Harrison touched his earpiece. “Lead One, status?” He listened, then nodded. “Copy. We’ll hold.” He turned in the seat to report. “Accident ahead. They’re going on foot to get eyes on it.”

Cochrane nodded and watched as one passenger in the lead car got out and walked up ahead. He cleared five cars, then stopped. He raised a hand to his ear.

Harrison listened, then turned around. “Two cars tangled. Looks okay.”

“We’re fine, though?” Cochrane had heard the edge of concern in Harrison’s voice. “Right?”

Harrison ignored him and touched his ear. “Lead One, copy. We’ll wait for it to clear. Eyes out. Lead Three, copy?” He waited a moment, then nodded again and let his hand drop.

“Harrison?”

The soldier turned around. “It’s okay, boss. We’re good.”

* * *

Fitzpatrick was not happy. The lead car couldn’t go forward, and the trail car couldn’t go backward. The ambassador was stuck between them. They were penned in on all sides.

Sitting ducks.

Horns blared as drivers signalled their annoyance. Scooters weaved in and out of the gridlocked cars and trucks.

“This is bullshit,” Fitzpatrick said. “Should’ve stayed in the embassy. Coming out here was asking for trouble.”

Probert was about to speak, but paused. “You see that?”

Fitzpatrick watched as a woman on a dusty red scooter snaked between cars, balancing a bag of groceries on her lap. A motorcyclist followed behind her, close on her rear wheel. Its rider was a woman, too, and she cut hard to her right in front of the old Volkswagen to the left of the ambassador’s Suburban, then swung left again, drawing alongside the vehicle.

“What’s she doing?”

Fitzpatrick saw the rider reach both hands into a satchel she was carrying on a strap around her neck and pull out a round metal object. It was olive green, and it looked as if it had a mechanism attached to one of the flat sides. She got off the bike and crouched down next to the Suburban, disappearing from view.

“What the fuck?”

The woman stood. Fitzpatrick saw that her hands were empty.

“Shit,” he said. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Fitzpatrick grabbed his 12-gauge Remington 870 from the seat next to him, exited the car, and rushed ahead.

“Stop!” he yelled.

The woman got back onto the bike, revved the engine and sped away.

Fitzpatrick levelled the shotgun, but didn’t have a shot. He reached the Suburban and ducked down. He saw that the green object had been attached to the underside of the car, right below the fuel tank. He put his hand to his ear and activated his microphone.

“Get out of the car!” he yelled. “Get out now!”

* * *

Cochrane jerked around at the hollow thud as something slapped against the underside of the Suburban. He saw the motorcyclist, her helmet visor down. The woman reached for the handlebars, cranked the throttle and sped away.