The man behind them was ten feet away now. He had been sprinting flat out for over three hundred metres and was still maintaining the same speed. Beatrix had never seen anything like it. His endurance was remarkable.

The man raised his own sidearm and started to fire.

The rear side window blew into the cabin. Beatrix felt the hot rush of a round as it passed close by her head, slicing through the already perforated roof. Two more chinged against the bodywork. A rear airbag detonated, the air exploding out of it almost as soon as it had inflated as a second round punctured it. Blue talc from the deployment mechanism sifted into the interior. The people carrier slewed to the side, Beatrix fighting hard to keep it pointing ahead.

The man had caught them up. He was alongside now.

Milton aimed the MP5 at her.

“Down!”

Beatrix did as he asked, lowering her head between her arms and driving blind. The muzzle of the submachine gun was close to her ear and its roar was deafening as Milton loosed an automatic volley. When Beatrix raised her head and glanced into the mirror, she saw their pursuer lying flat on his back, his arms splayed out wide, a crucifix facing up into the sky.

“Go, go, go,” Milton urged.

Beatrix yanked the wheel around again, bounced over the raised lip of hardened dirt and bounced onto the road once more. She changed up to second and then to third and, still accelerating, she drove them away from the yard.

11

Beatrix raced ahead, aiming to the west and the start of the run to the exfiltration point on the coast. The wind rushed in through the open space where the windshield had been. She caught a glimpse of her lap: she was covered in glass, large jagged jigsaw pieces and tiny fragments that glittered like diamonds on a velvet cushion.

She glanced across at Milton. “You okay?”

“Yes,” he said.

Beatrix glanced into the rear-view.

“Koralev?”

The old man was leaning at an angle, held up by his seat belt.

“Koralev?” she repeated. “Check him.”

Milton swung around in his seat. “Shit.”

“What is it?”

“He’s been hit. Just below his shoulder.”

Beatrix cursed, slapping both hands against the wheel.

“It’s bad,” Milton added.

She looked ahead. They were approaching Hoyo de la Puerta. There was a slip road that exited Route 1 and she took it, turning on to the much quieter El Café Road. There was a hotel with a large parking lot. Beatrix turned into it and parked the Vivaro between two larger vehicles. They would have had to stop, anyway. The vehicle had no windshield, and the wing and hood had been perforated so many times that they looked like Swiss cheese. It was hardly inconspicuous.