Page 132 of Into the Fire

Evan said, “What?”

“That white van,” Max said. “It’s in Mr. Omar’s spot. But that’s not Mr. Omar’s car.”

Evan examined the worker’s van in the front spot. No one in the driver’s seat or the passenger seat. There wasn’t any smog leaking from the tailpipe. But as he looked more closely at the rear of the van, he could make out a visual distortion from the exhaust heat, the pavement giving the faintest mirage wobble.

The van was running. Which meant one of two things.

A worker had run inside to make a delivery.

Or a team was sitting stakeout, keeping the engine on so they could use the heater.

Evan squinted, bringing the license plate into focus. The frame sported yellow lettering: HERTZ RENTAL.

He dropped the truck into reverse.

Before he could stomp the gas pedal, the side door of the van flew open and a dozen operators exploded out, wielding magazine-fed carbines.

They opened fire.

54

Urgent

Evan thought of his Ford F-150 as a war machine.

Kevlar armor reinforced the door panels. Laminated armor glass composed the windows. He’d disarmed the safety systems, removed the air bags, and knocked out the inertia-sensing switches that shut down power to the fuel pump in a collision. A built-to-spec push-bumper assembly up front shielded the vulnerable radiator and intercooler. A special adhesive compound in the tires sealed most bullet holes, a support-ring “second tire” waiting inside the core as a backup.

All these contingencies were required now.

As Evan peeled backward, the tires smoking, divots spiderwebbed the windshield. Max was shouting hoarsely as lead dented the body of the Ford, a deafening series of clangs.

Over the din Evan noted the cadence of the bullets, the muzzle flash, the operators’ SWAT-light attire—golf shirts and khakis.

The bullet-resistant glass would last only so long when confronted with an onslaught of 5.56 rounds, so Evan locked the wheel to the left and fishtailed around in a J-turn, barely slowing momentum.

The rear window went opaque beneath the bursts of rounds. Evan cut right hard and then right again, gunning up an alley and screeching through a red light, slewing for the on-ramp.

He ran the freeway a few exits, Max white-knuckling the passenger seat and breathing hard. And then Evan exited, burying the truck in traffic.

The Ford F-150 was the most common truck on the road, as well as the most stolen. People tended to look past it—when it wasn’t riddled with bullet holes. It drew a few stares now, but not as many as it might in another city, one that didn’t host countless film and TV shoots that required countless stunt vehicles. Even so, he’d have to get it off the street soon if he didn’t want to tempt fate. Pulling up an alley, he coasted to the curb and killed the engine.

Max had finally caught his breath. “Who the hell are they now?”

“My guess?” Evan said. “Dirty cops or contract washouts. Former operators, probably SWAT.”

“Sent by?”

Seven endless days ago, Max had come to Evan with one problem. It had turned into two problems, which had turned into three. The fourth problem—Bedrosov—had now led to a fifth. At this point, despite Joey’s assurances, it was barely worth getting surprised over.

Before Evan answered, Max said, “What’s to say the guys who just shot at us weren’t real SWAT?”

“The carbines,” Evan said, rubbing his head. “The muzzle flash looked to be from a sixteen-inch barrel. That’s an M-forgery, designed to have the look of an M4 without all the features. The legit select-buyer models have fourteen-inch barrels. Plus, the forgeries have only two positions—safe and semi. They were firing at us a round at a time. Federal- or state-acquired weaponry go to full auto, which, if they’d had, believe me, they’d have used.”

“You noticed all that? In the middle of everything?”

But Evan was already dialing his RoamZone.

Tommy answered immediately. “I knew you’d come to your senses about that Ballista.”