22
Out Of Control
The first shot barely made a sound. Nikolai’s stooge was up one minute, down the next. On the grass. Half his face missing. His one remaining eye glued open. Nikolai gawped at the damage. He looked up towards the bridge. Confusion. Another shot and he flew back against the Porsche. He bounced off the long, fat bonnet of the Bentley and slumped on top of his stooge.
I suddenly remembered to breathe. I turned in my seat and looked up at the flyover, over my left shoulder. A figure astride a motorbike, wearing a helmet and leathers. A sniper rifle in hand.
My brain was too fried for me to talk over the radio mic. Still shaking with near-death adrenaline. Philippe packed away his rifle in seconds. He revved the engine and zoomed off across the bridge, front wheel lifting
