s elbows upward, instantly disrupting the geometry of the chokehold.
The grip loosened a little, but it was enough. Curling his right hand into a fist, his middle finger knuckles extended, he rammed it upward into the man’s throat with every ounce of strength in his body. His extended knuckles connected with Miguel’s adam’s apple like a piston, and he felt something crumple. The man made a harsh, rasping, choking sound, immediately releasing Korso as he brought his hands up to his own ruined throat.
Korso swivelled his body and got out from under the still choking Miguel, pushing the man off him with his foot while he got his breath back.
The smoke was starting to thin now and he could see Miguel on his knees a few feet away, his body hitching violently as it tried to take in air. Korso felt around the ground until his fingers came into contact with the barrel of the Remington. He picked it up. Still two shells left, but he wouldn’t need them. Not for Miguel anyway. His movements were already growing weaker with every passing second.
He heard a gunshot somewhere off to his left, and two more in quick succession. All from a large calibre. Then nothing except the sounds of Miguel’s death rasp. Finally, the man collapsed face down on the ground, and stopped moving altogether.
Two down. Two to go. Unless Natasha had finished off her assailant. Or maybe her assailant had gotten the better of her.
Korso got to his feet. He checked Miguel’s body, but the man was unarmed. He looked around for a sign of the gun, but the smoke was still too dense for him to see anything. Jonas had probably used all three smoke grenades after all. With his free hand out in front to guide him, Korso began walking in the direction of the two Learjet sections, where he’d heard the earlier gunshot. Miguel could have dropped the gun there. It was probably out of ammo, but he still needed to check. He’d covered a dozen feet or so when his left hip brushed against the steel fuselage of one of the plane sections. His boot made contact with the remains of a rear stabiliser half sunken in the dirt.
He took a few steps back from the plane. The smoke seemed a little thinner here, and he was actually able to see a few feet in front of him. He felt the ground all around him, looking for anything metallic.
Korso jumped at the sudden, piercing shriek of a nearby bellbird, raising the Remington without thinking and looking in all directions. Something had alerted the bird. He heard sounds of movement to his right, saw nothing. But his instincts were yelling at him to stay low.
He dropped prone to the ground.
A second later, there was a shotgun blast from his right. Korso flinched as the lethal buckshot pellets rattled against the jet’s hull above him, but he felt no stinging sensations on his body or face. Hoping he’d escaped the blast radius, he rolled and aimed the Remington in the general direction the shot had come from, squeezing the trigger. The gun bucked, the blast satisfyingly loud, but there was no accompanying scream.
Only one shell left.
Korso racked the pump and was just getting to his feet when something hard slammed into his side. He fell to his knees, his free hand against the ground for support. He heard something behind him, a fraction too late.
‘Thought it was you,’ Jonas said, his shape solidifying as he emerged from the smoke. The Remington was suddenly kicked out from Korso’s grip, and a moment later he felt the cold barrel of the other shotgun pressing against his temple.
