The Last Odyssey (Sigma Force #15) - James Rollins Page 0,42
your teammates due to arrive?”
“Crack of dawn,” she answered.
Kowalski rankled at this reminder. It was like Director Crowe couldn’t trust him to deal with this mess on his own. Instead he had to send backup.
Suddenly worried, he glanced back to Mac, making sure the bearded climatologist hadn’t left the case aboard the jet when they’d been rushed off. He was relieved to see the silver valise resting on the seat next to him. Due to low-level radioactivity, the astrolabe had been secured inside that lead-lined case. A yellow-and-red hazard label had been slapped onto its side, intended to keep anyone curious from opening it.
Not that Mac was going to let it out of his sight.
The climatologist had insisted on accompanying the astrolabe, his reasoning solid: My friend died over this, he had argued, and Elena was kidnapped on my watch. Until I know what’s really going on, this damned thing ain’t leaving my side.
Kowalski would’ve been satisfied with a simple finders keepers as an explanation, but he appreciated Mac’s stubbornness and determination to get to the bottom of all of this.
He hoped it didn’t get the guy killed.
The Land Rover climbed along a twisting two-lane rural highway, slowing down periodically when it passed through a village. As the SUV accelerated out of a place called Frattocchie, the summer storm finally found them. One moment the road was dry, then around a bend, rain whipped the vehicle in thick windblown sheets. Fat droplets pelted the roof. The windshield wipers beat wildly.
“Bad weather seems to be plaguing us,” Mac said from the back.
Maria checked the map on her cell phone. “We’re only three miles from Castel Gandolfo. We should be there soon.”
As they continued, the storm steadily worsened. Visibility shrank toward the SUV’s front bumper. Reynaldo cursed and was forced to slow down—and luckily, he did. Around another blind turn, they came upon a lumber truck that had jackknifed across both lanes, hazards blinking. The driver braked hard to avoid a collision.
So much for getting to that village anytime soon . . .
With the Land Rover idling, the driver swore in Italian and pushed open his door. “I’ll find out what the problem is,” he promised.
As the MP stepped out, the driver’s-side window exploded. His body flew backward, pounded by a barrage of gunfire. A trio of black-clad men armed with stubby carbines burst around the tail of the truck and rushed forward.
Kowalski was already moving with the first gunshot. He shoved Maria down, vaulted over the seatback, and dropped behind the wheel. He kept low as gunfire strafed the windshield, shattering and splintering it. Not bothering to close the damaged door, he yanked on the gearshift and pounded the accelerator. All four tires gripped the wet road, and the Land Rover flew forward.
He crashed headlong into the side of the truck, pinning and crushing two of the shooters. A third rolled out of the way. Kowalski knew he had seconds before the bastard collected himself and fired.
He shoved the SUV into reverse and sped backward.
Lights flashed in his rearview mirror as two motorcycles dashed from side roads onto the highway. Riders lifted submachine guns as the bikes accelerated toward them, cutting off his exit.
No surprise there.
Kowalski braked hard—right next to Reynaldo’s bloody body. With the driver’s door still hanging open, he hung from the wheel and reached down with his free arm. He thumbed the flap on the MP’s holster and yanked the Beretta free. Then he used all his core to pop upright in the seat.
Time for a little payback.
He lifted the pistol, balanced in both hands, and floored the gas pedal. With its gear still in reverse, the Rover sped backward. Kowalski aimed forward. The gunman by the truck had regained his feet on the rain-drenched road. Kowalski fired twice through the windshield. The bastard’s body jerked the same number of times, both rounds striking center mass.
As the man fell, Kowalski kept the accelerator floored.
“Stay down!” he hollered to his passengers.
The SUV flew backward, forcing the motorcycles to split to either side. Through the shattered driver’s window, he emptied the clip at the bike on the left side. Rounds sparked off metal. The rider in back tumbled away. The motorcycle careened wildly off the road, hit a boulder, and cartwheeled through the air and crashed into a tree.
The other cycle spun expertly on the road and came back at them, already firing, forcing Kowalski to keep low.