Into the Brush

Could seven nine-millimeter rounds buy enough time to cross twenty paces of open asphalt into the dripping jungle, or would Tan Boyan's theatrical rescue plan get them both killed on the shoulder of Provincial Route 219? Officer Meng Qiaoling crouched against the cold front wheel rim of the microvan, rain running down the bridge of her nose, her attention locked on the roadbed. She needed the smuggler on his feet and moving into the brush before the two gunmen in the mist closed the final thirty yards.

"Leave the release lever," Qiaoling said, her tone level and hard beneath the rain. "You trip that tailgate out here and we fight twenty-four snakes and two rifles at the same time. Reach under the seat. Grab the satchel."

Boyan blinked through a smear of engine soot on his cheek, his fingers frozen on the van's passenger handle. "That satchel holds twelve vials of trivalent antivenom, Officer Meng. If a stray slug shatters the glass, any scratch from the cargo turns into an agonizing respiratory failure within forty minutes."

"Then don't get shot," she said.

A burst of automatic fire chipped the asphalt six inches from the front tire of the van, sending sharp chips of basalt spraying across Qiaoling's uniform trousers. The shooters had spread out across the roadbed, using the mountain fog to mask their advance.

Staying behind the wheel rim offered no escape. Qiaoling dropped onto her belly, crawled low across the twenty paces of wet pavement to the open driver's door of Cruiser 402, and reached into the cab. Her thumb found the center console and slammed the horn toggle forward, wedging the heavy aluminum butt of her tactical flashlight behind the toggle to lock it down.

The cruiser's twin horns blared in a continuous, deafening wail. The noise echoed against the wet rock wall of the mountain cut, instantly pulling the attention of the advancing gunmen toward the cruiser's empty cab. Two heavy carbine rounds punched through the police cruiser's radiator grill in quick succession, steam hissing into the rainy air.

"Move," Qiaoling commanded.

Boyan scrambled on his knees across the gravel, thrust his upper body into the microvan's footwell, and hauled out a bright yellow nylon medical bag by its shoulder strap. He tumbled back out onto the asphalt just as a ricochet tore through the van's side mirror.

"Package secured," Boyan gasped, clutching the bag to his ribs like a football. "Extraction corridor compromised!"

"Shut up and crawl," Qiaoling said.

She leaned around the rear quarter panel, brought her service weapon up with both hands, and squeezed the trigger twice. The sharp cracks of the nine-millimeter rounds punched into the fog at chest height where the muzzle flashes had flared. A gunman cursed in the gloom, boots scraping the pavement as he dove for the ditch on the far side.

Five rounds left in her magazine.

Qiaoling grabbed the scruff of Boyan's collar and dragged him across the shoulder. They dropped into the deep concrete culvert that ran along the mountain flank. Muddy runoff swirled around their boots, thick with gravel and dead leaves.

The blaring horn abruptly died under another spray of rifle fire from the road above, replaced by the heavy thud of combat boots landing on wet asphalt.

"They're on the shoulder," Qiaoling whispered.

"Flanking maneuver," Boyan whispered back, his eyes wide. "They teach this in counter-insurgency doctrine. We need to execute a tactical withdrawal up the contour line."

He turned to scramble up the earthen bank, slipped instantly on the wet red clay, and went down on his stomach with a wet squelch. A thorny wild raspberry vine caught the collar of his faux-leather jacket, pinning him in place.

"Tactical snag," Boyan hissed, thrashing his arms while keeping the yellow satchel clutched tight against his chest. "Officer Meng, my tactical gear is pinned by native flora!"

Qiaoling drew her utility knife, sliced through the thorny stem in one stroke, and shoved him hard by the belt up the slick slope. "Climb. Quietly."

They clawed their way up the thirty-foot embankment, digging their boots into loose shale and exposed tree roots. Rain beat through the high canopy of subtropical bamboo, drenching Qiaoling's uniform shirt until the fabric plastered against her shoulders. She ignored the sting of nettles across her wrists, focusing entirely on keeping her weapon clear of the mud.

At the crest of the ravine, thirty feet above the highway, a dense thicket of dwarf bamboo and elephant ferns formed a natural blind. Qiaoling dropped flat onto the wet moss, pulling Boyan down beside her behind the thick bole of a wild fig tree.

Boyan lay panting in the mud, spitting out a dead leaf. He checked the zipper on the yellow satchel, his fingers trembling, then peered down through the foliage.

Below them, the scene on Route 219 unfolded with mechanical clarity.

Two men in green waterproof ponchos stepped past the steaming wreck of Cruiser 402, their short-barreled carbines held at low ready. A third man emerged from the mist behind them, taller and broader, carrying a heavy steel pry bar across his shoulder. He did not look like a poacher; he moved with the disciplined stride of an experienced mercenary.

"Shen's sweep team," Boyan murmured, his voice losing its theatrical bounce. "They don't care about the police car. They know what's in the crates."

The man with the pry bar kicked the microvan's dented driver-side door. Finding it unlocked, he peered into the empty cab, saw the open footwell, and signaled to the two riflemen with a sharp chop of his hand.

One rifleman stayed by the van's hood, covering the road toward the valley. The second rifleman joined the tall man at the rear tailgate.

The microvan sat silent under the drizzle. From their perch on the ridge, Qiaoling could see the faint red strobe of the cargo bay's high-temperature alarm flashing against the fogged rear glass. The auxiliary compressor on the undercarriage was dead, its freon long gone, and the engine beneath the floorboards had radiated heat into the metal decking for nearly ten minutes.

The tall mercenary slotted the chisel edge of the pry bar into the seam of the rear cargo hatch.

Qiaoling wiped a smear of red mud from the slide of her service weapon, her sights locked on the tailgate.

Beside her, Boyan slowly pulled his knees to his chest. His knuckles were gray from the cold mountain rain, but his eyes were fixed on the van's rear latch.

"Those fiberglass terrariums had an internal latch that trips on a digital solenoid," Boyan said under his breath, barely loud enough to cut through the rain. "The solenoid cuts out when the cargo bay hits sixteen degrees. It's a safety feature so the snakes don't suffocate if the power fails."

"A safety feature," Qiaoling repeated flatly.

"For the reptiles," Boyan clarified.

Down on the asphalt, the mercenary threw his shoulder against the pry bar. The latch gave with a sharp crack, and both rear doors swung open into the drizzle. The man clicked on a yellow halogen torch, sweeping the beam over the rows of black fiberglass cases, showing no sign of hesitation.

Up on the ridge, Qiaoling leaned back against the wet trunk of the wild fig tree. She pressed the magazine release, let the clip drop into her palm, and ran her thumb across the five remaining brass casings before clicking it firmly back into the grip.

If they ran deeper into the mountains, they would freeze before dawn. Their only way out was whatever was left of the road once the crates tore open.

"We don't climb," Qiaoling said, keeping her voice beneath the drumming rain. "We wait until the cargo makes its move, then we take their transport."

Beside her, Boyan hugged the antivenom satchel against his chest and nodded once into the wet moss.

"Officer Meng," he said, "for once, I entirely agree with your regulatory judgment."