One Minute Out

I hear no reply, only the sounds of Talyssa being placed in the vehicle roughly, men all around her speaking in a foreign language, and then the sound of the van door sliding shut. The engine was already running, obviously, because screeching tires come next.

I’m climbing into the Vauxhall when I finally hear Talyssa’s voice. “I . . . who are you people? I see your black hair, your black beards. Are you Turkish? Moroccan?”

A black van. I nod and softly say, “Black van, got it. Good job. Now, be subtle . . . tell me the direction.”

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“Be quiet!” a man shouts in English.

“To the Hilton? I see the Hilton. Are we going to the—”

“Be quiet!”

I look down at my phone’s GPS, move the map around, and find the Hilton hotel just west of Old Town.

This is good news, as I am to the west of her, or at least I was when her van began moving. They could be right on top of me by now, since a minute or two has passed since then.

I launch the four-door out of the parking lot, jack the wheel hard to the left, and drive off, slowing only as I pass oncoming police vehicles responding to the sound of gunfire in the Old Town. They pay no attention to me, and soon I’m flooring it again, scanning each intersection to my left and right, desperately trying to find a black van.

And it doesn’t take long. Other than the oncoming first responders there is little traffic out this time of night, so when I turn onto Anice Boskovic I see headlights behind me, approaching fast. I slow to match the speed limit, and soon a black van rushes by me on my left, then makes a left turn at an intersection. I continue straight, not wanting to get too close behind it, and then I one-hand my steering wheel while I hold the phone up to check the GPS, unsure how to link back up with my target vehicle. All the while I keep speaking softly into Talyssa’s ear. “I see you. I’m right here with you. Don’t worry.”

There’s a lot to worry about—I’m worried as shit, as a matter of fact—but keeping her as calm as possible seems like a good idea to me right now.

I see the van a minute later, one block south of me and still heading to the west, along the Adriatic coast and farther from the Old Town. It is speeding, almost recklessly, which tells me that long gone are the Albanians’ mission discipline and the swagger I saw in their demeanor when they approached Talyssa’s building.

The fact that several of their number are now lying dead on the cobblestones a couple of kilometers behind us has caused them to doubt themselves, so while shooting those guys thinned out the herd and was the right call for me to make, the assholes remaining are only going to be more dangerous to the woman from Europol.

I’m still forming a plan as I turn to head towards the road they’re on, and still working on it when I fall in to follow them, a couple hundred yards behind. Traffic is light at two something in the morning, and I realize I may have a tough time remaining covert if they start driving around on random streets, trying to see if they’ve picked up a tail.

I also realize I may not get a better opportunity than I have now.

By my count there were eight men involved with Talyssa’s capture. At least three are dead or wounded, and I don’t think the two who engaged me from the east-west street would have had time to make it to the van before it drove off, so they are somewhere behind us, probably securing transportation for themselves. Assuming the snatch team left a driver in the van, which would have been the prudent move, then there are probably four men around Talyssa now up ahead of me.

That’s bad, but it could be worse. And it will probably get worse, because, wherever the hell they are going, one thing’s for sure.

There won’t be fewer than four around her when they get there.

Plus, now I have them close together. They are close to Talyssa, as well, which is suboptimal, but I’m a guy who takes the best shot possible and doesn’t wait for the perfect shot.

I floor the Vauxhall as soon as I decide on a plan. I’m going to take this van down and all the opposition in it.

Now, before they get to their destination.

It takes me a full minute to arrive to within two car lengths behind them, and now we are on a winding road heading northwest, with the moonlit sea off to our left. I cinch my seat belt tighter, put my hand on the gun on my hip for reassurance, and then speak to Talyssa.

“I’m right behind you. I need you to hold on to something, anything. I’m going to wreck the vehicle you’re in, and it’s going to be bad, but I have to do it.”

She immediately replies to me, right in front of the Albanians, with utter dread in her voice. “What? No . . . no . . . please, no.”

“Stop talking!” a man shouts, and then she screams in surprise and pain as if she’s just been struck.

I say, “It’s your best chance, Talyssa. You have to trust me. When the vehicle loses control, I want you to put your head in your lap and keep holding on till it comes to a stop. When it does, lie perfectly still, covering your head as best you can. I’ll get you out of the van, don’t worry. Just ride out the crash and this will all be over.”

“Oh, God, no. Please,” she says, and I imagine the Albanians are starting to wonder who the hell she’s talking to.

Flooring it now, I say, “C’mon, Gentry. You got this.”

I’m going to attempt a PIT maneuver, a Pursuit Intervention Technique, a standard tactic used by law enforcement around the globe to stop a vehicle, much better than shooting out tires or some bullshit like that.

That said, despite my comforting words to my Romanian partner, I imagine this is going to suck for everyone involved. Me, the Albanians, and Talyssa.

PITing is a pretty safe trick if done correctly, but PITing a van, even if executed perfectly, is almost always a terrible idea, because the high center of gravity of the van almost ensures it will end up tipping, or worse, flipping. But the threshold of what I think is acceptable risk for Talyssa is rising by the minute as she gets closer and closer to the moment I lose her and the bad guys have her all to themselves.

Flipping this van might break some bones in the Europol analyst, but I tell myself that if I were her, I’d rather suffer a violent car crash than torture followed by a point-blank gunshot to the back of the head.

It’s all relative, I guess.

There is a counter to the PIT maneuver the targeted driver can implement, but I’m doubting this Albanian gangster will be well versed in high-level defensive driving. But even if he does, there is also a counter-counter PIT maneuver that not many people know. I know it because the CIA taught me everything they could about hurting people and breaking things, and I’ve picked up even more on the subject since officially leaving the Agency.