Endgame: The Calling (46 page)

“Bulletproof!” Sarah exclaims.

The Audi swerves and accelerates. Chiyoko fires two shots at the tires, but they appear to be solid rubber. Sarah takes a hand from the wheel and draws a square on the windshield with her finger; the image zooms in. She can see Christopher whipping around and gazing with fear out the back window.

“Be careful!” she shouts.

“What? It’s bulletproof, right?” Jago says, squeezing off another round.

“Jago . . .” Sarah says quietly. “Please.”

Jago pulls his gun inside and rolls up the window. “Eh, it was worth a try.”

The Audi swerves as its occupants try to figure out who’s attacking them. Sarah clicks the 307 into 6th gear and pulls alongside the sedan. Shifting across the backseat, Chiyoko finds herself right alongside Maccabee. He cracks his window and Baitsakhan reaches across, sticks out a pistol, and fires five rounds at the 307. Chiyoko doesn’t even flinch as the bullets explode on the window in front of her.

Jago jabs his finger at his window and says, “Yeah, bitches, we’re bulletproof too!” Sarah lets up on the gas and they drop a half car length behind the Audi.

“Well, what now?” Jago asks, spinning to Chiyoko.

She motions for her sword. He frowns but hands it over. Before he can even ask what Chiyoko wants the blade for, she has rolled her window back down and is climbing out of the car, onto the roof.

Jago looks at Sarah, wide-eyed. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

Sarah rolls the window back up and concentrates on keeping the car straight. As Chiyoko steadies herself on top of the 307, Baitsakhan lobs a grenade toward her. She casually slaps it out of the air, redirecting it to the shoulder, where it explodes on the side of the road, doing no harm.
“¡Dios mío!”
Jago exclaims in awe.

Chiyoko’s face appears in the windshield and she motions at the Audi.

“Get closer,” Jago says.

“Trying.”

A turn is coming as Sarah edges to within a couple of feet of the Audi. They are going 85 mph.

And then Chiyoko jumps.

She lands flat on the roof and reaches for the edges to steady herself. Sarah drops the 307 behind the Audi.

Baitsakhan opens the passenger window and sticks out a pistol, but Chiyoko kicks it out of his hand. The gun sails into the air and Baitsakhan’s hand disappears back into the car. Chiyoko draws the wakizashi and drives it straight down into the rubber seal between the rear window and the roof of the car. It goes to the hilt and she slides it along the window and the rubber pops out. She pries the glass outward and, in a single piece, it comes free, sliding across the highway behind them.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Sarah says.

Christopher—confused, scared, shocked—gapes out the rear window.

And sees Sarah.

Chiyoko reaches into the car and grabs Christopher by the arm and hauls him onto the trunk, where he is out of Baitsakhan’s reach. Then she motions for Sarah to come closer.

Sarah urges the 307 right behind the Audi’s bumper. Maccabee passes Baitsakhan a new pistol just before Chiyoko picks up Christopher and vaults onto the hood of the 307. Christopher, clinging to the edge of the hood, is white as a sheet.

Sarah yells “Hold on!” and slams the brake. As they start to slow down, Baitsakhan shoots. A bullet grazes the back of Chiyoko’s head; another hits Christopher in the leg.

Jago arms the grenade launcher of the M4, leans out the back window, and pulls the trigger.

“Adios, amigos.”

The grenade streaks through the air. Before it reaches the sedan, the car’s brake lights flare and front doors fly open. The grenade sails through the back window and explodes. Sarah eases the 307 to a stop. Chiyoko helps Christopher off the hood. Jago opens one of the rear doors. Christopher and Chiyoko fall into the backseat, and Chiyoko closes the door. Sarah puts the car back in gear and takes off.

“Everyone all right?” Sarah asks.

Chiyoko touches the back of her head. Her fingers come back bloody, but the cut isn’t deep. She flashes Jago a thumbs-up. Christopher, who’s had too much for one night, is passed out. But the wound on his calf doesn’t look like it’s bad.

“His leg’s grazed,” Jago says. “They look fine to me.”

Sarah lets out a relieved sigh. “Chiyoko, that was—”

“Unreal, I’ve never seen anything like that,” Jago interrupts.

Chiyoko shakes her head as if to dismiss them, makes a drinking motion. Sarah takes a bottle of water from the center console and hands it to her. Chiyoko opens it up and dumps it over Christopher’s head. He wakes with a start, pushing away from Chiyoko, gazing dazedly around the car.

“Sarah—it’s you—holy shit—who are these people?”

“Players, Christopher. This is Jago.” Jago looks at him, nods slightly. “The crazy-ass ninja is Chiyoko. This is Endgame, and you shouldn’t be here. I want you home, where it’s safe.”

She wants it to sound like a lecture, but Sarah can barely keep a straight face. Her boyfriend just chased her halfway around the world and, without any formal training, took on Players. Sure, he needed rescuing, but it’s still pretty awesome. Christopher smiles at her eyes in the mirror. She smiles back. Their love is still alive, still strong, still there.

I found her,
Christopher thinks.
It will be better now. I can deal. I found her.

“Rest up, amigo,” Jago says. Sarah hears the tension in that last word and doesn’t like it. “We need to put some miles behind us and then we’ll have a look at that leg.”

“All right,” Christopher says, still staring at Sarah in the mirror.

Jago shakes a bottle of pills. “Take one of these.”

“What is it?” Christopher asks.

“Oxy,” Jago says.

Christopher takes the pill and within minutes is asleep. Sarah watches him in the mirror as she drives. She makes no effort to calm her heart, or slow it down. It’s beating fast because of Christopher and she likes it. She watches him and doesn’t think of Jago, or of Endgame.

I love you, Christopher, but you should have listened to me,
she thinks.

Fear creeps into her. He could get hurt again. Only next time it could be worse.

She looks back to the road.

You should have listened.

Hadean,
^lxviii
Archean, Proterozoic, Paleozoic, Mesozoic, Cenozoic, Anthropozoic.

The
anl
urfa Mardin Yolu, Route D400

Maccabee and Baitsakhan lie in the dirt on the side of the road. Jumping from a car going 53 mph hurt. A lot. Maccabee has broken his nose for the 6th time in his life, as well as dislocated a finger, bruised several ribs, and suffered dozens of scrapes and cuts. He sits, takes the bridge of his nose between the heels of his hands, and pops it into place. He clears his throat and spits a wad of blood on the ground.

“Baitsakhan?”

“Yes.” Baitsakhan is 30 feet to Maccabee’s left, also just sitting up. He has a cracked right patella, a gash on his left forearm, a sprained wrist. “I’m here.”

“You in one piece?”

“More or less.” He pulls a canister from his belt of explosives and unscrews it. He takes out four iodine swabs and a suture kit. “Still have your gun?”

Maccabee touches the grip. “Yes.”

“Can you get us a ride? I have to stitch a cut.”

Maccabee rolls his eyes. “Sure. And I’m in one piece too. Thanks for asking.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You have the orb—Earth Key?”

“Of course. I’ll never let it go.”

“Good.” Maccabee stands. His body creaks. He straightens his back. Vertebra click. “That was not fun.”

Baitsakhan has a flashlight between his teeth. “No.” The cut on his arm is deep and filthy, four inches long. He takes another canister from his belt and unscrews it and pours the liquid over the cut.

Alcohol.

Burns.

He doesn’t cringe or whine. He tears the swab package open and runs the iodine along the cut, under the flesh, working it in and around. Fresh blood dribbles into the dirt.

Maccabee turns to the road and starts walking. “Sorry about Jalair,” he says over his shoulder.

Baitsakhan doesn’t respond.

Maccabee walks up the embankment. The Audi is 100 feet up the road, completely ablaze. Nothing is salvageable from it. He pulls out his gun, flips the safety off.

Baitsakhan runs the curved needle through his flesh, working quickly. He still doesn’t make a sound. He ties off the suture, rips off a piece of his shirt, wraps it around the wound. He stands, walks toward Maccabee. “Anything?”

“Not yet.”

They wait for several minutes. Baitsakhan raises his wounded arm and points. “There.”

“Get down,” Maccabee says.

Baitsakhan eases his battered body to the ground. Maccabee steps into the middle of the road. A pair of motorcycles approaches. Fast motorcycles. The headlights hit Maccabee, and he waves his hands, feigns a look of fear. Neither of the bikes slows down. They are 200 feet away and closing.

“Not the Good Samaritan types,” grumbles Maccabee.

So he raises his gun.

One head shot and the bike on the left goes down and skids over the road. The other bike slams the brakes and swerves, but Maccabee sights the driver and pulls the trigger and it goes down as well.

Baitsakhan stands. “Well done.”

Maccabee blows over the muzzle and smiles. They each walk toward a bike. Baitsakhan reaches his first. The driver is dead, but the passenger, a young woman, is not. Baitsakhan thinks he saw them at the party but doesn’t care. He leans over her. She’s scared.

“Devil!” she hisses in Turkish.

Baitsakhan reaches down and takes her quavering head in both of his hands and snaps her neck. He pulls her and her boyfriend off the bike and lifts it up. He looks over at Maccabee as he’s finishing off his driver with a final shot. They bring the bikes to the middle of the road, rev the engines. Maccabee shouts, “Let me see the key!”

Baitsakhan removes it from the inside of his jacket and holds it up.

“What do you say we go celebrate a little?”

“Celebrate?” Baitsakhan asks, as if it’s some kind of alien concept.

He thinks about his brother and his cousins, the blood that’s been spilled. They would want Baitsakhan to enjoy this victory. He nods and works the orb back into his clothing. “Yes. Celebrate. I think we deserve it.”

Chopra Residence, Gangtok, Sikkim, India