They raced out of the parking lot and swung hard right, putting the police station behind them. Milton looked back and saw the flash of another automatic burst and then heard the whine of motorcycle engines as the premans—no doubt seeing the fleeing truck—took that as their cue to leave. The bikes were faster than the truck and they quickly caught up and passed, one on either side. The riders and passengers were all wearing helmets that obscured their faces, but the rider on the right raised his hand to Victoria in acknowledgement as he drew alongside, then put it back down on the handlebars and raced away.

“Hold tight,” Victoria said.

The truck lurched from side to side as she guided it through a seemingly endless succession of backstreets, some of them only just wide enough for the vehicle to fit. As soon as they reached what could be called a proper road, Victoria flicked the headlights back on.

Milton turned to Sakura. “Are you okay?”

“I think so,” she replied.

“No injuries? Nothing fell on you?”

“No,” she said.

“And the drugs?”

“All out.”

“Good.”

She looked at him gratefully. “Thank you.”

* * *

Katsuro grunted as he hit the ground, rolling onto his side to absorb the hard landing as he leapt out of the way of the truck. He rolled across the ground, sharp stones digging into his flanks and the palms of his hands. He came to rest and lay in the mud, staring at the truck as it raced away from him. The brake lights flared as the driver slowed before turning hard right and onto the road.

He got to his feet and checked himself over. He had been lucky; no serious damage seemed to have been done. There were a few minor lacerations on the palms of his hands and down his right arm, but, that apart, he was fine. He had misplaced the Glock, though, and he couldn’t leave that behind. Katsuro put his hand into his pocket, pulled out his phone and switched on the flashlight. He knew that he had only a few moments before the police came to investigate what had just happened to the back of their station, and he hurriedly searched the area until he found the pistol.

He shoved it into his waistband and jogged back to the main road. He dropped into the front seat and took out his phone again. He remembered the registration on the truck—B1042PJ—and noted it down. He added what he had discerned of the driver in the brief moments before he had dived clear. She was a Westerner, tanned and with long blonde hair.

That would have to do.

They had Sakura.

He needed to find them.

42