Page 113 of The Unlikely Spare
Fuck.
Someone has spotted our exit.
“Keep moving,” I urge Nicholas.
The first shots crack through the air just as we near the tree line. I push Nicholas down, covering him with my body as bullets snap through the air above us.
“Haki!” The shout comes from below, full of rage. “Haki!”
I have no idea what it means, but there’s no time to wonder. The trees are only ten meters away.
“Crawl,” I order. “Fast.”
We scramble on hands and knees, the dry grass scratching at exposed skin. More shots, but they’re firing uphill blind now—we’re too close to the ridge for them to get a good angle.
My heart is in my throat, but we manage to reach the row of established trees. Through the trunks, I can see the slope down to the staff car park, native plantings dotting the descent.
“Down the other side,” I tell Nicholas. “Stay low, use the plantings for cover.”
We slip through the trees and start down, half-sliding on the loose earth. Behind us, our pursuers crest the hill, their shouts growing closer.
The car park contains a dozen vehicles baking in the afternoon sun. I spot a dark-colored Toyota Hilux near the exit. Sturdy, common, and pickups are notoriously easy to start.
“That one,” I point.
We reach the bottom of the slope and sprint across the exposed tarmac.
I use my body to shield Nicholas as I check the doors of the Hilux. Locked, as expected. Of course. Nothing’s ever easy.
“Stay down,” I order, then bring my elbow down hard on the driver’s side window. The safety glass spiders and crumbles, the alarm immediately shrieking to life.
I reach through, unlock the door, then push Nicholas into the car.
He slides across to the passenger seat, and I climb in, examining the ignition.
“Eoin!” Nicholas’s warning cuts through my concentration.
I turn and find that one of the attackers is halfway down the hill, weapon raised. Young guy, military bearing, face twisted with determination. Twisting around, I fire twice, forcing him to dive for cover, then return to the desperate task of hot-wiring the vehicle.
The wires are where they should be. Strip, twist, spark—the engine roars to life just as more shots strike the side of the pickup. The sound of bullets punching through metal is distinctive, unforgettable.
“Get down!” I yell at Nicholas as a bullet shatters the rear window, safety glass exploding across the rear seat.
I throw the vehicle into reverse, backing up hard, tires screaming against pavement, then slam it into drive.
“Hold on,” I warn, then accelerate straight toward the maintenance gate.
It explodes on impact, metal and wood giving way with a satisfying crunch. I swerve onto the access road, pushing the vehicle as hard as it will go. The engine protests but holds.
In the rearview mirror, I can see figures running toward vehicles in the parking lot. They’ll pursue, but we have a head start. It might be enough.
Hopefully.
“Are you hit?” I demand, splitting my attention between Nicholas and the road.
“No.” He runs his hands over his torso, checking. “You?”
“I’m fine.” Adrenaline is still pumping through my system, making my hands shake as I try to clutch the steering wheel.
