Page 109 of Cross Down
Maynard knows he has just seconds left when he sees a dark blue Mercedes roar to the building entrance and come to a squealing halt, and he fires two rounds from his M4 as Mason’s CIA ex-wife throws herself into the car. He ejects the magazine, puts in a fresh one, snaps the action shut, and as the Mercedes pulls away, he steps out from behind the shot-up Suburban and coolly advances, firing off three-round bursts.
It looks like Sampson manages to steer with one hand and fire back through the open driver’s window with the other, but his aim sucks. Maynard’s aim is just fine. He shatters the rear windshield and fires into the trunk—these specialized M4 rounds can go through the trunk, the rear seats, and front seats. The taillights shatter, and the left rear tire collapses. A couple of muzzle flashes erupt from the front seat. He shoots right back.
The Mercedes swerves and—Damn, look at that—rolls to a stop.
No more muzzle flashes. Nothing moves.
Sampson’s bloodied arm comes out of the car window; he’s holding a pistol. He tries to raise the pistol but instead it drops to the ground.
Very nice. Maynard keeps moving forward, wanting to strip them of whatever they got from Mason’s office and put kill shots into both their fucking heads.
Chapter
130
We’re a fewyards out of the parking lot when the rear windshield blows out, and I grab Elizabeth’s shoulder, yell, “Down, down, down!”
More rounds strike the car and I shoot back, knowing it’s practically useless. Instead of listening to me, Deacon is kneeling on the car seat returning fire, then she’s knocked back.
“Elizabeth?” I say. “Elizabeth?”
Her legs are folded underneath her, her torso and head resting on the front seat. The top of her head is a bloody mess. On the dashboard is a spray of blood, bone fragments, and hair.
I grow very, very cold.
“Damn,” I whisper.
I smear her blood on my arm, put my arm out the driver’s-side window, drop my pistol, and flatten myself down on the front seat.
“Elizabeth?” I say again. I look at the center console’s information screen and toggle through until I get the rear camera’s view of what’s coming my way.
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Maynard advances quicklyand purposefully, knowing that in a few seconds, cops from every department within fifty miles will be roaring in. He’s focused on snapping kill shots into Sampson and Deacon, grabbing what they’ve stolen, and getting back to the hotel where he belongs, away from this goddamn high-noon shootout in Crystal City—
The Mercedes lurches backward, picking up speed, picking up speed, and Maynard lifts his M4, thinking he’ll put a bullet in the driver’s head, splatter his brains, and the Mercedes will swerve and miss him, and he’ll be alive to do what he’s been chosen to do, which is—
He’s still lifting his M4 and thinking all this through when he’s struck hard by the car’s rear bumper.
There’s no pain at first, just the odd sensation of flying through the air.
Chapter
132
There’s a sickeningthud as I blast into Maynard, and he’s lifted up and hurled to the rear; he hits the pavement hard and flops away.
I swerve around him as I continue to back up, then I brake, shift into drive, and head right for Maynard’s limp form.
Crunch.
I reverse and run over him again.
Crunch.
I shift into drive and aim for his head, and there’s acrunch-popas I do the job. I glance up at the rearview mirror, see the bloody tangled mess back there, and head for the parking lot’s exit. The steering feels sluggish and I’m sure we’ve lost a tire, but I’m also sure this top-of-the-line Mercedes has those new safety tires that can be used even when they’re flat.
