"Angel here, John you read me?"
Over the comms, the mechanical thrum of the helicopter rotors pulses between her ears. Parisa pulls back on the cyclic and clears another dark-green wall of treeline.
"I figured you'd give me a callsign too, Angel. We're not even on an encrypted channel."
John eases off the handbrake, guns the engine, and powers the SUV out of the mud. Dead scrub fills the side windows; a thin mist drifts along the riverbank, but one stretch of water is churned into a thicker, dirtier pool that swallows the fresh tire tracks whole.
"Relax. I might have considered something else, but John is the most generic name on the planet."
Parisa's voice carries a teasing edge over the channel. John glances at the growing scatter of raindrops on the windshield and switches on the high beams and wipers.
"What are you getting at, Angel?"
John looks down, checks the snug fit of his body armor, and cinches the straps holding the ballistic plates a little tighter. The leather gloves creak across his knuckles.
"I'm saying you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, John."
Parisa's lips brush the mic; outside the cabin, a low roll of thunder answers.
"Thanks for that."
"No problem—John."
She says his name with deliberate emphasis, a smile in her voice.
"Road clear?"
The tires churn through fresh mud as the track turns into rough country.
"Visibility's dropping. Still five klicks out."
Rain lashes the beams in broken streaks. John narrows his eyes, straining to pick up any movement on the flat ground ahead.
"Get me eyes on the target perimeter. I need the lay of the land."
He kills the headlights, follows the glow of a riverside campfire, and heads downstream. Above him, the civilian helicopter's navigation lights blink. Its rotors slice through damp, glittering air; the scratched canopy creaks in the turbulent flow.
"Goddamn sightseeing bird. Not even a radar."
Parisa sighs.
"At least you don't have to fly sideways and crane your neck. Just keep your head down."
John follows the line of warning lights along the narrow road. The low stone wall meant to hold back the mud is dropping level with the water. The climb comes sooner than he expected.
Inside the hovering helicopter, Parisa grumbles at the flickering cabin lights, clicks on a flashlight, and digs a pair of binoculars out of the pack at her feet.
The moment she looks down, something interesting enough to kill the boredom appears.
"Unknown convoy approaching the junction… four, maybe five vehicles."
She braces against the handhold, leans low in the cabin, and raises the binoculars. The silver-white line of headlights sharpens.
"Looks like Mercedes G-Class—four of them. They're slowing and pulling over, about to make a wide left. Any idea who these guys are?"
John recognizes the signature ride and lets out a short, contemptuous laugh. He eases off the throttle, one hand on the wheel, the other unlocking the vehicle's gun rack.
"The Croatians."
He can already hear the growl of their engines cutting through the rain, the crunch of tires over loose stone somewhere just behind his right shoulder.
"How long?" he asks.
"Two minutes, maybe less." Parisa keeps the binoculars locked on the blacked-out vehicles hugging each other, convinced they're untouchable.
"Two minutes…"
John mutters the words, calm as ever. He pushes up his sleeve, taps the rugged watch on his wrist, and sets a one-minute-twenty timer. On the center console he engages the SUV's autonomous drive, programs a matching slow crawl with a ten-second acceleration burst and hard stop.
"Hope you didn't misread it, Angel."
In under twenty seconds John finishes setting up the play, pulls the KS-4 rifle from the side rack, and slides into the passenger seat with his back to the wheel that is now steering itself. He lowers the window, plants the rifle on the door sill.
"One minute," Parisa warns.
Cold wind and rain pour into the cabin. The gloves keep his hands warm enough that they won't go numb on the trigger. He flips off the safety, dims the red-dot sight to its lowest setting, and flips up the backup iron sights just in case.
"Thirty seconds."
Parisa shivers, clenches her jaw against the draft leaking through the canopy. The binoculars tremble slightly in her grip; white glare dances along the rims.
"Twenty. They're not stopping."
Inside the driverless SUV, John settles into his shooting position. The damp air keeps him sharp; he actually enjoys the earthy smell that fills his nose. He blinks slowly, riding the adrenaline that the darkness and the rain are feeding him. Rainwater beads on his cheeks; his breathing stays even, misting in the cold.
"You can start counting down now. Good luck."
Parisa cuts the comms so she won't distract him once the shooting starts.
John exhales a long plume of white vapor that drifts across his right cheek. His brow furrows. His eyes track the headlights sweeping around the bend.
The watch vibrates. Beams cut inward.
He snaps the rifle up and fires twice in quick succession.
Two crisp, mechanical cracks punch through the wind. In the silver rain lit by the oncoming headlights, the suppressor spits twin tongues of yellow flame. Perfectly placed holes appear in the lead vehicle's front side window. The driver slumps onto the wheel; the Mercedes accelerates off the road and slides straight into the churning river like a bar of molten iron.
The car behind slams on the brakes. The rest of the convoy piles into it before they can react—two pairs of vehicles crunch together, becoming perfect stationary targets.
John braces himself as the autonomous SUV surges into its ten-second acceleration run. The vehicle whips right in a wide, drifting arc, kicking up a red-tinged curtain of water in the taillights.
In that two- or three-second window John fires as fast as he can. Hot brass tumbles through the air; muzzle flash and condensing mist mark the rhythm. The bullets carve straight, transparent hourglass trails through the rain. Glass explodes inward in glittering clouds.
The SUV skids to a stop. John kicks the door open, uses the hood for cover, and plants the KS-4 on the engine cover.
One enemy vehicle is on its side, smoking. The other two are jammed together, doors crumpled, hazard lights flashing.
In the brightened red-dot sight, one man hauls himself into the front seat, shoves the damaged door open, and uses his dead comrade as a human shield while he returns fire. Behind him, another man crawls out through the shattered windshield and drops prone to shoot.
Bullets spark across the SUV's hood. Ricochets and fragments whistle overhead. John ducks, then rises just enough in the second half of the enemy burst to fire one-handed with the lower-profile iron sights, exposing as little of himself as possible.
A fragment still clips his right arm—superficial, but it burns. He hisses, drops the rifle, and leans back against the flattened bulletproof tire for a second. Blood drips from his glove onto the wet road.
He racks the empty magazine out, slaps in a fresh one, and releases the bolt in one smooth motion.
Then he crouches, slips around the front bumper, and fires two quick rounds from the broken headlight housing—center mass on the nearest man's leg to drop him—before pulling back, rising, and finishing the job with a final controlled pair.
He lowers the now-numb right arm for a moment, then switches to a left-handed grip, tucks the rifle against his hip, and moves forward to clear the vehicles one by one with careful follow-up shots. When it's quiet, he confirms the threat is over.
"If you're still breathing, say something, John."
Parisa's voice comes back on the channel, a little shaky with worry.
"Thanks for the concern, Angel."
John slings the KS-4 across his chest, crunching over broken glass as he walks back to the SUV. The engine fires on the second try. He flips on the interior light and quickly bandages the graze on his right forearm.
"Car's fine too."
Parisa lets out a long breath.
"Of course it is. Theirs, on the other hand, look like absolute shit."
She sweeps the binoculars across the wreckage that now blocks half the road and gives a low whistle.
"You really are one hell of a highway killer, John."