RainStorm

means that it was
    time for them to make their appearance.
    Hilger was watching closely. I imagined him thinking: He can't
    start shooting now because it's six against one. He couldn't drop us all before
    someone rushed him. But if the men in that car are with him, when
    they get here we're all dead.
    He was going to make his move before then. I could feel it.
    "Well, gentlemen," one of the Russians said, "we brought
    Alazans, no? They are yours now. So this . . . not our problem."
    Smart. He wasn't going to wait for that car, either. He picked up
    the duffel bag and nodded to his companion. They started walking
    to their car.
    The bodyguard stepped back a few paces to maintain his ability
    to watch all the players, but he made no move to interfere with the
    Russians' departure. The one with the bag started to smile. Then
    his head exploded.
    Maybe the bodyguard was willing to see that five million go.
    But Dox wasn't.
    The bodyguard's mouth dropped open. And in that instant of
    his surprise and distraction, Hilger dropped down to one knee,
    drew a pistol free from an ankle holster, and shot him in the stomach.
    The man staggered backward and twisted around. Hilger shot
    again, and again. The bodyguard dove to the side of the car and I
    couldn't tell if Hilger's subsequent shots had hit home.
    Apparently not. I saw muzzle fire come from under the car,
    from the bodyguard's position.
    The second Russian grabbed the bag and started to dash for the
    Lexus. He took exactly two steps before Dox quietly blew his
    head off.
    Belghazi jumped into the back of the van. I heard the doors
    slam behind him.
    Hilger moved to the front of the van and pointed his pistol at
    the driver-side window. I thought, Shit, he's going to drop Belghazi,
    his own asset. Remind me not to cross this guy unless I really need to.
    The Toyota screeched into the turnaround. I heard shots and
    saw muzzle flashes from the passenger-side window, explosions of
    dust in the dirt around Hilger and Belghazi's other men. The two
    Arabs dove behind the van. Hilger, still on one knee, turned from
    the van, took his gun in his free hand and coolly fired a half dozen
    shots, all of which hit the car. Either he hit the driver or the man
    panicked under the hail of gunfire, because a second later the car
    swerved and smashed into the concrete abutment on its right. It
    spun a hundred and eighty degrees and screeched backward along
    the abutment, its side throwing sparks into the air. A second after it
    had come to a stop, the driver-side door opened and a man jumped
    out. Another Arab. He knelt behind the door and started firing a
    pistol in Hilger's direction.
    Hilger dove to the side of the van, seeking cover there. But
    there was none to be had. The van's engine roared to life, and it
    lurched forward. Belghazi must have scuttled forward, into the
    driver's seat. Hilger shot at its side, but apparently without effect.
    I switched back to Dox's channel. "Take the shot!" I hissed.
    "He's keeping down, I don't have a shot," I heard Dox say. Amid
    the gunfire and confusion, his voice was almost supernaturally
    calm. He was in his sniping zone.
    "Then take out the tires!" I said.
    A second passed. The van was pulling even with my position. I
    was going to have to try to take out the tires myself. From this distance
    and with only a pistol, I wasn't optimistic about my chances.
    And my fire would alert everyone to my position.
    But there was no need. The front passenger tire exploded and
    the van lurched to the left. The rear followed a second later, and the
    van swerved hard to the right. It crashed through the container
    port's chain-link fence and slammed into a stack of containers about
    ten meters beyond. The containers, stacked five high, tumbled
    down on the roof, coming to rest behind the van and to the sides.
    "Lost the shot," I heard Dox say. "Can't see past those containers."
    "Cover me," I said. I doubted that anyone caught up in the fire-fight
    would notice me stealing across the road thirty meters north
    of their position, but I wanted backup just in case. I eased to my
    feet and scrambled down the embankment, my pistol out. I crossed
    the street in a crouch and ducked through the hole the van had
    punched in the fence.
    Once inside, I slowed down and moved more cautiously. I held
    the gun in my right hand, the barrel angled down slightly, my wrist
    pressed tight against my solar plexus. My left hand was at chin level
    and further out from my body,