grabbed the man’s stubbled chin. “Sorry, Tom. We’re home free,” she told him. “Didn’t you hear—they’re not coming for you. There’s no honor among thieves.”
“Scratch that,” Grant chided from the rear of the group. “We’ve got company.”
Brigid and Kane looked in Grant’s direction and saw four dark shapes weaving along the narrow street at high speed: three motorcycles and a quad bike followed by a billowing plume of dark exhaust.
Carnack looked at Brigid and laughed. “Before the end of the day I’ll have you right where I want you, red,” he said, “bunny hopping across my lap.”
“Keep moving,” Kane said, ignoring the man’s vile comment.
More people were milling where the streets opened up onto the waterfront, and Brigid looked back at Kane as she took them in. “It’s too crowded, Kane,” she told him. “Someone’s going to end up getting hurt.”
Kane checked behind him for the approaching gang members, then shoved Carnack toward Brigid. “Cover him,” he instructed. “I’m going to clear us a path.” With that, he strode forward and raised his pistol in the air, pumping three shots into the sky in quick succession. “Everyone get out of here,” Kane shouted over the frightened cries of the crowd.
They didn’t need to be told twice. Everyone ran to the edges of the ramshackle street, ducking into doorways and clearing a path for Kane and his team.
Behind him, Kane heard gunshots as Grant began firing at the approaching marauders. He refilled the chambers of the .44 Magnum pistol and turned to face the enemy.
Beside Grant, Brigid raised her TP-9 pistol and blasted off a stream of shots down the street as the motorcyclists and quad riders approached.
Seeing his chance, Tom Carnack took a step away from her, his bloodshot eyes fervently looking around for an escape route. Suddenly, he felt Brigid’s elbow slam into his gut and he doubled over, his breath exploding out of his mouth in a coughing whoop.
“Stay still,” she told him, thrusting her free arm around his throat and holding him against her hip in a headlock. Carnack continued to cough and splutter as Brigid pumped the trigger of her pistol, firing shots at the approaching gang members.
Their attackers were the same guards they had seen in Carnack’s trading pad. The velvet-coated Señor Smarts sat on a motorcycle behind one of the guardsmen from the main room, a spooky-looking man wearing a bandanna across his head and goggles over his eyes to protect them from flying grit. Beside him, his partner was riding alone on his own motorbike, spinning a chain in one hand as he powered the throttle. A pace behind them, the dark-haired dancing woman rode her own bike. There was a scabbard attached to the side of the bike, the shining hilt of a sword sticking out beside her right knee. Bringing up the rear of the group, the two large guards from the anteroom shared a quad bike that belched a thick cloud of black exhaust into the air around them. While one drove, the other raised a Kalashnikov autorifle and aimed at the Cerberus field team. The muzzle flashed as the guard launched a stream of bullets into the narrow street.
Kane, Grant and Brigid each pulled back, finding what little cover they could at the sides of the street, backs against the walls, with Brigid and her prisoner standing close to Kane. On the other side of the street, Grant took careful aim and his bullet clipped the shoulder of Velvet Coat, almost toppling the bike as he reeled in pain.
Then the vehicles were upon them.
Kane held the .44 Magnum pistol in a two-handed grip, steadying his aim as he blasted three shots into the driver of the quad bike. The man slumped in the saddle and the bike veered off to the side, crashing through the flimsy walls of one of the ramshackle huts that lined the street.
Brigid took aim at the second bike, the one with the guard wielding the chain, as it bore down on her. Carnack’s struggling tipped her aim, and her shots skewed wide. Suddenly, the bike was next to her, zipping past at a ferocious speed, the guard’s chain spinning through the air with an audible thrumming. She ducked back as the bike passed, and her eyes widened as she saw the chain whip out and snag Grant’s ankle, pulling the big man off his feet.
“Eyes front, Baptiste,” Kane’s bellowing voice warned from behind her as Grant was dragged off onto the pier. She looked back and saw the dancing girl’s sword cleave the air at waist height, just barely missing her while the other bike skidded to a halt a few steps ahead.
As the sword cut the air beside him, Kane’s empty hand shot out and tangled in the woman’s long brown hair. In a fraction of a second, the motorcycle tipped up as the dancing girl was yanked from the saddle, still clinging to her sword.
She appeared to be falling backward, but her momentum dragged her ahead, pulling Kane into a stumbling run for a moment before her snagged hair ripped from her scalp and he let go. She crashed to the ground, slamming hard against it on her back as her bike sped away, the distinctive note of its two-stroke engine rising as it raced out of control.
She was quick; Kane acknowledged that much. She had hit the ground hard, but she rolled and was standing before him in less than two seconds. She stood low, adopting a fighter’s stance as she held the heavy sword behind her, readying for attack. There was blood in her hair, and she gritted her teeth in a fierce smile as her eyes met with Kane’s.
The bandanna-wearing guard had pulled his bike around, kicking up dirt as the tires tore against the makeshift road surface. Brigid struggled to target him with her TP-9 while Tom Carnack squirmed against her side in the headlock. She seemed only able to watch as the motorcyclist pulled a revolver from his jacket’s inside pocket and aimed it directly between her eyes.
Meanwhile, already thirty yards away, racing down the rough wooden slats of the fishing pier, Grant found himself dragged behind the rider of the other motorcycle, his right ankle caught up in the chain that the man held. His back slapped the splintering pier beneath him, tossing him in the air before dropping him back down hard against its surface, knocking the breath out of him and giving him no time to recover.
Realizing that the slats were evenly spread, Grant timed his breaths and tried to focus his vision on the jostling view of the rider. He was momentarily tossed into the air once more, and as his shoulders took the brunt of another hard landing, Grant raised the pistol in his hand and aimed down the length of his body at the motorcycle, praying he would manage to avoid shooting his own foot off.
The Heckler & Koch spit, and three bullets flew through the air. The first one hit the rider just behind the ear, causing him to turn the handlebars violently and forcing the motorbike into a skid. The second shot went wide, flying over the top of Grant’s target, but the third bullet hit the bike beneath the saddle, drilling through the chassis and into the fuel tank.
With a blossoming explosion, motorbike and rider caught light as it sped off the side of the pier with Grant still dragging behind it.
The motorbike and its flaming rider hit the blue-green waters of the ocean with a splash, before sinking immediately beneath the waves and pulling Grant along with them as the flames were extinguished.
“Oh, crap,” Grant snarled as his head ducked beneath the water and he felt himself plummeting toward the bottom.
Back on the pier, Kane watched as the bike caught fire and Grant disappeared off the side of the wooden structure, dragging behind it. But there was no time to react—the dancing girl was already upon him, swinging the wide blade of her sword in a sweeping arc intended to rip his chest in two. Kane leaped backward, barely
