Free The Polaris Protocol by Brad Taylor Page A

one point backtracking because of the nature of the roads. Eventually, she reached the grid on the GPS, seeing three houses on a slight rise from the street, all of them protected with a healthy amount of fencing that was a cut above the chain-link and makeshift iron of the neighboring houses. Fencing that was custom built, which gave some indication of who owned the houses.
    She slowed and used her smartphone for pictures, wishing she had the Taskforce’s ability to rig the car with three-hundred-and-sixty-degree cameras like she had done in the past. She wanted to provide the assault force the greatest fidelity possible when they came to break out her brother. Wanted to believe in the lie that someone was coming to help.
    She passed the houses and picked up her pace, now thinking about how to get back to the border crossing. She took a right and stopped at an intersection. She pulled forward and saw the lime-green helmet to her left, sitting fifty feet down the road. Waiting on her.
    She felt a bump in her heart rate but did nothing overt. She continued straight, heading east to the Paso del Norte Bridge. She glanced in her rearview mirror and saw the motorcycle fall in behind her.
    She took another right to be sure. He remained with her. At the next stop, she studied her tablet but couldn’t pinpoint her position with any certainty. When the bike pulled up behind her, she moved forward, going faster than was allowed on the narrow road.
    Continue east. Eventually you’ll hit the bridge road.
    She was forced to slow down behind a battered pickup truck and was thinking about passing when the motorcycle broke off, taking a right and driving out of view. She exhaled and slumped in the seat, releasing the tension in her body. The pickup put on its brake lights and stopped. She turned the wheel to pass and glanced into her blind spot, seeing an SUV flying forward. She jerked back to the right to avoid being hit, but it didn’t pass. Instead, she heard tires scream as it skidded to a halt abreast of her car.
    The sight collapsed her world like a black hole, causing all thought other than survival to be sucked in. Two years ago she might have panicked, frozen in place as the drama unfolded, but that girl was long gone. Destroyed in a cauldron not of her making.
    She had the car in reverse before the SUV had even fully stopped, the engine of her little rental whining in protest as she floored the pedal. She traveled barely five feet before slamming into a dented sedan that had pulled up behind her. She saw the driver fling forward against the steering wheel, and time slowed.
    Trapped.
    To her front the pickup’s passenger door had opened, and a man was exiting. The rear hatch of the SUV begin to rise, then she saw the motorcycle coming down the sidewalk toward her, the lime-helmeted rider holding a MAC-10 machine pistol in his left hand. He began firing as he came abreast of the pickup, shattering her windshield in a shower of glass.
    She flung herself flat in the seat, Pike’s instructions from two years ago on surviving just such an ambush penetrating the chaos.
Your vehicle is a weapon.
    Still lying flat, she jammed the car into drive, jerked the wheel to the right and floored the gas pedal. She hit the curb and rocketed forward, colliding with brick and ricocheting to the left, the bullets still tearing the air above her head.
    She crunched something to her front, the car grinding as the object was flung aside. The lime-helmeted rider appeared on her hood, bouncing in the air, the weapon gone. She jerked upright and slammed on her brakes, rolling him onto the sidewalk. As soon as he had cleared the hood, she hit the gas again. He made it to a knee and saw her coming. He held his arms out and screamed, his mouth open through the clear faceplate of his helmet. The bumper caught him just above the waist, slapping him back on the hood. But only for a second. He clawed, trying to maintain his position, the friction of his legs