Red Tide, стр. 20

“I love it,” Greer replied. “Are Mexican restaurants common in the Philippines?”

“Of course,” Wally answered. As if Greer had asked a silly question.

The Blue Cactus was very busy which forced Greer and Wally to eat at a standup table. “Order two San Miguel Pale Pilsens,” Wally said. “What’s a taco without a beer?”

That was when Greer realized that Wally wasn’t old enough to drink. Should he play dad? Hell, no. He ordered the beers.

The beer was cold, and the chicken tacos were hot, which was the perfect combo in Greer’s opinion. And all three went down in a hurry. That was partly due to the fact that Greer was hungry. But he figured the faster they ate, and the faster they left, the better.

Greer couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. The sensation followed Greer out onto the street where he paused to check his six. But it was clean, or so it seemed anyway, and that would have to do.

It was nearly dark by the time they reentered the warehouse, turned the lights on, and locked the door. “I’ll get the blankets out of the truck,” Wally volunteered. “We can sleep on the floor against the wall.”

Greer eyed the inside of the warehouse while Wally was gone. And was ready with a question when the teen returned. “What is that stuff?”

Wally followed a pointing finger over to a fifteen-foot-high pile of baled fiber. “That’s copra,” Wally answered. “It comes from coconuts.”

“Let’s sleep on top of the pile,” Greer suggested. “The copra will be softer than the floor, and we’ll be up and out of sight.”

Wally shrugged. “Sure, if you want to.”

After making use of a filthy washroom, they climbed up to the top of the pile, where they spread their blankets. It was too hot to crawl under the blankets and the copra was scratchy. Greer thought he would have trouble falling asleep but didn’t. The dream was achingly familiar. Greer was back at Annapolis, and sitting in a class, when he realized that he hadn’t done his homework. That was when a large truck smashed through the door.

Greer heard the roar of an engine, followed by a shout. “Police! Come out with your hands up!”

Greer was trying to decide how to handle the situation when Wally stood and opened fire with what sounded like a .22 semi. Pop! Pop! Pop!

Greer swore, fumbled with the latches on the briefcase, and opened the lid. The police were firing back by then, and it sounded as if they were armed with all manner of pistols, assault weapons, and shotguns. The slugs couldn’t penetrate the copra however.

Wally took a very sensible dive as Greer took hold of the submachine gun and wormed his way over to the edge of the pile. The cops were firing at the place where Wally had been.

That gave Greer a moment to assess the situation. There were four of them, all dressed in black uniforms and tac gear. Did that include body armor? Most likely. Greer aimed low.

There hadn’t been time to screw the suppressor on, nor a reason to, since the police were making one hell of a racket. The Bullpup chattered as Greer swept the weapon from left to right. The bullets hit ankle high and dumped three of the cops on their asses.

Greer missed the fourth but gave himself a do-over and shot the policeman in the head. That was when the submachine gun clicked empty.

Greer dumped the magazine and was in the process of seating another when Wally went over the side. Greer shouted, “No!” but the command came too late. The wounded cops were swearing as they rolled around on the cement floor trying to stop the bleeding. But any one of them could take a timeout to shoot Wally. Greer stood in hopes of distracting them.

There was no need. Wally had reloaded by then, and was firing. One to the head, one to the chest, one to the head, and one to the chest. The policemen died within seconds of each other. Greer slid down the stack to the floor. “God damnit, Wally … We killed four policemen. The entire force will be after us.”

“No,” Wally said coldly, “they won’t. These assholes are criminals. Chances are they spotted you out on the street, and planned to hold you for ransom.”

“Not police? How can you be sure?”

“Look at their shoes. Cops wear boots, not running shoes.”

Greer looked. And sure enough, the blood-soaked shoes the men wore were sneakers. “I’ll call for a pickup,” Wally said. “We need to get out of here.”

Greer took the opportunity to scrounge some 5.8x21mm and nine-mil ammo for his weapons, and to cram everything into his knapsack, while Wally talked on the phone. “Okay,” the teenager said, as he broke the connection. “We’re going to depart on foot, and meet our ride four blocks from here. Let’s haul ass.”