Phoenix

35. The resistance

The road to Amsterdam was no longer a highway; it was a racetrack. The tires of the Land Rover screamed against the cooling asphalt as Jin fought the steering wheel, his muscles corded and white-knuckled. He was playing a deadly game of rhythm with the gunmen behind them, weaving the battered vehicle in a jagged, unpredictable zig-zag to throw off their aim.

​Thousands of rounds had already chewed through the Rover’s rear chassis, turning the metal into a jagged honeycomb of silver and rust. It was a miracle—or perhaps something more celestial—that none of the lead had found human flesh yet. The bullets hissed through the cabin, punching holes in the upholstery and shattering the remaining glass, missing their skulls by mere inches.

​"Don't just sit there, Arya!" Jin roared over the deafening percussion of the wind and gunfire. He didn't look at her; his eyes were locked on the rearview mirror. "Fire back! Give them something to think about!"

​Arya didn't hesitate. She fumbled with her seatbelt, the buckle clicking open with a metallic snap, and twisted her body around. In the backseat, Eva had already curled into a ball, pressing herself into the floorboards as if she could merge with the carpet. Arya reached over the terrified girl, bracing her arm against the jagged remains of the rear window frame, and began to press the trigger.

​The muzzle flashes of her pistol strobe-lit the interior of the cabin. Across the gap, she saw the windshield of the lead Ford SUV spiderweb with cracks, but the heavy glass held. The men inside didn't even flinch. If anything, her defiance only stoked their fury. They redoubled their efforts, the rhythmic staccato of their submachine guns doubling in volume, a relentless wall of lead designed to tear the Land Rover apart piece by piece.

​Then came the hollow, heartbreaking click of a dry firing pin.

​Arya ducked back down behind the safety of the seat, a string of curses falling from her lips. "Shit! I’m out of ammunition, Jin! The magazine is dry!"

​Jin’s jaw tightened, his face darkening as he reached into his tactical jacket. He pulled out a single, slim magazine and tossed it toward her. It skittered across the dash. "This is it," he said, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly calm register he used when things were at their worst. "This is our last clip."

​Arya stared at the magazine as if it were a joke. "Nothing can be done with this, Jin. I don’t see the point in wasting the last of our lead on them. We haven't even given them a scratch!"

​"What?!" Eva’s voice rose in a muffled groan from the floor. "You’re out of bullets? Are you serious?"

​Jin didn't answer immediately. He was staring at the dashboard. The fuel needle was plummeting toward the left, moving with a visible, sickening speed. "Our fuel line took a hit," he announced, his tone as flat as a weather report. "The tank is bleeding out."

​"Sweet!" Arya’s expression was bitter, the look of someone forced to swallow a mouthful of gall. "Now what? We wait for the engine to die so they can walk up and finish us?"

​Jin’s mind, always three steps ahead in a crisis, shifted gears. He glanced at the floor by Arya’s feet. Three of the glass bottle-bombs they’d brewed in the cellar were still nestled in a padded crate.

​"Take them out," Jin commanded.

​Arya frowned, looking from the bottles to the SUVs closing the distance. "What’s the point? Throwing these out the window is a gamble. They’ll just swerve and get right past them."

​"Not if the plan works," Jin countered. "If we do this right, they won't have anywhere to swerve."

​"What's the plan?"