Hunt pushed the gas all the way down and the needle on the speedometer crept upward steadily, but yet the sleek Lamborghinis kept up with him, closing up the distance buying their time.
They knew he had nowhere to run.
Glancing back again he saw one of the Lamborghinis take the left turn and speed off, while the other came furiously at him.
What the hell where they planning now
From his side mirror he saw the passenger in the Lamborghini lean out and take aim.
He was holding a snub-nosed Uzi.
rat-ta-tat-rat-tat!
His side mirror shattered instantly as a round tore it, Hunt weaved in and out to dislodge the attacker's aim, but his attacker's aim was true.
Rounds upon rounds tore into the Mini Cooper.
Black smoke started to rise.
The small car groaned precariously.
"Common baby, don't give up now" he yelled.
There was no surviving this unless he went on the offensive.
And that was exactly what he did.
Grasping the hand brake and yanking hard, at the same time slamming his feet on the brake and accelerator, he turned the wheel hard to the left. The Mini Cooper immediately whirled and began drifting forwards sideways.
Drifting in such a way his driver's side faced the approaching Lamborghini.
Hunt lifted his Sig Sauer, aimed carefully and squeezed the trigger thrice.
Blood splattered on the inside of the Lamborghini.
The Lamborghini bobbled and weaved in and out dangerously, its other occupant struggling and grappling the wheel with its now dead driver, before the posh Italian car slammed into a wall and exploded.
A huge fiery ball of fire enveloping the nearby surroundings.
Hunt yanked the wheel and the Mini-Cooper righted itself and sped away.
One down, one to go.
He had barely finished that train of thought when out of the corner of his eye he saw a sleek black vehicle ram into his car.
Every single window in his car exploded, showering him with torrents of glass, some of them slicing.
The frail Mini-Cooper tumbled end upon end before finally coming to rest.
Bleeding and exhausted, the last thing Hunt saw before he blacked out was the men stepping out of the Lamborghini.
They were both carrying Uzi's.
The men approached the upturned mini-cooper cautiously. They had lost more men than was adequately necessary because they had underestimated their quarry. The Intel on Ian Hunt was the he was a retired Navy seal who had done black ops mission in Baghdad, Chad, Nigeria and a list of god-forsaken places, became disgruntled with military he had left with an honourable discharge and enrolled to study archaeology.
CIA still kept tabs on the man. Apparently he had been deemed dangerous should he sell his services to the highest bidder. In this new cutthroat world mercenaries were in high demand, and those who usually made use of their services did not have the United States of America's best interests at heart.
One of the men touched his earpiece and spoke.
"Turner here, target has been liquidated, I repeat the target has been liquidated moving to retrieve the computer"
"Negative, hold your position reinforcements arriving"
Turner frowned, he had succeeded in bringing the target down and it was only fair he be allowed to retrieve the package. Anger coursed through his six-foot frame.
"Turner here requesting permission to retrieve the package"
"Negative, stand-down that's an order! Tango out"
Turner angrily tore out his earpiece and crushed it under his feet and gave the silent commands to his subordinate.
Together they flanked the vehicle, Uzis primed and ready.
This time they would complete the mission.
Hunt woke up to the sounds of people shouting, highly disorientated, glancing around he noticed that his field of view was slightly off.
He was upside down. His ears were ringing.
Details suddenly started to filter in, he had been rammed off the road by one of the Lamborghini's chasing him, sounds began to filter in and he could hear the voices of several people crying out in Danish.
Ulykke.
Ringe til politiet.
Accident.
Ring the police.
He also heard someone arguing over what seemed like a phone, or radio. The person seemed furious and his voice seemed to be on the rise.
"Turner here requested permission to retrieve the package, quarry has been liquidated"
Hunt felt relieved, at least his attackers felt he was dead and he intended to fully play along with that ruse. No doubt the men approaching him now were armed and a headlong fight would be totally suicidal.
Taking his bloody hands, he smeared all over his face. He then wrapped his hands around his Sig Sauer, took a deep breath and prepared to play dead.
Turner approached the vehicle as cautiously as he thought possible, black smoke milled into the air, he studied the vehicle closely looking for trails of blood, there was no way on earth that Hunt was leaving the vehicle unscathed.
"Turner, I have visual" The other man said.
"Analysis?"
"Dead"
"Pull him out" Turner said.
He was watching as his team mate pulled Ian Hunt clear of the smoking wreckage, his body limp and bloodied.
"The package?"
The other man held up the travelling bag.
"It's in here"
"Let's pull out" Turner said.
As he turned and started towards the Lamborghini, he heard the faint rustle of cloth. Without even thinking he whirled around and brought his Uzi into play.
He saw the supposed dead man pointing a Sig Sauer at his head. He was too slow.
BOOM! BOOM!
Blood and grey matter splattered.
Hunt stood up and walked up to the dead men's bodies and picked up his travelling bag.
His travelling bag was the package.
It was high time he found out why someone with lots of money wanted him dead.
Somewhere in Copenhagen
Denmark
10:00pm
After changing vehicles numerous times and treating his wounds, Hunt settled for a back alley hotel and signed in using an anonymous name and paid in cash. Immediately he went in the shower and turned up the heat to the highest scalding his body, scars from a different lifetime cascading his body.
After showering he had immediately shaved and changed over to new clothes and turned on the television.
News of the deaths in Phoenix Copenhagen made the top news. The local police were interviewing the woman who owned the Mini-Cooper and she was trying her best to provide a description.
They would never find him.
He knew have to get lost.
Countless Black-Ops missions had taught him the importance of staying hidden, changing faces and identities.
Though he had to give the woman credit, her Mini-Cooper was a trooper.
He glanced over to his travelling bag, one of the assassins had implied that his travelling bag had been the package, but what was so important about his travelling bag, it contained nothing except his clothes, toiletries, hard currency in different denominations and his laptop. Surely the people don't send tactical surgical squads with Sig-Sauers and Uzis to steal clothes. His clothes weren't even designers. So the only logical answer was his laptop since it wouldn't have been his toiletries either. Opening his laptop and settling it on the nightstand, he glared at the screen, a myriad of thoughts racing across his mind, fatigue settling over him like a cold blanket.
Why would someone want him dead over his laptop?
His eyes settled on the email icon on the left hand side of his laptop and he remembered that his long time mentor, friend and teacher had sent him an email. Quickly clicking on the icon, a pop-up window opening with the contents of the email.
Images raced across the screen. Blood drained away from his face.
r />
Dear God.
Max, what have you gotten yourself into?
To survive this, Hunt realised he needed help, and he knew right away where to get it. He booked the first flight from Copenhagen to Paris.
Location Unknown
10:35pm.
Somewhere not so far away, a group of techno-analysts intercepted a call from a cell phone that had already been bugged.
"Can I book the first flight from Copenhagen to Paris"
"Right away sir............"
One of the analysts spoke to a man who remained hidden in shadows in the control room.
"The destination of the target has been confirmed"
"Where?"
"Paris"
The man hidden in shadows walked out of the control room, touched his earpiece which would transmit encrypted messages to only a select few.
"Tango to team, prep the jet, destination Paris"
The man smiled to himself. Once again he was ahead on his quarry.
He repeated his mantra to himself.
While the enemy watches the left hand, wreak havoc with the right.