Juggernaut

He lifted her arm and positioned the hypo gun.

‘You and your friends. No country. No code. No high ideal. Nothing but the tawdry pursuit of money. And look where it got you. A miserable death. Utterly alone.’

Lucy’s voice:

‘Hey, Koell.’

Koell turned. The base of a drip stand struck him in the face. His rubber overboots slipped on the tiled floor and he fell on his back. A second blow smashed the hazmat faceplate.

Lucy threw Amanda a hospital gown and her Stetson.

‘Let’s get out of here.’

Lucy sat on Koell’s chest. She tore off his hood, grabbed the hypodermic gun from the floor and jabbed the needle into his neck.

‘Don’t,’ he whispered. ‘Please. Don’t.’

‘Where did you suit up? You and the other guy.’

‘What?’

‘Your clothes. Where are your clothes?’

The underground parking level of the Al Rasheed.

Koell’s Lincoln Navigator sat in shadow. Koell at the wheel, Lucy by his side. She kept him covered with the Sig P226 she found in the glove box.

Lucy wore Colonel Drew’s oversized fatigues. Koell wore Lucy’s ripped trousers, her laceless boots.

‘You won’t get far,’ said Koell.

‘Shut the fuck up. Keep your hands on the wheel.’

They watched Amanda check out their battered, shot-up Suburban. She wore Koell’s shirt, slacks and brogues.

She peered through cracked windows. She crouched and checked beneath the vehicle. She climbed in, dropped keys from the sun visor, and gunned the engine.

Thumbs up.

‘Okay,’ said Lucy. ‘Get out.’

They climbed out of the Navigator. Lucy could see the red dot of an active CCTV camera in corner shadows. She hid the pistol in her jacket pocket.

‘Act casual.’

They crossed the empty parking structure. Footfalls echoed in the cavernous space.

Koell limped.

‘Walk properly.’

‘Boots are about six sizes too small.’

‘Walk.’

They reached the Suburban.

‘Get in.’

Amanda shifted seats. Koell took the wheel. Lucy got in the rear.

‘Drive.’

‘Where are we headed?

‘Across town. QRF Indigo. The Canadian staging base on Route Irish.’

‘Why?’

‘Just drive the fucking car.’

They pulled out, and took the up-ramp into blinding sunlight.

The old quarter. Trash fires, feral dogs. Suspicious locals watched the Suburban speed past.

Lucy unzipped a holdall on the back seat. Fresh clothes. She changed. She strapped on a tac vest. She clipped a black nylon belt and dropped a HK 9mm into the drop holster.

She threw her dog tags from the window.

Koell watched her in the rear-view.

‘You and your girlfriend were going to skip out on your buddies. Was that the plan all along? Load the gold and run?’

Lucy examined the crumpled gang photo. Lucy, Amanda, Toon, Huang and Voss. Hanging out in the Riv, laughing, toasting the camera.

‘None of your damned business.’

They pulled over. Lucy and Amanda switched seats. Koell drove while Lucy kept him covered. Amanda sat on the back seat and dressed.

‘Why Indigo?’ asked Koell. ‘What do you think the Canucks are going to do for you?’

‘We’re going to hitch a ride on a supply flight back to Germany.’

She opened the glove box and shook out an envelope. Canadian passports. A wad of dollars. Bribe money had secured an amendment of provisional records. A handful of key strokes summoned two freelance journalists into existence. New names, birth dates, press accreditation and social insurance numbers.

‘We’ll be leaving our old names behind.’

‘And what about me?’ said Koell.

‘Pull over.’

‘Here?’

‘Stop the fucking car.’

Koell pulled the battered SUV to the side of the road. He parked outside a bombed-out restaurant. He shut off the engine. The chill blast of air-conditioning dwindled and died.

He anxiously looked around. A deserted street. Shanty squalor.

‘Why here?’

‘Shut up.’

Lucy took plastic tuff-ties and lashed Koell’s wrists to the wheel.

‘What are you doing?’

Koell started to sweat.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Lucy. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

Amanda climbed out and shouldered the holdall.

‘Don’t,’ said Koell. ‘Don’t leave me here.’

Lucy reached round the steering column and turned the ignition key to ACC.

‘Relax, said Lucy. ‘Listen to some music.’

She turned Cypress Hill up full volume and climbed out of the car.

‘Let’s go,’ she said.

A last glance at Koell.

‘Please,’ he mouthed through the windshield.

Lucy and Amanda hurried down the deserted street, ‘Ain’t Going Out Like That’ blasting from the battered Suburban. The song mingling with the mournful, city-wide call to prayer.

Koell struggled to snaps the cuffs. Deafening, jackhammer bass-beat.

He twisted his hands, stretched his fingers to reach the ignition. Plastic cut deep into his wrists.

He kicked off a boot, raised his foot and tried to press the CD off switch with his toe.

A beat-up Mercedes pulled to the kerb behind the Suburban. Koell checked the rear-view. Five Iraqis in tracksuits got out the car. One of them carried an AK and yammered into a cellphone. The group lit cigarettes.

Koell leant down and butted the door handle until he engaged central locking.

The men circled the Suburban.

Stubble. Cruel eyes. Local militia.