Sleeper's Run

CHAPTER TWENTY

The rain has finally stopped. I speed down to Maiquetía via the Caracas-La Guaira Freeway in a stolen Porsche Cayenne. The road is practically deserted. I had to ditch the embassy car to avoid the Americans pulling the old "LoJack" trick on me. As for Ambassador Robertson, he's more useful to me where I left him.

Everything is happening so fast, I can barely think straight. All I know is there's some major conspiracy going on and I'm the fall guy. Why else would Tony be talking about my upcoming trial, when nobody knew I was even alive at the time? Somebody inside the Embassy talked to him and he was doing damage control; distancing himself from me by playing the sanctimonious, bleeding heart. That fucking prick.

Looking back, it all makes sense now: the meeting at the bar, the fight-which he probably paid those guys to start-all the help, the job at Corso. I realize I'm gripping the steering wheel so hard that my hands hurt. One thing's for sure, I can't trust the Americans and there's no way in hell the Venezuelans are going to help me. I need to get out of the country fast and try to find out how deep the rabbit hole goes.

My thoughts drift to Trishna. Any communication with her at this time would implicate her. Although our relationship has been low profile, I can't help but think that somehow the authorities might get a hold of her. I keep telling myself that the less contact she has with me right now the better. Still, I have to find a safe way to talk to her as soon as I'm in the clear.

Apparently, I'm not the only one in a hurry; the asshole closing in behind me seems to be in a bigger rush. He passes me on my right giving me just enough time to see the dark figure in the back seat pointing a weapon in my direction.

I slam on the brakes, escaping a string of silenced bullets aimed at my hood. The wet pavement makes my car skid out of control and crash against the divider. The Pathfinder slides in front of me blocking my path and a new burst of silenced gunfire confirms that I've been intercepted.

It can't be! I think. There's no way it's the Americans, not this fast! Whatever the answer might be, the fact is I'm being hunted and the bastards are trying to take out my tires. I step on the gas. I'm driving against traffic with exposed rims that send sparks everywhere; it makes it hard to maneuver.

I exit the freeway hoping I can shake off my pursuer, but things take a turn for the worse as soon as we merge into an avenue. The streets have turned into a war zone. The police are fighting off a riot that has descended from the nearby slum of Catia. I have no choice, but to swerve into the ghetto to avoid the crowd, as my car gets pelted with rocks. I drive uphill at full speed through narrow alleys, honking desperately to warn anyone in my path. The people jump out of the way as best they can, while I keep taking fire from my pursuer. I have no idea where I'm going, and these dark winding streets are hard to navigate, especially without tires.

Three men come into view after a curve, so I slam on the brakes and my pursuers rear-end me. The men roll over my car, as I get wedged sideways in the alley. The airbag hits me with such force that it almost knocks me out.

I take my gun out and exit the vehicle through the passenger side; my nose is bleeding from the impact of the airbag. I can hear the three men moaning somewhere behind the SUVs. I also hear the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being pumped right next to me.

"Drop it!" a voice says.

I look over my shoulder to see a street punk standing at the bottom of a staircase. Wonderful.

"I said drop it, motherfucker!"

I do as he says and turn around slowly with my hands up. There are at least half a dozen gang members positioned in alleys and rooftops all around me. It's the end of the line, I think assessing the situation. Fighting isn't an option and talking might get me shot faster.