Patriots Betrayed (29 page)

“Just fall back on your training and experience. We’re not dead yet. I do wish we had stopped in Nevada and gotten married.”

She froze for a second and the corners of her mouth twitched. “As far as I’m concerned, we
are
married.” She leaned down and kissed him.

Raylan reached up and brushed her face lightly with his left hand. “It’s me they want. If I stop at the right place, you can bail and run for it. They’ll probably let you go and follow me.”

She gave him a wintry smile. “We stay together and live or die together.”

He looked away, blinking. “Help me find the right place to pull off the road. It’ll make a lot of difference. We need bullet-stopping cover, a defendable position, to have a chance.”

She checked the rear window. “They’re still biding their time, probably hoping we’ll lead them to a more isolated place with fewer bystanders.”

Raylan yelled out, “Bridge ahead. I’ve got an idea. We’ll have to leave the RV and carjack a ride.”

Carla grabbed their passports and other documents. They would need those – if they got away. She knew Raylan had all of their cash in a money belt that he was wearing. After strapping herself in a seat, she said, “Ready.”

Raylan chose a pickup that was occupied by only the driver, a young man who appeared to be capable of handling a vehicle. He yanked the wheel to the left and clipped the rear of the pickup as it went by in the opposing lane, sending it careening sideways and leaving it partially blocking both lanes. Raylan hit the gas and let several cars in the other lane go by before taking advantage of a gap in oncoming traffic and whipping the wheel to the left again, jamming the left front bumper into the railing and completely blocking both lanes of the narrow bridge. He killed the engine and yanked the key out.

In seconds, Raylan and Carla were out of the RV and running, their weapons in hand. Open-mouthed drivers slammed on their brakes and lay in their seats, hoping the armed couple would pass them by. Bullets whistling over their heads told Raylan and Carla their pursuers were on foot and had managed to get around the RV. All traffic from the other direction had stopped. They ducked in behind a dump truck for cover. Bullets slammed into sheet metal. The obese driver was smart enough to lie on the floorboard, where he had the protection of the engine block.

Raylan leaned out just far enough to aim around the corner of the dump truck and fire from his left shoulder. His M4 chattered out a four-round burst to lay down cover fire, while Carla prepared to shoot. Three bullets drilled holes into the side of the RV, but one found its target, center-massing the hapless killer. He fell, dead before he hit the ground.

Throwing herself to the concrete, Carla shouldered the MP5 and squeezed off three shots on semi auto. The two lead men went down hard, their Krinkovs clattering on the pavement after her rounds tore through their chests. A third man spun and fell after one of Raylan’s shots clipped his shoulder, but they were too far away for the for full-auto to be accurate, so he thumbed it to semi.

Carla fired another two quick shots, and the fourth man’s throat ripped open, resulting in a bright red arterial spurt. She yelled, “Moving!”

She crawled towards the sedan behind the dump truck, while Raylan lay down covering fire. She just made it when slugs ricocheted off the concrete bridge railing a foot from her head, sending bullet fragments into the side of her face. Two men had snuck up on them by staying on the far left side of the bridge. Carla thumbed the selector to full-auto and loosed a long burst, ripping into the men. They fell as Raylan ran in a crouch, staying on the other of the sedan to keep out of her line of fire. Down the road, more men were working their way around the RV, she reached into a vest pocket with her free hand for a fresh magazine, then slammed it into the MP5. Ignoring her burning face, blood mixing with sweat and dripping from her chin, she fired a burst.

“Peel back!” Raylan yelled. “I’ll hold them. You jack a car and back it up here to pick me up. We need to get out if this before it turns bad.”

“This isn’t bad?” she yelled, before taking off on a run, bullets singing past her.

Raylan peered around the rear pumper and emptied a magazine load at the gunmen. There seemed to be no end to them, as they came around both ends of the RV, firing wildly, spraying into occupied vehicles, not caring who they killed. During short lulls in the gunfire, Raylan heard women and children screaming. The fat dump truck driver prayed out loud.

He emptied a magazine into the killers, and saw several drop. “You assholes are going to kill them all!” His decision made, he ran down the road, hoping Carla had a ride for them. Staying where he could pick them off as they came around the RV was the tactically correct thing to do, but it meant more innocent people would die. Thin car bodies were no match for the rounds the Russians were firing, and those taking refuge in their cars were helpless.

The gunfire from behind increased as he ran, weaving between parked cars, trying to dodge death, knowing he was putting others in danger and praying no bullet would hit human flesh. A white Buick came into view, racing toward him in reverse down the wrong side of the bridge, horn blaring.

Carla swerved and slammed on the brakes, stopping with the passenger door right in front of him. He fired two bursts and jumped in. She floored the pedal. The car she had taken at gunpoint from a twenty-two-year-old man was equipped with a powerful V8, and she had the tires smoking, accelerating to ninety by the time they reached the end of the bridge, keeping her hand heavy on the horn.

The road ahead appeared to be clear enough they could make their escape. Raylan almost smiled, but his relief turned to alarm as a black SUV exploded from a side street and stopped in front of them. There was no time for Carla to do anything but stand on the brakes with both feet. The Buick torpedoed the driver side of the SUV at forty miles per hour. Neither Carla nor Raylan had strapped themselves in, and only the airbags saved their lives.

Stunned, Raylan fought the air bag and found his M4. He staggered out of the crumbled, smoking Buick and onto the road. His vision was blurred, but he could see well enough to spray the SUV with bullets. After making certain no threats lingered in the disabled vehicle, he ran around to the driver side and yanked the door open. Carla moaned. Her eyes were unfocused. He pulled her out and lowered her to the asphalt. Bullets hammering the car door interrupted him. He turned and fired from the rice paddy squat position at two Russians taking cover behind a two-feet-high brick planter between the street and the sidewalk. A police cruiser raced up, siren blaring, and screeched to a stop. The officer had no time to react before a burst from a Krinkov shattered his windshield. He died where he sat. The man who had fired the shot calmly stepped out of another black SUV and reloaded while standing in the street. Raylan pumped three rounds into him, the tungsten-core bullets penetrating his Kevlar vest. More killers bailed from the SUV, and still another SUV came racing up, stopping in the street to the left of Raylan, forcing him to fire at two divergent positions and weakening the effect of his fire. The traffic snarled into a jam that no driver could penetrate. Horns blared, sounding like frantic screams for help. Innocent citizens were trapped in a deadly street battle with no way to escape. The other group of killers on the bridge would come running up from behind at any moment. Raylan fired in desperation, knowing it was almost over.

A police officer drove his cruiser down the sidewalk to get past the traffic snarl and stopped fifty yards away. Raylan’s mind raced, as he tried to decide what to do. A shot ricocheted off the asphalt and ripped into Carla’s side and out the other, leaving six inches of entrails hanging out and making up his mind for him. He turned white and stared at her for a second.

Just then, the Russians fired at the two officers. They were more fortunate than the first one and had made it out of the cruiser and behind cover, but the patrol car was shot to pieces with full automatic fire. The officers hunkered behind cover and looked on in astonishment as Raylan rose to his feet, advancing on the Russians, firing burst after burst into them, reloading without taking cover, without removing the M4 from his shoulder, reloading in three seconds each time, and keeping a steady rate of withering fire, the hail of bullets his only shield.

All they knew was the men behind the SUVs were shooting at them and Raylan wasn’t, so they covered him as best they could with their pistols. Raylan advanced to twenty yards and still kept coming, his smoking M4 belching death, bullets whistling past his head.

Then, from every direction, rifles, shotguns, and handguns emerged from dusty or muddy 4X4 pickups with big tires, and men ran through the traffic jam to take up safe positions and fire on the Russians. The alarm had been broadcast by CB radio, and Tennessee country boys were backing up their local law enforcement officers. A round took out Raylan’s right leg. He dropped to the asphalt, his head bouncing, but he held onto the carbine and continued to fire. Reaching for another magazine, he learned he was out. In a second, he was firing with his pistol and crawling to the nearest SUV. Another round knocked his left arm out from under him. He lay on his side and fired at Russian boots, all he could see.

More officers arrived, and the battle was soon over. By the time an officer checked on Raylan, he was not breathing. A round had entered under his right armpit and punched a hole in his lung. Paramedics arrived and took the wounded away.

Raylan was among them, but he wouldn’t know it until the next day when he woke in a hospital, heavily sedated and chained to the bed by his wrists, ankles, and waist. A man in a suit got out of a chair and held a badge in front of Raylan’s face that said Department of Justice. Raylan could barely focus his eyes, but he knew what it said. Then the man leaned down and said, “Carla Baylor died on scene.”

Somehow the fact it wasn’t a surprise to him didn’t ease the pain at all. He turned his face and blinked tears. A nurse came in to check on him because an alarm had gone off. She scowled at the agent and upped the sedative. Raylan drifted away.

Chapter 23

Janowski spoke in a deliberate tone, trying not to sound to President Riley as if he might be gloating over owning a President of the United States of America, even though he was. “Our business relationship has been good for us both. Now I’m wondering if you would like to earn an easy ten million.”

Riley glanced at the other men in the room. A technician from the NSA nodded. “Well, that’s quite a sum to add to my retirement when my term runs out and I go back to civilian life. What exactly is it you need from me?”

Janowski wet his lips. “A simple thing really. Compared to the services you’ve provided in the past, it’s nothing. I want Raylan Maddox delivered to me alive. He’s been a thorn in both our sides for far too long.”

Riley had been waiting days to hear those words. “We just so happen to have him in our custody. But you already knew that, of course. The woman he was with, Carla Baylor I think her name was, died in a gunfight when he was captured. Still, it’s not as simple as you seem to think. I’ll get back with you late tomorrow, probably in the evening. Just maybe we can arrange something. I’m thinking our Patriot Act may make it possible for Maddox to just disappear.”

“I’ll be awaiting your call.” Janowski hung up, barely able to contain his excitement. He walked out onto his balcony and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Yes!”

Trey yanked his earphones off. Giving Riley a cold stare, he asked, “How long can we keep this charade up before a lot of innocent people get hurt?”

Riley’s smile faded. “What on earth are you talking about? Who is going to get hurt? I mean besides Maddox.”

Trey’s unease intensified, and his pissed-off meter pegged out. “Isn’t that enough?”

Riley sighed. “It was a joke.”

Trey continued. “Then there’s the fact he can’t be moved yet. It would likely kill him. Not for another week at least, and we should shut this operation down much sooner than that.”

“We have Janowski on our hook. Let him dangle a while.”

“What about those women Janowski smuggled in to be sold as slaves? If we wait too long, we’ll certainly lose track of them and never be able to save them from a personal hell. We know they’re being held in a house in New Jersey, but their captors may slip our surveillance and then those girls and women are gone forever. What about the automatic weapons being distributed to gangbangers and other criminals? The blood will flow in Chicago, Detroit, and LA.”

Riley looked around the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, please tell him we have it all under control and none of the things he fears will happen.”

Director Ottoman spoke first. “He’s right, Mr. President. We must finish this soon, before it turns on us and bites us all in the ass.”

Riley waved him off. “Yes, yes, I understand, but don’t you see? Maddox is the real bait, what Janowski wanted all along. Tomorrow I will call him and set up the exchange.”

Trey was stunned. “You’re really going to give Maddox to Janowski, aren’t you?”

Riley faced him, eye-to-eye, though Trey was three inches taller. “Maddox is the only thing that could possibly lure Janowski back into U.S. jurisdiction, where he can be apprehended.” Riley rubbed his hands together, still excited over his possible success. At that moment, he felt much the way he did after killing James Dulling, except this time he didn’t have a letter opener stuck in his chest. The irony of using Raylan Maddox as a tool for his own means wasn’t lost on him either. “We had nothing on him that would hold up in court when he was in the States a while back. Well, thanks to all of our hard work, we now have plenty to put him away for life. And the legalities are all taken care of this time, because the Justice Department is involved and not the intelligence community alone.”

“That’s bullshit, Mr. President,” Trey said. “After all the people the CIA has taken out with no legalities involved whatsoever, including elected leaders of nations, we didn’t need an okay from Justice to kill a piece of shit like Janowski.”