Free The Colonel's Mistake by Dan Mayland Page A

stopping, boss.”
    “Fire a warning shot above him.”
    Decker did, but the van just blew by them at top speed.
    “Well, shit,” said Mark.
    “Game on.”
    Mark wondered whether they had the right van. He held up his binoculars and looked down the road toward the prison. It was empty.
    “Get in. We’ll take him out on the road.”
    But the van reached the highway to Baku before they could catch up and as they drove through Gobustan, Mark kept his distance. Other cars were on the highway, weaving in and out of their lanes. On the edge of town they passed a collection of modest houses and then the landscape opened up again—just desert and power lines to the left and the Caspian Sea and a couple offshore oil platforms to the right.
    “I’ll get you close enough to take out the tires,” Mark said. “Be ready.”
    But then the van made a sharp turn off the highway and started bouncing along a dirt road, headed east toward the sea. Mark turned off as well and floored it. The Niva’s engine screamed and the rear shocks sounded like gunfire. Decker’s gear bag fell from the backseat to the floor.
    At the water’s edge, the dirt road turned into a decrepit wood platform held up by rotting stilts. The platform skimmed the surface of the water, snaking as far as the eye could see out into the Caspian. Mark had seen roads like it before—they were decaying relics of the Soviet empire and inevitably led to aging offshore oil derricks.
    He followed the van onto it, slowly gaining ground.
    “I don’t like this,” said Decker.
    “Me neither.”
    As the Niva bounced over the rickety wood planks, Mark squinted, leaned forward in his seat, and gripped the steering wheel even tighter. They were about ten feet above the sea. In some places, there were holes in the road where the wood had fallen away.
    “Ah, you want me to drive, boss?” asked Decker.
    “I got it.”
    “You sure? Because I’m pretty good behind the wheel.”
    “I said I got it. Where the hell are you going?” Mark said, thinking aloud. What was out here? He guessed that the road would dead-end at the last oil derrick, but that could be miles away. The blue sea that surrounded them was disturbingly vast.
    Decker picked up the binoculars and did a 360-degree scan. There was no one behind them and no one other than the people in the van in front. They passed a series of rusting derricks, each one rising forty feet out of the water. Little iridescent oil slicks were visible under most.
    When they’d gone about five kilometers, and the coast was nothing more than a distant brown blur in the heat, Decker said, “Fuckin’ A, there’s a boat out there. Two o’clock.”
    Mark couldn’t see anything. Just waves, a few whitecaps, and an indefinite horizon blurred by low clouds. “Where are they headed?”
    “Toward us.”
    “What kind of boat?”
    Decker fiddled with the binoculars. “Looks like a Zodiac. Hauling ass.”
    Mark’s plan had been to drive to the end of the stilt road, block the way back, and then confront whoever was in the van. “Can you take out the tires from here?”
    “Maybe, but it could send them swimming.”
    Mark glanced down at the water. It looked shallow, but twenty feet was plenty to drown in. “Check the boat again.”
    “Same course,” said Decker. And then, “I can see three men.”
    Mark considered—had someone gotten to Daria’s guards? Someone who inspired more fear, or was shelling out more money, than Orkhan? “Take out the tires.”
    Decker retrieved his Glock from his ankle holster, rolled down the window, leaned his head out, and then shot twicewithout even appearing to aim. Both rear tires on the van burst. The van veered to the left, but then the driver overcompensated and sent the vehicle careening over the right edge.

For an instant Daria felt weightless, and then suddenly the bottom of the van slammed up into her with an explosive smack.
    She bolted up in the darkness and fumbled for the rear door