Station Breaker

26 Fugitive

Flying down the streets of an exotic city in a stolen ambulance is certainly one way to get around quickly, but it also attracts a lot of unwanted attention. I've also noticed that other drivers aren't as yielding to the right of way to emergency vehicles here. They seem a little indifferent to the idea that I could be carrying someone on the verge of death — Hell, I am carrying someone who is precariously balanced on that edge: Me.

I make it two blocks then realize that the back doors are still open. I turn down a side street, put the van in park and shut them.

As I crawl through the back, sunlight greets me through dozens of bullet holes punctured through the walls and cabinets. If that EMT hadn't hit the deck, he'd have been dead. More importantly, if I hadn't put the rear bulkhead between my shooters and myself, I'd be dead.

Let's not get ahead of ourselves.

Right now there's a half-dozen men in that stadium on their way to find me. They'll make that happen if they get the chance.

Were these locals hired on the spot? Or did the Russians know I'd be landing here? I'd love to ask Capricorn or Murdock these questions, but first I need to put some distance between what just happened.

I race the ambulance another several blocks, take a few more side streets then come to the realization that having a screaming siren on top of the vehicle is helping me go a little bit faster, but it's also a big huge "I'm right here!" arrow to anyone searching from the air.

I remember the white helicopter that was searching the neighborhood where I landed; that can't be too far away, plus whoever else is out there looking for me. By now, that would be all of Brazil.

After going another mile, I turn off the siren and go down a less trafficked street.

The map on my stolen phone says there's a hospital three blocks away. I figure that's a pretty good place to leave an ambulance.

I ditch it in a parking lot near the emergency room entrance, but towards the back, so the bullet holes won't get as much attention.

I step onto the asphalt and have a look at the van. Holy crap.

Even with the damage, giving it up isn't easy. Twenty minutes ago I was on a moped, riding through the streets of Rio without a care in the world — except the potential threat of Russian kill teams and spending my life in prison — now I'm a pedestrian with a real kill team after me.

Right now my biggest concern is having the cops stop me on the street or someone recognizing me from the news.

I zig-zag down several blocks away from the hospital then finally catch my breath under a tree next to a side street.

I take out a phone and check twitter for any update from Capricorn.

Nothing.

I get the feeling I'm not going to be hearing from him in a timely manner. I need to figure this out on my own.

It's getting dark and I figure I have a couple hours before people start watching TV and seeing my face. That gives me only a small window of time to make sure the guy they see on the news clips and the description of what I was wearing at the stadium don't match up with what I look like.

The phone tells me where to find a big box store that sells everything from breakfast cereal to lingerie.

I've got about six hundred Brazilian bucks on me and have no idea what that's worth. With any luck I'll be able to buy a suit and some hair products. If not, maybe a magic marker to draw a mustache and an eyepatch on my face.