The Paris Betrayal by James Hannibal (the dot read aloud .txt) 📗

A second burst whizzed past his ear. “You too. Freeze. Drop the gun!”

Yeah, right.

With a reaching leap, Ben caught the yellow clamp of a crane lifting a container from the stack. The guards quit shooting, perhaps unwilling to risk hitting the crane operator. Mallory had no such qualms. He kept shooting, but the container’s slow turn gave Ben cover. The operator bailed from his seat, slapping a big red kill switch on his way out.

The crane jolted to a stop, and momentum sent the container into a pendulum swing toward the dock stacks. Ben let go.

The added height helped him cover the distance, but shipping containers don’t make for soft landings. Ben’s touchdown crumbled into an ungainly roll that ended with his hard hat smacking the steel. He tore it off and chucked it away, grumbling as he scrambled to his feet. “Thanks, Kent.”

The German shepherd raced across the dock, but Ben paid it no notice. The containers were three meters tall. No attack dog could jump that high. He kept low to avoid any shots, dropped from container to container until he reached the fence, and vaulted over, tumbling into the parking lot.

Less than a minute later, Ben swerved the Peugeot onto the pier access road. He glanced at the rearview mirror, expecting to see a lone barking dog at the fence. After all, his pursuers weren’t real cops.

Instead, he saw the gate rolling open and two security vehicles speeding out behind him.

He let out a disbelieving huff. Impressive.

“Okay, gentlemen.” Ben cranked the wheel, fishtailing onto the straightaway that led to the main port road. “Let’s keep playing.”

31

Concrete.

Snow.

Ice.

Cold winds in a northern port made for slick surfaces. Ben had helped Giselle choose the Peugeot’s 308 model for its handling, but she drove with a lead foot, and she’d been tearing around the Paris suburbs in that thing for a year. All four tires had seen better days.

He tried to use the worn treads to his advantage, drifting through the corners while the dock cops played it safe behind him.

Ben had to give them credit for a solid response time. If he had to guess, the embarrassment of letting a bomber escape their net had forced them to sharpen up. But dock cops in Ford Focus hybrids were no match for a trained tactical driver. He’d lose them soon without a problem.

Sirens wailed ahead and to Ben’s right. Red and blue lights flashed.

He slapped the wheel. “Seriously?”

Two Dutch police cruisers—VW Golfs—came flying in from the west, side by side, blocking the main port road and Ben’s best route of escape. Judging by the rooster tail of white powder, both were sporting snow tires.

The approaching cruisers forced him to continue south over a small bridge. He smashed through a lowering barrier arm and sailed across train tracks into an odd suburban mix of warehouses and brick homes. A reflective street sign read Welkom in Neiuw Engeland.

Behind him, dock security peeled off to let the professionals take over. Ben would have to step up his game. He bounced over a roundabout island, corrected for the side skid that followed, and stepped on the gas. The first cruiser slowed to follow the street. His partner jumped the island like Ben and took the lead.

Canals.

Rivers.

Too many bridges—each one, a choke point. If more cops joined the chase, Ben’s luck might run out. He needed to escape into the rural area to the southwest where a host of interconnected farm roads meant more options.

A street sign flew by, pointing west. Ben recognized a name from his drive into the port. Haringvliet—a long lake formed when the Dutch dammed off a North Sea inlet. That place might offer exactly the escape route he needed. He let the intersection fall behind, waiting for both cops to cross, then hopped the curb into a parking lot serving two warehouses.

He made a wide arcing turn on slick asphalt. Too wide. Ben grimaced a split second before he sideswiped a snow-covered car. White powder showered his windshield, but the impact corrected his trajectory. He flipped on the wipers and punched the gas, downshifting to recover some torque.

The gap between the warehouses had looked plenty wide from the street. A closer look made Ben second-guess, but the cops were too close. He gritted his teeth and committed. The Peugeot shot through the gap. His left side-view mirror—the only one remaining—snapped off with a flash of sparks.

The police cruisers, apparently unwilling to sacrifice their mirrors, skidded sideways to a halt.

Ben spat out the other side into a shallow rear lot and jumped the sidewalk. He hit a westward street at an easy angle for his worn tires. No one followed.

He passed the next cross street. Again, no sign of his pursuers. Only fields and a smattering of houses lay ahead. Another street sign for the Haringvliet lake confirmed he’d found the correct road, and he put the Peugeot into fifth to build his lead. If the cops stayed gone, they’d spare him from the dangerous stunt he’d planned for his escape. But Ben wouldn’t bet his life on it.

To spies, phrases like They’re gone or We’re home free are as bad as black cats and broken mirrors. A rookie who jinxes the mission with an early celebration is likely to get a slap upside the head and a bad reputation.

Colonel Hale and years of mission experience had taught Ben to fight off such phrases, but like any man fighting pink elephants, he couldn’t stop I did it from entering his brain.

Lights flashed in his mirror. Both police cruisers cut through the grass from a side road less than a hundred meters behind him.

Ben had never been fond of Europe’s rural roads. Deep ruts and stone walls squeezed two lanes into one. His grip tensed on the wheel. One mistake would end this chase.

Twice, Ben had to slow for jinks in the road. Both times the cops and their snow tires cut his lead. No matter. He still had a