The Audi turns into a combination convenience store and service station, the Langley Mart, and pulls up to a set of pumps.
Talk about luck, he thinks, pulling out his 9mm Beretta pistol. Just like the job against that Army officer, this one was going to be quick and to the point.
The Audi stops.
The driver’s-side door opens.
Liam steps out.
No time for fancy maneuvers, just get the job done.
Michael turns and stops the Mercedes at an adjacent series of pumps, gets out, leaves the door open, and quickly takes three steps before opening fire, the man crumpling and falling, the gas hose and pump handle dropping to the ground.
Two more steps, put a kill shot in the skull, and the job is done.
CHAPTER 87
SWEATING AND HOT underneath a black wool blanket in the rear seat of the Audi, Liam hears gunfire break out and tosses the blanket aside. Grabbing his pistol, Liam throws open the rear passenger door opposite the gunman, giving himself cover.
He hits the pavement, rolls and comes up, sees a man in a leather jacket and jeans approaching the Audi, pistol in both hands. Liam doesn’t hesitate, puts two rounds into his chest.
The man drops and hunches down. Liam goes around the rear of the Audi, spots the gunman writhing on the ground, pistol still in hand, and shoots once more.
Bruce, the director’s security officer, is sitting up against the near gas pump, hand over his left arm, breathing hard, blood soaking through his fingers. The Baltimore Orioles cap is on the cement next to him.
“Shit,” he says.
“How bad?” Liam asks.
“Took two rounds in the back,” he says. “Vest saved me, but I’ve got cracked ribs for sure. Third round went through my arm. Burning and hurting like a son of a bitch. The shooter?”
“He’s dead.”
“You sure?”
Liam says, “He was wearing a vest, too. But my last shot went into his left eye.”
Bruce grimaces and says, “There’s a first-aid kit in the rear of the Audi. Get it.”
Liam moves quickly, retrieves the hard plastic white case with the red cross symbol on it, and, going back to Bruce, opens it. The security officer shakes his head. “I’ll bandage myself. We need to trade weapons. What are you carrying?”
“Glock, ten millimeter.”
“Good,” Bruce says. “Same here. I can’t reach it. It’s under my right arm. Take it, leave yours, and get the hell out of here. Any later forensics will show the pistol in my possession was the one that did the shooting.”
“Bruce, let me work on you first.”
“Shit, there’s no time. Get out of here before the EMTs and cops show up.”
Liam slowly stands up. “What are you going to tell them?”
“Self-defense, what else? Move, Liam, move.”
He gets into the Audi, starts the engine, roars out of the store parking lot, gets back on the highway, and speeds away.
Time.
Bruce is right, as much as Liam hates to admit it. Leaving a wounded comrade in the field is a huge violation of what passes for a warrior’s code, but Liam has no choice. If all goes well, the EMTs will get there in time and get him stable, and then to a hospital.