Focusing on the second car, Gamay fired another two shots. Once again, the bullets seemed to act more like paintballs than slugs of lead.
Jamming her foot against the wheel well, Gamay wedged herself into the corner of the van and released the magazine. Popping it out, she took a look at the shells. The bullets were blue-capped with a soft rubber covering.
“Safety slugs.”
It made sense. This was the weapon Ridley had used aboard the EAGL. Using a frangible round made of tiny pellets instead of a solid slug created a bullet that could still wound and kill a flesh-and-blood mortal, but disintegrated on impact when it hit a hard surface like glass or a metal plate. It was an old air marshal’s tactic, meant to allow them to fire at will inside the aircraft while not having to worry about punching holes in the skin of the plane, which would cause an explosive decompression and what some people called a “rapid, unscheduled disassembly.” It was certainly something Ridley would have wanted to avoid while the C-17 was traveling at forty-one thousand feet. Unfortunately, that same quality made the bullets virtually useless against the cars behind them.
As Gamay held her fire and considered her options, Ridley swerved to the left and she could see the water dropping below them in the background. They were going uphill.
Any thought that the chase cars wouldn’t follow was quickly banished. The closest one slowed and made the turn, then sped up again,closing the gap. Shortly behind it, Gamay saw the single headlight of the padiddle following suit. The situation seemed dire, but just behind that she spied a third set of lights. She could tell from the arrangement that it was the NUMA expedition rig. If she could just stay safe until they got to her, she would have a chance.
Chapter 35
“He’s turning,” Paul called out, still watching the van through the drone’s lens. “He’s taking the switchback road.”
Norway was filled with switchback roads that zigzagged up and down the steep hills. The stunning terrain required them.
“Why would he do that?” Paul wondered aloud. “Those cars will handle the turns better than the van.”
“It might be smart,” Joe offered. “They’ll have to brake every time they get to a hairpin. It’ll look like one of those Formula One races on a narrow track, where it’s impossible to pass and everyone drives in single file. It might even give him a chance to knock one of them off the road and send it tumbling down the mountain. At least that’s what I would try.”
“They could do the same,” Paul pointed out.
“They want to know where the plane is,” Kurt shouted. “Can’t get that from a dead man. Which should keep Gamay relatively safe.”
Joe veered left to enter the mountain road and geared down to keep the speed up, while watching the parade up ahead.
As the cars slowed for the first turn, they bunched up, just as Joe had suggested. All three hugged the mountainside, staying far away from the unguarded drop-off. As the van hit the straightaway, it spedoff, putting some distance between itself and the Chinese cars. They raced after it once they got out of the curve, but twenty seconds on the accelerator was rapidly followed by more brake lights and the next tight turn.
For a moment, the van was actually winning. By sticking together, the Chinese cars were getting in each other’s way, making the turns slower and more ponderous. By the third turn they’d begun to lose substantial ground.
Joe wheeled the Big Orange Rig into the first hairpin, cutting the corner and dropping the inside tires off the road. They dug into the softer terrain, grinding through the snow and frost and pulling the rig through the turn more tightly than if he’d stayed on the asphalt.
While Joe grinned at the tactic, Kurt and Paul were bouncing around in the back and trying to hold on. Neither one asked Joe to slow down.
The second turn was just as rough. And the third included a slight skid that took them toward the edge before Joe countered it. But the near-reckless driving was having the desired effect. With each hairpin they were closing the gap. By the fourth turn they were in striking range of the rear car.
“What’s the plan?” Paul asked. He’d lost the glasses by this point and had given up on seeing the world through the eye of the drone.
“Energy transfer,” Joe said, “from us to them. Force equals mass times acceleration.”
“Come again?” Paul asked.
“Big car hits small car, small car goes flying.”
“Works for me.”
The four vehicles had climbed nearly a thousand feet by now. The fjord and the harbor town glittered down below. The idea of something flying was not too far-fetched.
The next turn arrived, but it was a jag to the left and then back to the right, more of a chicane than a hairpin. At this point, the Chinese cars separated, with one speeding ahead and the second one lagging behind to deal with the pursuer.
Joe tried to ram the trailing car as they thundered down the straightaway. It was too quick. Its driver swerved, gunned the engine, and sped away once more.
Another chicane-type jag came at them. The Chinese car handled it well. Joe barreled right through the middle, going off-road and blasting through a snowbank back onto the road on the far side.
The Chinese car remained ahead of them, but only just. A man popped up through the sunroof and opened fire with an automatic weapon of some kind. Flashes could be seen. Bullets peppered the rig.
Joe swerved from side to side, hoping to make them a difficult target. Then he went on the offensive. The Big Orange Rig had more than just headlights. It had spotlights, floodlights, and two racks of overhead lights up on the roof bright enough to illuminate an entire field. Joe found the switches and flipped all of them on simultaneously.
