In the small hours of the morning, the two dark grey vans tore through the dark suburban streets, their motors whining as they whipped around tight corners. Behind treelines and security walls, the well-to-do residents slept soundly, blissfully unaware of the frantic chase unfolding outside.

  The drivers took each turn as sharply as possible, clipping kerbs and throwing their passengers from side to side. Only when they veered onto a country road heading north into the rural outskirts of the Sambia district did the shooting begin.

  Blazer, in the fleeing van, opened a rear window and squeezed off a burst from his machine pistol—braap-braap! But his aim was wild, and the rounds went wide.

  Emz, taking no chances, swerved towards the centre of the road, disappearing from Blazer’s angle of fire.

  Though the vans looked similar, the differences were telling—the fleeing one had dual rear wheels and sat lower on its suspension, a sign of added weight. Bit by bit, Emz was gaining.

  “They’ve got something heavy in the back,” Emz muttered, eyes locked on the target vehicle as Bamba reloaded his automatic shotgun.

  The big African gave the fleeing van a quick, appraising glance. “Oui. But what? Support weapons? Killer robots?”

  “I don’t know. But they’re carrying something, so be ready.” Emz shot a glance at Bamba’s shotgun. “Asta’s in there. Watch where you aim.”

  “Oui. Get closer.”

  The opposite rear window opened this time, and Blazer leaned out—braap-braap!

  Most of the rounds missed, but one struck the windscreen with a sharp ding. The glass held, but Emz instinctively swerved back towards the kerb, drifting to the other side of the fleeing van—which was no good for Bamba’s angle.

  Emz glanced at the impact point on the windscreen. The bullet had barely left a mark.

  “These things are well-armoured.”

  Bamba gave a professional nod. “Oui. Custom build. Très cher.”

  Emz was now barely a metre behind the van. “Get ready. I’m heading back over.”

  He yanked the wheel, drifting into the left lane.

  Bamba lowered his window and fired—boom-boom-boom! The reinforced rear tyres shuddered with rubber slaps, but held out under the impact. The shotgun cycled—boom-boom-boom again.

  A deep ripping pop echoed as one of the tyres exploded.

  Yet the fleeing van barely wobbled, its weight well-distributed across the remaining rear wheel on the left and the dual set on the right.

  Boom-boom.

  “Merde. I’m out.” Bamba tossed the shotgun into the backseat and cocked his submachine gun with a crisp metallic snap.

  The rear window of the fleeing van dropped again—Blazer’s machine pistol waving out.

  By now, the nose of Emz’s van had pulled ahead, and he seized the moment to try a police pursuit technique. He nudged his bumper towards their rear quarter, jerking the wheel to spin them off-course.

  But the other driver—probably Chin-Beard—countered with a sudden brake check. Emz overshot, and the two vans ground against each other in a shower of sparks. Blazer ducked inside, narrowly avoiding being crushed between them.

  Then, with a jolt, they bounced apart.

  Chin-Beard recovered fast, slamming the accelerator and swerving towards the nose of Emz’s van.

  Emz braked hard, avoiding a full collision by centimetres. The two vans settled back into line.

  “Fuck!” he snapped, frustrated at being outdriven.

  “Calme, mon ami,” Bamba said smoothly. “Pull left again.”

  Emz clenched his jaw, his body a riot of anger and adrenaline. Asta was so close, yet these bastards were pissing him off. He took a breath, steadied himself, and drifted left, giving Bamba the angle.

  Braap-braap-braap.

  The second left-hand tyre exploded with another deep, ripping pop.

  The fleeing van lurched violently—then spun out of control.

  Emz braked hard, skidding to a stop as the target van spun. The driver fought to control the skid, pumping the brakes, and came to a halt—both vans now facing each other, twenty metres apart. Their headlights cast long beams down the dark country road, the only illumination in the stillness.

  For a split second, no one moved.

  Then, the target van’s driver’s door swung open—just as Emz and Bamba threw theirs open.

  Before they could react, Chin-Beard unleashed a furious, sustained trrrrrrrt, his rifle barking on full auto from behind the door frame. Bullets hammered their van, thudding into the metal bodywork and doors, and clattering into the reinforced glass, spider-webbing it with fine cracks.

  Emz and Bamba ducked low behind the dashboard, waiting out the storm of gunfire.

  The thudding turned to sharp cracks as rounds punched through the weakening bodywork. Then—sizzle!—a sudden, high-pitched hiss as the powertrain was hit. The van’s controls blinked out. The headlights flickered—then died.

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  Then—silence. The rifle ran dry.

  Bamba and Emz were out in an instant, SMGs raised high—braap-braap, braap-braap!—both firing into the driver’s door.

  The metal rattled and rocked under the barrage, but something was shifting at the rear—with heavy, motorised sounds.

  Both men heard it. Neither could see it.

  Emz and Bamba rushed forward, hunched low, gun butts tight against their shoulders.

  Emz fired another burst—braap!—as he spotted Chin-Beard’s rifle starting to poke back out.

  Bamba, on the opposite side, strafed wider, moving onto the kerb for a clearer view of the van’s rear.

  “The rear doors are open! Something’s being deployed!” he called.

  Emz edged left, keeping his fire focused on the driver’s door—braap-braap! He needed to pin Chin-Beard down, but not let stray bullets reach the passenger area. Asta was somewhere inside.

  Then—a sudden mechanical whirr.

  Chin-Beard threw his rifle well away from the van. A second later, he tossed out a handgun. Then he stepped out, arms high over his head in surrender.

  Emz sprinted the last stretch, gun trained on the mercenary.

  “On the floor! Hands on your fucking head!” he barked, torn between subduing him and checking the van’s rear.

  Chin-Beard dropped fast, planting himself face-down on the tarmac, fingers interlocked behind his head.

  “Emz! They’re getting away!” Bamba’s voice rang out.

  A deep roar erupted.

  A boxy shape lurched upward in Emz’s peripherals.

  He tore his eyes from Chin-Beard, strafing to the rear of the van—just in time to see a small VTOL craft rising into the air, its four rotors kicking up a storm of dust and gravel.

  Bamba, in his chilli-covered armour, had his SMG up, tracking the ascending craft.

  “Emz! Should I bring it down?” His voice was tight, urgent.

  Emz’s eyes flicked into the open rear doors of the van—empty.

  His stomach sank.

  He backed up, watching the VTOL streak away over the darkened fields. His own SMG was raised, finger tight against the trigger.

  He shook his head.

  Bamba wouldn’t have asked if he thought he could make the shot without putting Asta at risk.

  Emz ground his teeth, pulse pounding in his skull.

  “Fuck.”

  A shift in ambient light from Luki’s approaching van alerted them just before the rolling whine of its motor reached their ears.

  “Luki!” Emz snapped over comms. “Get your drone up—track that escaping copter!”

  “Okay,” Luki responded, pulling up beside the bullet-riddled van.

  A few agonising seconds passed before his drone launched from its roof-mounted pad, surging into the night, banking west over the open countryside. It sped after the VTOL.

  But instead of continuing its escape, the VTOL hovered, rotating as it did.

  A door slid open.

  Blazer leaned out, machine pistol in hand.

  Braap-braap! Muzzle flashes lit up the night as he fired wildly at the drone.

  The first burst missed. The drone zigzagged, Luki remotely shifting its course to evade.

  Braap-braap! Another miss.

  Blazer wasn’t much of a shot.

  Braap-braap!

  This time, luck was on his side. A round clipped the drone, sending it spiralling out of the sky.

  Emz glanced at Bamba, who had pushed up against the kerb, SMG raised, aiming down its iron sights. He was as close as he could get to the thick hedgerow blocking his way into the adjacent field.

  He shook his head. Too far.

  Blazer started pulling back inside, reaching out to close the cockpit door—then suddenly he lurched forward, nearly tumbling out. He flailed, grabbing at the frame, barely holding on.

  A struggle.

  It was too dark to see clearly, but he struck at someone inside. Asta.

  Then—slam—the door shut, and the VTOL roared west, disappearing into the countryside.

  Bamba exhaled. “Brave woman.”

  Emz clenched a fist. “Fuck!”

  With no way to follow across open fields, his gaze snapped to the prone mercenary still lying face-down, fingers interlocked behind his head.

  Emz stormed over, planted his boot into the man’s ribs, and rolled him onto his back.

  Gun barrel close to his face, he growled, “Where the fuck are they going?”

  “No idea, man.” Chin-beard’s American accent was flat, almost indifferent.

  “Liar!”

  “Swear to God, I don’t. We weren’t told shit—just what we needed to know.”

  “Then where were you told to drive?”

  “North. He was gonna give me directions as we went.”

  Emz shook his gun for emphasis. “I don’t fucking believe you.”

  “Look, I get it. But I’m a professional, and I just got left behind and fucked over. As far as I’m concerned, the contract's done.”

  Emz studied him, jaw tight.

  “Then what can you tell me? Who’s that man?”

  The merc shifted uncomfortably, his fingers still entwined. “Can I sit up?”

  Emz nodded curtly, stepping back a pace.

  The merc sat up, resting his hands on his knees. His shotgun-damaged armour was visible beneath the dim glow of Luki’s van headlights.

  Luki had stepped out of his van and, along with Bamba, moved to flank Emz.

  Emz glanced at Luki. “Can you track them?”

  Luki shook his head. “I just tried. No transponder. No signal I can lock onto.”

  Emz turned back to the merc. “Well?”

  “Never got a name. Just ‘Boss.’ Hired us all over the last few months. Pretty sure he’s Russian. Real nitpicky, but honestly? Guy’s in way over his head. He was shitting bricks when you hit the house.”

  No reaction. He kept going.

  “He only gave us pieces. Wanted a techie to write some code—something he was selling to a bigger fish. They’d already paid him a lot for the job, plus the safe house and those vans and some kit.” He nodded towards the dark grey van he’d been driving. “The job was to grab the techie’s girlfriend and hold her hostage until the code was finished. After that, the Russian planned to deliver it himself, somewhere up north, or northwest. He was vague.” The merc shrugged.

  Emz’s eyes darkened. “And the hostage? What were his plans for her after?”

  “He never said outright, but I got the vibe we were gonna off her and dump the body.”

  Emz swallowed the fury bubbling inside him.

  “What else?”

  “That’s all I got, man. Maybe one of the other guys knew more.” The merc turned to Bamba. “If you left anyone alive.”

  Bamba slowly shook his head.

  The merc eyed Bamba’s chilli-covered, stolen armour and gave a small nod. “Man, you’re a beast. I’ll give you that. You came out of nowhere.” There was a hint of professional respect.

  Emz ignored it. His grip on the gun tightened. “What orders did you give the techie?”

  “I never saw him. My job was guarding the safe house.”

  At the word ‘him’ Emz exhaled sharply and turned away, walking towards Luki’s van, deep in thought. Luki followed.

  The merc watched them go, then flicked his gaze to Bamba.

  “So… what now? It was a job, that’s all. I’m a professional, just like you. Got screwed the same as you. Told you everything I know.”

  Without hesitation, Bamba raised his SMG and fired. Blap. The single bullet struck the forehead with clean precision.

  The merc slumped back, dead.

  Emz and Luki spun at the sudden gunshot.

  Bamba, already walking away, jerked his chin toward the body.

  “He was no professional.” His voice was cold. “And he failed at his job.”