Govno! Bob thought to himself as he turned right. This four-lane road was divided by a concrete barrier.
You should have spent more time studying the map. You should have taken a few hours to drive around the area. But it was too late for that now, and he knew that he hadn’t had the time. That left them heading back north. Bob checked his watch, forgetting that there was a clock on the dashboard. He’d already lost fifteen minutes. He was out in the open and vulnerable, on enemy ground. What if someone had seen them in the parking lot? What if the policeman at the wreck had taken down their number?
Bob didn’t panic. He was too well trained for that. He commanded himself to take a deep breath and mentally examined all the maps he’d seen of the area. He was west of the interstate highway. If he could find that, he still remembered the exit he’d used earlier in the day—was it still the same day?—and get to the safe house blindfolded. If he were west of the interstate, all he had to do was find a road that went east. Which way was east—right. Another deep breath. He’d head north until he saw what looked like a major east-west road, and he’d turn right. Okay.
It took nearly five minutes, but he found an east-west highway—he didn’t bother to look for the name. Five minutes after that he was grateful to see the red, white, and blue shield that informed him the interstate was half a mile ahead. Now he breathed easier.
“What’s the trouble?’ Lenny finally asked from the back. Bob replied in Russian.
“Had to change routes,” he said in a tone far more relaxed than he’d felt only a few minutes earlier. In turning to reply, he missed a sign.
There was the overpass. The green signs announced that he could go north or south. He wanted to go south, and the exit ramp would be—
In the wrong place. He was in the right lane, but the exit went to the left, and was only fifty meters ahead. He swerved across the highway without looking. Immediately behind him, an Audi driver stood on his brakes and jammed his hand on the horn. Bob ignored the irrelevancy as he took the left turn onto the ramp. He was on the upward, sweeping curve and was looking at the traffic on the interstate when he saw lights flashing in the grille of the black car behind him. The headlights blinked at him, and he knew what would come next.
Don’t panic, he told himself. He didn’t have to say anything to his comrades. Bob didn’t even consider making a run for it. They’d been briefed on this, too. American police are courteous and professional. They didn’t demand payment on the spot, as the Moscow traffic police did. He also knew that American cops were armed with Magnum revolvers.
Bob pulled his Plymouth over just beyond the overpass and waited. As he watched his mirror, the police car stopped behind his, slightly more to the left. He could see the officer getting out, carrying a clipboard in his left hand. That left the right one free, Bob knew, and that was the gun hand. In the back, Lenny told the prisoner what would happen if he made a noise.
“Good evening, sir,” the police officer said. “I don’t know what the rules are in Oklahoma, but here we prefer that you don’t change lanes like that. Could I have your driver’s license and registration, please?” His black uniform and silver trim made Leonid think of the SS, but this wasn’t the time for such thoughts. Just be polite, he told himself calmly, take the ticket and move on. He handed over the proper cards and waited as the police officer started filling out the ticket blank. Perhaps an apology was due now . . . ?
“Sorry, officer, I thought the exit was on the right side, and—”
“That’s why we spend all that money on signs, Mr. Taylor. Is this your correct address?”
“Yes, sir. Like I said, I’m sorry. If you have to give me a ticket, I guess I deserve it.”
“I wish everybody was that cooperative,” the officer observed. Not everyone was, and he decided to see what this polite fellow looked like. He looked at the photograph on the license and bent down to make sure it was the right person. He shined the light in Bob’s face. It was the same face, but . . . “What the hell is that smell?”
Mace, the officer knew an instant later. The light swiveled The people in the car looked normal enough, two in the frond two in the back, and . . . one of the people in the back wearing what looked like a uniform jacket . . .
Gregory wondered if his life was really on the line. He decided that he’d find out, and prayed the policeman was alert.
In back, the one on the left side—the one in the jacket-mouthed a single word: Help. That merely made the policeman more curious, but the one in the right-front seat saw him do it and stirred. The cop’s instincts all lit off at once. His right hand slid down to his service revolver, flipping the safety strap off the hammer.
“Out of the car, one at a time, and right now!”
He was horrified to see a gun. It appeared as though by magic from the guy in the right-rear, and before he could get his own revolver out—
Gregory’s right hand didn’t get there in time, but his elbow did, spoiling Lenny’s aim.
The officer was surprised that he didn’t hear anything except a shout in a language he couldn’t understand, but by the time that occurred to him, his jaw had already exploded in a puff of white more heard than felt. He fell backward, his gun out now and shooting of its own accord.
Bob cringed and dropped the car into gear. The front wheels spun on the loose gravel, but caught, hauling the Plymouth all too slowly away from the noise of the gun. In the back, Lenny, who’d gotten off the one shot, slammed the butt of his automatic on Gregory’s head. His perfectly aimed shot should have gone straight through the policeman’s heart, but he’d gotten the face instead, and he didn’t know how good the shot had been. He shouted something that Bob didn’t bother listening to.
Three minutes later the Plymouth went off the interstate. Below the accident that still blocked the highway, the road was nearly clear. Bob took the dirt road off it, lights out, and was at the trailer before the prisoner regained consciousness.
Behind them, a passing motorist saw the policeman on the shoulder and pulled over to assist him. The man was in agony, with a bloody wound to his face and nine missing teeth. The motorist ran to the police car and put out a radio call. It took a minute before the dispatcher got things straight, but three minutes after that a second radio car was there, then five more in as many minutes. The wounded officer was unable to speak, but handed up his clipboard, which had the car’s description and tag number written down. He also still had “Bob Taylor’s” driver’s license. That was message enough for the other officers. An immediate call was put out over all local police frequencies. Someone had shot a police officer. The actual crime that had been committed was far more serious than that, but the police did not know, nor would they have cared.
Candi was surprised to see that Al wasn’t home. Her jaw was still numb from the Xylocaine shots, and she decided on soup. But where’s Al? Maybe he had to stay late for something. She knew that she could call, but it wasn’t that big a deal, and with the way her mouth felt, there wasn’t much in way of talking she could have done anyway.
At police headquarters on Cerrillos Road, the computers were already humming. A telex was dispatched at once to, Oklahoma, where brother police officers took immediate note of the magnitude of the crime and punched up their own computer records. They learned at once that there was no license for Robert J. Taylor of 1353 N.W. 108th Street, Oklahoma City, OK 73210, nor was there a Plymouth Reliant will tag number XSW-498. The tag number, in fact, did not exist The sergeant who ran the computer section was more than surprised. To be told that there was no record of a tag wasn’t all that unusual, but to get a no-hit on a tag and a license, and in a case with an officer-involved shooting was pushing the laws of probability too hard. He lifted the phone for the senior watch officer.
“Captain, we have something really crazy here on the Mendez shooting.”