Overwatch: A Thriller Page 14

  He slammed the bar down on the door and rushed through, barreling into an armed security guard who was responding to the shots. The guard was flung backward onto the floor.

  Mike looked at the man on the ground and then quickly around the room. Another armed guard—a white male with graying hair and a mustache in his early fifties, obviously frightened—moved toward them. A third guard was on the phone, requesting police support.

  He didn’t bother with introductions since he’d already informed them who he was only a few minutes ago—although it felt like an eternity had passed.

  Mike pointed to the man on the ground. “You. Go stay with my fallen agent’s body. There’s another agent out there with him.”

  He looked up at the standing guard. “You’re with me. We’re going outside onto the street. You’d better know how to use that weapon,” he said sternly, glancing at the Glock in a holster on the man’s right hip.

  He turned to the man on the phone. “Tell the police we have a shooter on the apartment building across Crockett Street. I have two men in pursuit. One of the suspects fled south, and I have another man after him. We’re heading to Houston Street to assist our agents. Sounds like they’re in a war. Let’s go!”

  He and Agent Parker sprinted through the office and never looked back to see if the security guard was following. The gunfire outside was now sustained, as if both sides were dug in and exchanging concentrated volleys of fire.

  I hope Reynolds and Mathews are okay. It’s like fucking Iraq . . .

  He dashed down the sidewalk and immediately halted as he reached the corner of the perimeter wall at Houston Street. He heard Parker stop behind him. He quickly glanced around the corner and surveyed the battleground.

  A black Toyota Land Cruiser was parked a hundred feet down the street, facing his direction. Two men with assault rifles—one on each side of the Land Cruiser—had their backs to him and were firing up the street toward the position he’d assigned to his agents. Beyond the men, he saw three civilians lying in the street, apparently caught in the cross fire. None of them moved.

  God damn it!

  As the two suspects ran out of ammunition and began to reload, he heard the distinctive sound of two FBI-issued Glock 22 .40-caliber pistols.

  He looked beyond the motionless civilians and saw his men in cover behind a parked taxi along the curb on the westbound lane near the Emily Morgan Hotel. He heard the impacts of their rounds and realized that only one of the weapons was firing in the direction of the two heavily armed men.

  What the hell?

  He searched the street to find the target of his agent’s gunfire. His peripheral vision captured movement to his left. He turned to see the suspect from inside the Alamo—the man wearing the red top and khakis—creeping along the perimeter wall from the pedestrian exit toward the Land Cruiser. One of his agents was trying to keep him pinned down while the other returned fire at the Land Cruiser.

  Even though his agents were having some success slowing the suspect down, Mike knew that the man would reach his partners in another thirty to forty-five seconds. His agents were outgunned and didn’t have enough ammunition to delay him indefinitely.

  Mike had no approach along the perimeter wall toward the shooters. The moving suspect was facing his direction and would likely see him if he broke cover and tried to move up the street.

  There has to be something, some way . . .

  A dangerous idea formed in his head. It was so bold that even Logan might have balked at it. Mike realized what he had to do and knew he was going to have only one chance to do it.

  He turned to Agent Parker and discovered the security guard was nowhere in sight.

  Fucking rent-a-cop!

  “Here’s what’s going to happen.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Logan concentrated on maneuvering aggressively through the slow-moving southbound traffic on Interstate 37 as he sped along at ninety miles per hour. The Range Rover and Blondie had gained a forty-five-second lead on him since the chase had started. He was trying to make up the precious seconds with every car he passed on the highway.

  Once he’d left the hotel, he’d driven east as quickly and safely as possible and stopped at the next main intersection—actually stopped—right in the middle of it.

  Fortunately, traffic had been light enough that he hadn’t risked being hit by a careless motorist. The other drivers had spotted the motionless Audi, and all lanes of traffic had halted, wondering what the hell the crazy driver was doing. What he’d been doing was looking for any indication as to which way the Range Rover had gone, and he’d found one.

  Approximately one hundred yards south of the intersection on the main cross street of Bowie, he’d spotted a red Honda Accord resting on a curb, both driver’s side doors open. The sedan faced the wrong direction. A skid mark zigzagged across the pavement in a large curve and ended at the Honda. Logan recognized at once that the fleeing Range Rover must have run it off the road and into oncoming traffic.

  He’d also figured that the Range Rover would likely try to reach a highway to place as much distance between them and the shootout. The interstate was the fastest route.

  So he’d floored the accelerator, the thrum of the V8 engine purring beneath the hood as he shot down Bowie Street, looking for the first entrance ramp to Interstate 37. He’d had to turn left onto East Market Street, but once on it, he’d located the entrance ramp and maneuvered the Audi along the shoulder, never relieving the pressure on the accelerator.

  By the time the entrance ramp merged with moving traffic, Logan accelerated the Audi to eighty miles per hour and moved into the left-hand lane.

  Now he weaved in and out of traffic like a maniac fleeing the police. Cars blew their horns as he flew by some and cut off others. He prayed he hadn’t made a mistake.

  Logan drove on—twenty seconds . . . thirty seconds . . . forty seconds . . .

  Where the hell are they? They have to be close!

  His nerves were frayed from the stress and pressure. He had to find Blondie.

  Suddenly, he spotted the black Range Rover two hundred yards down the interstate in the right lane, and a wave of relief eased his tension.

  Gotcha, Blondie.

  He grinned to himself and exhaled, thanking God that his gambit had paid off.

  The driver of the Range Rover—not Blondie; Logan knew he was in the backseat—must have thought they’d made a clean getaway. He drove the SUV at a smooth sixty-five miles per hour, hoping he was inconspicuously hidden amid the morning traffic. Had anyone bothered to look closely, they might have wondered what the red stains on the driver’s door window were, not realizing it was a dead man’s blood.

  Logan pumped the brakes and slowed the Audi to seventy-five miles per hour, moving into the middle lane of the interstate to the left of the Range Rover. He had a plan, but he needed to close the distance to execute it.

  He inched the Audi closer to the target, keeping his eyes locked on the black SUV. Fifty yards . . . forty yards . . . The front end of the A6 devoured the pavement underneath, closing the distance.

  When he was less than thirty feet away, he braced himself and did the only thing he could—slammed the accelerator to the floor and executed a well-aimed pit maneuver.

  The Audi struck the Range Rover in the left rear wheel and caused the SUV to careen from side to side.

  Lose control, asshole, and end this now.

  He thought the Range Rover was about to veer off the road when the back window lowered and the muzzle of a semiautomatic weapon suddenly appeared.

  Oh no.

  The man in the backseat—Logan assumed it was Blondie—opened fire on the Toyota minivan directly in front of Logan’s Audi.

  He saw me coming.

  Rather than target Logan’s car directly, Blondie intended to create as much carnage on the highway as possible in order to block Logan’s path. If it weren’t for Logan’s preternatural reflexes, it would’ve worked.

 
The bullets struck the rear quarter panel of the minivan, shattering the taillights and the back windows. More rounds hit the right rear wheel of the minivan. The impacts shredded the tire, jerking the Toyota violently to the right.

  The inexperienced driver panicked as he lost control. In the heat of the moment, he reacted incorrectly, yanking the wheel all the way to the right.

  The effect was immediate and dramatic. The minivan turned right ninety degrees, the left side tires digging into the pavement. The vehicle shrieked to a stop and launched itself into the air on its left side. It hit the ground in a shower of sparks and glass and rolled down the highway like a square can at sixty-five miles per hour.

  Logan hoped like hell the driver was wearing his seat belt. Even then, he’s going to be lucky to be alive—if he survives.

  The cars in the left two lanes overreacted as they watched the minivan bouncing down the interstate. A dark-blue sedan slammed on its brakes and swerved into the far left lane. It struck the back of a green SUV, which then caromed into the median, hitting it at an angle. The blue car bounced off, its back end spinning around, slicing through the air.

  As the massive accident unfolded, Logan had less than one second to react. He slammed the accelerator to the floor and swerved the Audi as far right as it would go.

  The Audi shot forward, and the front end missed the flipping Toyota by less than six inches. Logan concentrated on the Range Rover. He failed to see the terrified face of the minivan’s driver staring at him upside down as Logan sped by.

  Logan heard additional thumps and metallic crunches as more vehicles were drawn into the chain reaction. Outraged at the mayhem and wake of destruction Blondie was leaving through downtown San Antonio, he felt a deep wave of concern for the drivers, but he knew he had to focus on Blondie.

  Logan planned to find out what Blondie thought justified all this reckless violence. After he did, he’d make him pay for it—dearly.

  Logan was directly behind the Range Rover as both vehicles accelerated down the freeway. The Range Rover had no chance of outrunning the A6, but Logan knew he had to be smart about his next move. After what had just happened, he knew Blondie wouldn’t hesitate to use civilians as disposable obstacles.

  Logan pulled halfway into the left lane to see what lay ahead on the interstate. It wasn’t what he expected. The intersection of Interstates 37 and 10 formed a gigantic cloverleaf mixing bowl, with multiple exits and entrances that weaved over and under each other.

  As both vehicles streaked toward the cloverleaf and entered its enormous tentacles, Logan calculated his options. Once again, only one stood out.

  He pressed the accelerator to the floor and swerved back to the right shoulder of the interstate, dangerously close to a median concrete barrier. There was nowhere else to go. They’d entered the cloverleaf and were traveling on what was essentially a bridge that traversed the entire suspended structure, its entrance and exit ramps mixing in the bowels below.

  The Audi reached one hundred miles per hour. As the A6 shot forward, Logan pulled along the passenger side of the Range Rover.

  Now!

  He slammed the front left corner of the luxury sedan into the right rear wheel of the speeding SUV as Blondie lowered the right rear window to shoot at Logan with an assault rifle. The maneuver was executed in less than a second. Blondie never had a chance to pull the trigger.

  The SUV’s rear wheel was compressed inward with the force of the impact. The disc brake automatically engaged, shrieking as it attempted to completely stop the Range Rover’s momentum. The vehicle was suddenly redirected toward the shoulder’s concrete barrier at close to ninety miles per hour. It was traveling too fast to stop.

  Logan slammed on the Audi’s brakes as he watched his handiwork unfold before his cold gaze.

  The Audi skidded sideways down the interstate, rubber burning as the oversized tires gripped the concrete. As the sedan whipped by the Range Rover, Logan watched the SUV strike the barrier head-on, smash through the concrete, and fly off the top of the cloverleaf overpass.

  The A6 skidded to a halt on the asphalt. Logan heard one loud crash! as the Range Rover’s front end struck the road fifty feet below and then flipped forward, careening off an entrance ramp and leaping into the air once again.

  The Range Rover fell another forty feet before it landed on its back end. The force of the landing crumpled the gas tank, which instantly exploded as a spark ignited the fuel. The Range Rover was blown in half as it slid westbound in the eastbound lanes of Interstate 10. The flaming front end separated from the back half, and the two parts of the SUV raced down the highway intent on beating each other to some invisible finish line. Both halves finally ground to a burning halt, two twisted piles of charred and flaming wreckage.

  Logan jumped out of the Audi and reached the edge of the overpass just in time to see the two halves stop on the pavement far below. He watched the carnage as he heard other drivers stop their vehicles and run over to offer assistance.

  He remained oblivious to them as he watched the flaming SUV. No one walked away from a crash like that . . . ever.

  I hope John or Mike got one of these assholes alive. We’re running out of bad guys.

  * * *

  John reached the top of the ten-story stairwell without incident. He paused at the door to the rooftop and listened. He knew Agent Price would be entering the roof within a few moments. He hoped like hell they’d made the smart choice in splitting up. If not, they’d both pay for it soon enough.

  The door was steel with another bar lever that would open it outward. He desperately wanted to crack the door to glance out, but he knew doing so would likely tip off the shooter to their presence. So he waited.

  Come on, Agent Price. Let’s get this show on the road.

  His .45 was ready, his finger extended and off the trigger. His thumb rested on the 1911’s safety. He concentrated on his breathing and forced himself to lower his heart rate.

  Crack!

  The high-pitched report of the sniper’s rifle reverberated through the metal door.

  He’s close, maybe only a few feet away to the left. Ready . . . ready.

  Like a dinner bell calling him home, three deeper shots sounded, fired by Agent Price. Time to act.

  In one fluid motion, John quietly depressed the door handle with his left hand. As the door swung out and to the left, he followed through with his right arm and leg, the .45 leading the way around the edge of the door.

  The shooter was kneeling a few feet away, directly in front of him. He wore cargo pants, a short-sleeved white polo, and hiking boots. John couldn’t discern any of his other features since he also wore sunglasses and a Texas Rangers baseball cap.

  Nice touch.

  He had to try and keep this one alive. He slid the 1911 into the waistband at the small of his back.

  A little less than one hundred feet away, John noticed the center rooftop entrance door as it swung back and forth on its hinges. Agent Price was nowhere in sight. He hoped he hadn’t been struck by the shooter’s bullet.

  John wasted no time. He stepped toward the man with his left foot, but as he let go of the door, the handle reset itself.

  Click.

  He knew the shooter had heard the sound. Without hesitation, he rushed forward to close the distance before his target could react. John was fast, but so was the sniper.

  Before John reached him, the shooter dropped the rifle and rolled onto his back. He brought his right arm up and around toward John.

  He’s good. Where do they get these guys?

  By the time John reached him, a .40-caliber Glock pistol was aimed almost directly at him. The man pulled the trigger, but John had anticipated the move and stepped forward, pivoted, and swung his right leg up in a short roundhouse kick, connecting squarely with the man’s pistol before the weapon discharged.

  The force of the kick caused the man to reflexively open his fingers and release his grip, and the Glock skidded several feet on the ro
of before coming to rest at the base of a large HVAC unit.

  Even as the gun slid across the black surface, John allowed the momentum of his kick to carry his body forward. He planted his right foot and turned his body to the left—his back momentarily exposed to the shooter—and brought his left knee up and then kicked straight backward in a vicious mule kick. His target was the shooter’s jaw, which was level with his blow since the shooter was still sitting on the rooftop.

  Unfortunately, the shooter—now unarmed but with both hands free—blocked the kick with his left hand and pushed John’s leg to the right. The man rolled away and onto his feet.

  As John’s left foot touched the asphalt, he pivoted on his right foot and turned his body to face the shooter, who was now in a crouched combat position within arm’s reach.

  Déjà-fucking-vu. Was it really last night I was in this same predicament?

  The sniper stepped forward with his left foot in a feint, hoping to divert John’s attention away from the right front kick he aimed at John’s chest. John didn’t react to the feint, recognizing it for what it was.

  Instead, he delivered a vicious punch to the right side of the man’s knee, hoping to incapacitate him as quickly as possible.

  The man let out a muffled groan and fell forward as pain shot up his leg. He rolled away from John and scrambled to his feet, moving toward the dropped Glock lying on the rooftop.

  John closed the distance in three large strides. Before the shooter could grasp the weapon, John grabbed the back of his shirt with both hands and pushed hard, using his momentum against him.

  The man toppled forward and landed on his right arm, somehow managing a combat roll forward away from John. He was close to the edge of the rooftop, along the side that overlooked the inner courtyard of the apartment building. He glanced over the edge before turning to face John again.

  Guess there’s no easy way out.

  John stepped toward him, intent on ending this fight, but the man reached down and withdrew a three-inch fixed blade from a concealed sheath strapped around his right hiking boot under his cargo pants.