Patriot, M.A. Rothman [reading like a writer TXT] 📗

to secure the wreck. Then he checked the machine gun. He had a little under fifty rounds left.

We need to end this sooner than later.

The road veered left, and as they followed it around, Connor caught glimpses of the Hudson River through the trees to his right. Rocky cliffs poked above the trees just ahead. And dead ahead, just around the curve, was the U-Haul.

Thompson fired off a barrage of shots from the cab, the bullets smacking against the pavement near the rear wheels. Duncan accelerated again, and Thompson continued to fire as they closed the distance. A line of impacts stitched across the U-Haul’s side panel, and it swerved.

“Keep us steady!” Connor shouted, lining up his sights. He fired a quick burst, missing low and left. The pavement erupted in plumes of concrete and dust.

He cursed himself and adjusted, letting off another barrage. This time his bullets ripped through the rear pull-down door. The driver’s-side light assembly exploded.

Then the gun went dry.

“Son of a bitch.” Connor pushed the machine gun out of the way and moved up behind the cab. He slapped the roof. “Ram them!”

He held on to the roof as Duncan gunned it.

They smashed right into the U-Haul’s rear bumper, jolting both vehicles. Connor rocked in the bed and almost lost his footing.

Then Duncan began pulling up alongside the U-Haul on the driver’s side. Connor pulled his M4 and fired into the driver’s window. Glass shattered and tires squealed as the U-Haul veered left, ramming into the pickup’s front end. Connor fell forward against the roof of the cab, almost losing his grip on his rifle.

Duncan straightened them out and Connor fired again. The side-view mirror exploded, and rounds pelted the frame and door. “Come on, you bastard.”

His M4’s bolt locked back to the rear on an empty magazine. He stripped it out and slammed in a fresh one, then went back to work.

“Step on it!” Connor shouted, pulling the rifle onto his shoulder.

From the cab, Thompson fired again. Both men emptied their magazines into the side of the U-Haul’s cab, but from their angle, the cargo box blocked much of their fire.

Connor ejected the empty mag. He only had one left.

The U-Haul shifted to the right, tires squealing, veering around a car in their lane just as the right shoulder dropped off into a ditch. Duncan blared his horn as the slow car ahead shifted out of the way, but not enough. He jerked the pickup to the left, off the road, and the tires chewed through dirt and leaves, kicking up a cloud of dust in their wake. The oncoming car’s horn blared as it passed, and the driver’s expression was one of sheer terror.

But this action had given Connor a new angle of fire—exactly what he needed. He slapped in the magazine, shouldered the rifle, and fired.

The driver’s body jerked as Connor’s rounds ripped through the U-Haul cab’s door. The man fell forward onto the wheel, blasting the horn, and the truck started slowing.

The passenger appeared, pushing the driver aside, grabbing the wheel, and trying to keep the truck on the road, but Connor fired another burst, and the passenger screamed and disappeared.

Duncan slowed as the U-Haul swerved left and rolled onto the opposite shoulder. It smashed through a row of young trees before jerking to a stop, its driver’s side lifted off the ground by an uprooted tree.

Connor jumped from the bed before the pickup was completely stopped, and keeping the M4 raised, he advanced on the U-Haul. He sidestepped, cutting the corner of the truck to the passenger side, then slowed, inching around the edge.

The passenger door opened. A man in black BDUs fell out and hit the ground.

“Don’t move!” Connor shouted. He motioned to Duncan. “Hold here.”

“Got you,” Duncan said, leveling his pistol on the bullet-riddled rear door.

Connor moved up. The man’s breath came in ragged gasps. Blood streamed from several wounds on his face and head. He spit blood as he looked up at Connor, his face a mask of fury and hatred. “Go to hell, you bas—”

As he spoke he raised a hand, and as Connor saw the glint of the muzzle sweep toward him, he squeezed off a single round. The man’s head snapped back before his arm had a chance to extend. A mist of blood and gore erupted from the back of his head.

Connor didn’t give him a second thought. He moved forward to check the cab. The driver was sprawled across the bench seat, his body covered in his own blood, and probably some of his companion’s. “Clear.”

He moved back to the cargo box and motioned to Thompson, who stepped forward and threw back the latch, then pushed the door up. Simultaneously, Duncan and Connor stepped forward, their guns up and ready.

The cargo area was filled with crates and canvas bags, all with numbers and letters stenciled in black.

“Clear,” Duncan said, lowering his pistol.

Thompson disappeared around the side of the truck.

Connor blew out a relieved breath. He turned to Duncan, who was breathing heavily, his hands shaking as he holstered his pistol. “You okay, officer?”

“Huh?” Duncan asked, then seemed to shake himself. “Yeah, fine.”

Connor nodded to the pickup truck. “Nice driving.”

Duncan laughed. “Thanks.”

“None of these guys are Müller,” Thompson said, coming back around the truck.

“He was probably in that chopper,” Connor said, letting the M4 hang from its sling.

Thompson’s phone rang. He answered and put it on speaker. “Go, Marty.”

“Annie did it! She actually did it!”

Connor frowned, stepping closer to the phone. “She stopped Hakimi? Stopped the bomb? What? What’d she do?”

“The bomb went off, but it didn’t go nuclear, thanks to her. Oh, and she also managed to contain the blast in a tunnel near the Potomac.”

“Is she okay?” Thompson asked.

“She’s a little banged up, but other than that she’ll be fine.”

Thompson nodded. “Good. We’ve managed to counter the attack on the mint, but we’ve got an awful mess to clean up.”

“I’m already on it. Did you guys find the second truck? I know